'Cubaaaanosssss,' Tony hisses, as he takes a long, luxurious drag on his cigar. Tony, as I will call him lest his associates pay me a visit, is not the sort of man to let his luxuries go unnoticed. Tony is just not a man to go unnoticed at all: big hands, bigger jewellery and wet-look shoulder-length hair, World Wrestling Federation style.
Without their even trying to eavesdrop, Tony's Sopranos accent and surround-sound volume lets everyone at the restaurant off Siena's Il Campo know he has a pricey Manhattan address and makes his money from 'internet' investments. He has friends in the import business. It seems obvious Tony is lying low in the old country, having whacked somebody back in New Jersey.
I am fascinated, wondering whether Tony is a Luca-Brasi-sleeps-wit-da-fishes-garroting-type or more of a 38-Special-kinda fella. I am also terrified because, being a wise-guy, Tony might be more aware of us than he lets on. Perhaps we will be shadowed and then run down tomorrow by a big black Cadillac. We wouldn't stand much of a chance. We will be on bikes.
Katie and I left Hong Kong with two racing bikes packed in cardboard boxes and a couple of purse-sized bike bags, each holding nothing more than a few tools, a first-aid kit, toiletries and some cycling clothes. We are in search of good food and a challenge.
The quest starts at Lierna on Lake Como. Bellagio is the place to go, or so we are told by the owner of a shop filled with tempting pastries. 'Shorge Ca-loonie,' the shop owner's mother explains, the former ER actor being Bellagio's most famous resident.
We have a wonderful meal as the sun sets over the lake and, although George Clooney doesn't pop by, the man on the electric organ keeps us entertained with such classics as New Your, New Your and Do Americanos. It's easy to find bad music in Italy, but not a bad meal.