Hardly any English was spoken, and my French at the time was shaky, but more to the point, my Italian consisted of a few words, a friendly smile, and a repertoire of gesticulations. I was in Ascoli-Piceno, Italy for Christmas. Ascoli lies 130 miles Northeast of Rome just 25 miles from the Adriatic coast in an area known as The Marches. In 1965, to say that it was off the beaten path would be a gross understatement.
I wasn’t backpacking around, hosteling my way through Europe. No, I had come to Ascoli by invitation from the Marquis Pio Ambrosi Natale Saccone, my good friend at the university in Lausanne, Switzerland. We shared an apartment. My guess is that he felt sorry for me. I would be alone and a long way from home over Christmas. From Lausanne to Ascoli required an arduous train ride with a change of trains in Milan. I arrived around eight in the evening in San Benedetto del Tronto, a coastal town some twenty-five miles from my destination. Pio’s man servant, Giorgio, picked me up at the train station. Giorgio had no problem identifying who I was.
About an hour later we arrived in Ascoli on what looked like the main piazza. Giorgio pulled the car into a porte-cochere of a palazzo that ran for the length of the square. And I was not the only one approaching the front door. Dozens of people were being greeted by a small entourage inside, and about that time I heard Pio. “Gary, you’re here.”
I had arrived mid-party. I gauged there were well over a hundred people at this feast that would last into the early hours of the morning. And the next day more partying, it was Christmas Eve. Pio introduced me to his parents, Marchese e Marchesa Saccone. His father was reserved and sour, maybe even resentful that his son had invited a stranger into their midst, but his mother, a beautiful woman, formally dressed, jewelry dripping from every appendage, was warmly welcoming. She and I remained close friends until her death many years later.
In what appeared to be a giant ballroom–one of many I was to learn the next day–a buffet table had been prepared. At one end were all the shellfish, oysters, and caviar, followed by various pasta concoctions and risottos, then the fish dishes of roasted cod, fried eel, next the meat dishes of pork loin, steak, beef roasts, chicken, and lamb chops. The cheese and fruit had their own layout, and finally came dessert, more pastries, cakes, pies, and candy than I had ever seen in one place. And centered among them all was a series of round domed cakes of an unimposing presence, circling a large bowl of mascarpone. Pio informed me that this was a traditional cake served mainly around Christmas all over Italy. It’s panettone he said. A feathery light white cake with dried citrus fruit and raisins. The mascarpone improves it a lot. Over the next three days it was always around even warmed for breakfast.
Funnily enough, it has followed me over the years. Christmas is not really Christmas without my panettone. When I left Ascoli for St. Moritz a few days later, I had a parting panettone under my arm.
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