Normally, most of us find it inconceivable
to come upon an Italian with a drinking problem. Wine, and to a lesser extent,
beer and spirits, have been an integral part of the Italian table. Moderation
was something my Sicilian grandfather instilled in me as a young boy. I rarely
saw anyone, at our family gatherings, mildly drunk or otherwise. It just wasn’t a
thing, alcoholism, in our family or our Italian culture.
And then, we moved to the desert when I was a kid, and we
lived across from an Italian family. The husband was a screen writer,
although his wife once told me he was a gofer for a famous television producer.
He always seemed to be hanging around the house when he wasn’t out running
errands, or as he liked to say, polishing up a script. Actually, what he was
really good at was polishing off a bottle, night after night. He was harmless
enough when he was sauced up, as long as he wasn’t behind the wheel. But I saw,
first-hand, how an alcoholic functioned in his world. And it wasn’t pretty.
It is no small thing, when an Italian takes to drink.
In my travels in Italy, over 50 years, I’ve witnessed little, if any, examples
of an Italian for whom alcohol have gotten the better of them. Americans, well,
that’s another story. Countless times I’ve dragged besotted colleagues to their room and
dumped them in their bed, dead drunk. How, I asked myself, did they get that
way? I was with them the whole evening. I'd had my share of wine, but it didn’t waste
me.