Meandering around market town with an unclear agenda the bombastic bundles of energy talk at a million words a minute, in a Latin language long forgotten. With a flurry of fingertips and rapid fire hand gestures, their conversations are delivered simultaneously without pause or breath.
Too often have I braved the aisles of Woolworths only to be trampled by these ancient cherubs, with never a ‘sorry’ to be spoken. They own the aisle and possess the poundage to hip-check you away from the ‘on sale’ olive oil whilst rummaging through the rigatoni, groping the garganelli and testing tomatoey tautness.
As I prepare to move away from Leichhardt there is still one question burning in the back of my mind, where are all the Nonnos?
Well today I found out. These mellowed men of Milan are sitting in the sun, enjoying espressos and crunching creamy cannolis whilst their wonderful wives wreak havoc.