‘Aye, this is Jack Bonellie’
‘Where's me ice cream?’
‘...Excuse me?’
‘Where’s me Ice cream?’
‘I am terribly sorry. I think you might have the wrong
number’
‘Is that Jacconellis?’
‘Aye, this is Jack Bonellie’
‘Then wheres me ice cream?’
‘...Im terribly sorry but...’
My Grampa was Jack Bonellie and he was a fantastic Grandfather. A number of years after his death tales of deep
mirth are still told at family gatherings (see above). Some apocryphal, some
exaggerated, all still hilariously funny.
After the war he worked for the Glasgow Corporation as an
electrical engineer on the trams and latterly the underground. When someone put
a spade through an electrical cable, and after the fried cadaver had been
removed, my Gramps would get a call instructing him to come sort out the
power supply and get the city moving again. As a result he had a telephone,
which was unusual in those straighten times. The Coroporation only paid half the
line rental, mind you. Which was pretty tight of the city fathers, considering
no one else my Grampa knew had a telephone. Outgoing calls from the Bonellie household were rarer that
hens teeth. Incoming calls were mainly from the Corporation... and occasionally
from irate customers looking for their ice cream.
Cafe de Jacconelli is an institution. It opened in the 1930s
and is still going strong. Although Italian, it is not exactly a classical Italian restaurant.
Indeed, I fear it is some distance from achieving a Michelin star. However it was rated as the 14th best
Cafe in the UK by readers of Time Out magazine in 2007, and you don’t get many bigger accolades than that. If ever I want to impress a young lady I will
always take her to Jacconellis. The all day breakfast is a steal at less than 3
quid, after all, and the square sausage, beans and chips are simply to die for. If I have
particular amorous desires towards the young lady she might even be allowed a penny cone, of I am feeling particularly generous, a knickerbocker glory. The Ice Creams are legend and I can well understand the ire
that might be raised if a delivery was to be misplaced.
Jacconellis is hardly the most salubrious of establishments.
At a shade over 6 feet my head hits the roof if I don’t hunch up whilst walking through the cafe and if you
require to ‘freshen up’ during your meal, then you will be taken through the
galley style kitchen and have to squeeze past the chef in order to gain access
to the toilet – not before the customers umbrellas have been removed from the
sink, you understand.
The staff are salt of the earth and hugely friendly.
The staff are salt of the earth and hugely friendly.
‘You don’t happen to have a decaff coffee?’ Asked my dad on
a recent visit.
‘A whit?’
‘A decaffeinated coffee?’ My dad is from Perth and he has
been known to make the occasional cultural faux pas.
‘Ahm no sure... If you tell me whits in it, ahll make it fir
ye. Is it like a latte? Ahm a dab hand at a latte, so ah am.’
‘Och no. Don’t worry. How about a sparkling water?’
‘A whit?’
‘Do you have a bottle of sparkling water?’
‘A sparkly watter? Naw, ah dinnae think so, hen... Do you
mean a can of fizzy juice? A wee
can o fanta, mibbies?’
I like Italy. I have never been. But I like it, or at least
I like the idea of it. The scenery, the history, the culture, the cars, the
bikes, the style, the football, the food.
Mama mia, the food.
Mama mia, the food.
There are about 100,000 Scots Italians, which is about 2% of
the population. The first wave of prospective Italian immigration came with the
Romans. Their dalliance with the Scots was fairly short lived, however. They
made a half hearted attempt to civilize us, but deterred by our obdurate
nature, the poor fare on offer and the weather, they promptly threw up a wall,
left us in splendid isolation. Putting an end to cross cultural collaboration
for a couple of millennia.
There was a second wave of immigration in the late 1800’s. I
read somewhere, that the influx of Italian immigration to Scotland came largely
from only a couple of villages. Yeah... Some Italians emigrated to Scotland. To
think that they had all the world to pick from, New York, Sydney, Los Angeles
and a number of them chose Whitburn or West Calder. What were they thinking?
Things in those wee villages must have been pretty rough.
At one time before the inexorable march of McDonalds and
KFC, it seemed that every town in Scotland had an Italian owned Ice Cream
Parlour, Cafe or Chippy. To think that the Italians have one of the great
cuisines of the world but it seems they forgot to bring it to Scotland. I
wonder how the health of the Scottish nation might have been improved had the
Italians introduced the Mediterranean diet. It seems that perhaps they had
learned from the Romans that the Scots were not to be changed. Or maybe they
decided to exact their revenge for internment, imprisonment and some pretty
shoddy treatment, by being willing accomplices to our predilection for any food
with a negative health benefit. In the same way that drug barons don’t dabble
in heroin themselves, they were sitting at home cooking up pasta whilst pushing
saturated fat and sugar on us jocks.
I was at Hampden park a few years ago when Scotland were
playing Italy. Scotland had to get a draw in order to make the playoffs
for the World cup. On a filthy Glasgow afternoon Scotland were making a decent
fist of it and at times looked almost like a football team. The Tartan Army
was, as usual, well lubricated. During a lull in play, to the tune of Guantanamera
a refrain rang out from the stands...
‘Deep fry your pizza! Wer'e gonna deep fry your pizza!
Deep fry your piiiiizzzzaaaa, wer'e gonna deep fry your
piiiiiizzaaaaaa!’
Presumably, after we had deep fried their pizza, we were then going to eat it. I could just imagine the Italians looking at each other
quizzically, then shrugging their shoulders and saying, ‘we wouldn’t recommend
it, there are far better ways of consuming pizza, but go right ahead, if you
feel you must, we shan't stand in your way’. We may not be a force on the football field any more, but if
there is one thing that we are seemingly world class at its taking an naturally unhealthy
foodstuff and ‘improving’ it so much that it becomes lethal.
This weekend was my last chance to put some big miles in
before the Tour. Next weekend will be spent cleaning the bike, packing my kit
and probably running around like blue arsed fly. I planned a couple of back to
back rides on the Saturday and the Sunday. 600km (350ish miles) was the rough
target. So it was up at some ungodly hour on the Saturday morning and a train
to Perth, then a route taking in Pitlochry, Blair Atholl, Kinloch Rannoch, up
over Schehallion, through Glen Lyon, up over Lawers, round Loch Tay, down
through Callander, up over the Dukes to Aberfoyle and 170 miles later back
home.
I had planned
to go tag on a wee jaunt round Loch Katrine, however that would have seen me
finish past midnight and with no lights on my bike I decided that discretion
was the better part of valour.
Inspite of the curtailed route I arrived at Aberfolyle
busted and starving. I had planned on a pork pie purchased in the local Co-op.
But then I saw it; an oasis in the desert. A proper, living and breathing
Chipper. A proper Italian chipper. With a proper
slightly-grumpy-but-at-the-same-time-very-friendly-proprietor in a white
jacket, stiff with chip grease. Signalling, of course, that these chips were
not fried in healthy vegetable oil.
But instead with proper shortening that would furr up your arteries and
had your heart screaming for mercy before you’d even taken a bite. It had seats
inside where I could rest my weary legs and, oh the luxury,
help-yourself-condiments on the table. None of this tiny wee sachet nonsense. A
proper salt cellar, a proper squeezy bottle of malt vinegar and proper glass
bottles of Heinz Tommy K. This place was the real deal. In Scotland Haute Cuisine loosely translates into 'hot food'. Fresh out the friar, this food was as haute as it comes.
After my dinner had been drowned in vinegar, as all fish
suppers should be, and inhaled. I felt like a new man with renewed strength in
my legs. A fricassee, or pasta salad might have been the real athletes choice,
EPO or testosterone the choice of the pro, but right there and then, despite
what my heart was telling me a fish supper and a can of coke was just the
ticket.
Sunday was another scorcher. So I decided a wee trip to
Largs for an Ice cream was in order. Largs is only a 30 mile ride away, but if
you go via Lochs Lomond, Long and Fyne and get the ferry across from Dunoon to
Gourouck and then go up over the braes at the back of Greenock you add on another 100 miles or so. Sure, it’s a long way for
a short cut. But on a day like Sunday, I don’t think there is a more beautiful
ride in the world. For those in the know, Largs is a wee town with a big ice cream shop. Infact it has at least two Ice Cream shops. Both selling Italian
Ice cream and on a hot day like sunday there is nothing more welcome than a big
‘Tally’ Ice Cream.
Italy, you have given us Tom Conti, Rocco Forte, Charlene
Spiteri, Peter Capaldi, Richard
DiMarco, Dario Franchitti, Paolo Nutini, Armando Iannuci and Jack Vettriano.
All of whom have contributed immeasurably to the cultural wellbeing of
Scotland. You’ve led the way in gastronomic innovations like deep fried pizza
and 'Mars bar tempura', you have refined fish suppers into an art form and in
doing so have contributed immeasurably to the (poor) state of the health of the
Scottish nation. But, see when you are starving hungry or a wee bit hot? A fish
supper and an ice cream. You canny whack it. So, sincerely, thank you Italy,
from bottom of my disease ridden and cholesterol soaked heart.
Bella bella, indeed.
From Aberfoyle,
n
From Aberfoyle,
n
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