Would That I Could

“Kitchen Police”
Florence, Italy!

I
n September 1966 I entered active duty at Fort Sill, Oklahoma
and kicked off a 3-month Officer Basic Course as a second
lieutenant student (1193) in the United States Army Artillery &
Missile School. I felt as if I had been thrown into water, above my
head, to learn to swim and to do so without any lessons. I had
studied military science for four years in university, but that
instruction was mostly convoluted theory and centred on military
history, tactics and strategy and not the nuts and bolts of real-life
soldiering. Now, I was to get to the nitty-gritty of military life, and
the amount of data I had to gain knowledge of was staggering.
Classes lasted eight hours a day, and we had at least two hours
homework each night in our apartments or in the quarters of our
friends. The curriculum was an admixture of field artillery
instruction and rocket and missile training, and I felt swamped when
I looked at my class schedule and the conferences I was expected
to attend. I was further impressed discouragingly because Vietnam
was a gloomy cloud drooping over the head of each of us in class,
and it was assumed that assignment to Vietnam would be in the
field artillery, in support of infantry units, because no nuclear
weapons, which could be launched from the army’s stockpile of
rockets and missiles, were said to be in Vietnam. For me, the
United States Army was one huge anxiety attack.
When school ended, I received my first assignment: I was ordered
to the US Army Training Center at Fort Sill where I was programmed
to instruct inductees in rocketry and missilery. I remember feeling a
bit satisfied because I thought, incorrectly, this transfer would keep
me States-side and thus not qualified for shipment to Asia. There
was an eerie feeling on the huge, busy Oklahoman base as 90-day-
wonders, enlisted men transformed into lieutenants, swelled in
number to fulfil the artillery lieutenant quotas asked for by the ever-
increasing involvement in the Southeast Asian debacle impressing
us the more with the government’s determination to dig deeper into
the quicksand of Vietnam.

I remember reporting to my battery’s (Little John and Honest John

rockets) orderly room where First Sergeant Stone looked me over
scathingly, from my head to my toes, and grunted his disapproval
at the greenhorn Lieutenant Fuzz who was to drive him crazy with
what he thought were useless or even dumb inquiries. I was
scheduled to meet the battalion commander, Lieutenant Colonel
Thomas, a West Point graduate and member of the US Army’s .45
pistol shooting team. He lived with his family a few doors away
from my BOQ (Bachelor Officers’ Quarters) apartment, and when he
invited me to dinner in his home, he lamented a great deal about
how the army was being renovated to appear more like a
corporation and less like a fighting institution. He was very kind to
me, and he put in my head the notion that I, too, would come to
agree with him later on if I was to serve in Vietnam.

With the Harvard Business School management techniques being

incorporated into the daily activities of military life, career soldiers,
many of them veterans of both the Korean War and World War II,
retorted with frustration and disgust over the invasion of modern-
day methods of administration which, according to many old hands,
were compromising the efficiency of the soldier’s prima facie
activity: fighting an enemy. The officer in the United States Army
was expected to be a Renaissance man. His efficiency reports were
required to reflect a knowledge of various competencies—not all of
them related to combat effectiveness on the battlefield. Schooling
was highlighted and a master’s degree from a civil university was
considered an asset when an official was scrutinized by higher-ups
for promotion. (Vietnam veteran General Wesley Clark received a
degree in Philosophy, Politics & Economics from Oxford University’s
Magdalen College and a master’s degree in military science from
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the US Command and General Staff College!) Community service
was exalted. Language study was emphasized. If an officer,
entering service, thought his life was going to be comparable to
some John Wayne film, he was quickly disillusioned.

Into this Rebirth-like milieu, I—recently graduated from university

with a degree in Philosophy and toting a thesis about John-Paul
Sartre’s valuable contribution to twentieth-century thinking—crash-
landed a bit eccentrically, to say the least. Sergeants would come
to utter, under their breaths, that I was a pest, and one, one day,
would shock me with this: “Lieutenant, you are so “intelligent”
you’ll probably become a general some day!” I was sincerely overly
conscientious, and the fact that one day I would be expected to
serve as safety officer for the practice launchings of Little John and
Honest John rockets, both capable of carrying nuclear “pay loads,”
impressed me with the seriousness of the role I was called upon to
play in this setting of martial novelty and rigidity. I would
eventually come to be rewarded for my contributions with both The
Wayward Missile and The Loose Canon honours! And, at one
awards’ ceremony, I quipped an amendment to a quote (“I never
met a man I did not like”) of the Northamerican humorist, Will
Rogers: “Will Rogers never served in the United States Army.”
Above all, I am proudest of the epithet the infantrymen, with whom
I served in the jungles on the borders of Laos and Cambodia, paid
homage to me with: The Hippie Lieutenant! (Now you know why
the Department of Defence switched off to an all-volunteer armed
forces in 1973! Logical, no? And, by the way, remember that
imbecile Robert McNamara? He resigned as Secretary of Defence
while I was serving in Vietnam. I wrote a letter from the field to
President Lyndon B Johnson asking if I could resign my commission,
too. Dixon Donnelley, Under Secretary of State, Southeast Asian
Affairs, responded to me in an elongated letter saying: “No!” A bit
crazy those Northamericans! Those ex-Europeans. [Breaking the
United States Army’s Chain of Command is paramount to suicide.]
To make matters worse for me in Vietnam, Robert F Kennedy and
Martin Luther King were assassinated. On both occasions officers
and non-commissioned officers, mostly from the south of the United
States, held parties celebrating their deaths. AMERICA: LOVE IT OR
LEAVE IT! I left it.)

I suppose it was the obsessive call to conformity that started to eat

at any thought I might have possessed about making the army my
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career, but worse than that was the idea that I had to be expert
here and proficient there in everything I attempted to do. I could
see no focus on what I really was counted upon to accomplish, and I
felt I was being pushed from one duty to another without achieving
anything truly authentic for myself or for the United States Army.
During my two years of active duty, I was assigned to the following
supervisory slots: combat Forward Observer, combat Aerial
Observer, Battery Commanding Officer, Battery Executive Officer,
Battalion Liaison Officer, Battalion Assistant Adjutant, Brigade
Liaison Officer, Lance Missile Project Officer, Public Information
Officer, Stockade Counsellor, Solatium Officer, Pay Officer, Property
Book Officer…and others. Five-star General George Marshall’s CV
was not so mottled! I had to be a jack of all trades but master of
none. Oh, I almost forget to mention! I inspected kitchens!

As I traipsed through the vicissitudes and confusions and

frustrations of trying to find my place in the Military Sun—on 8 May
1967 I received a telegram from the Department of Defence
ordering me to Vietnam—I remember one bright spot during the
time I passed in the Little John/Honest John training battery:
Sergeant Jefferson. A brown boot (an experienced soldier) with
almost thirty years in the artillery, Sergeant Jefferson was just what
the doctor would have ordered for me in the chaos of Secretary of
Defence Robert McNamara’s (he had come from the presidency of
the Ford Motor Company!) corporate idea of a military institution.
Sergeant Jefferson had a unique sense of humour that I reflect upon
even to this day. For instance, if I knew the answer to some
problem but was still dubious about my judgment, I would go to him
for a confirmation:
“Sergeant Jefferson, does this go here?”
He would reply Zen-like…
“Lieutenant, does a cat have an asshole?”
I would crack up laughing!
Or, if I didn’t know where an object was but really should have…
“Sergeant Jefferson, where is the SOP (Standard Operating
Procedures) manual for the Honest John?”
“Lieutenant, if it was up your ass you’d know where it was.”
So on and so forth…

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I will never forget Sergeant Jefferson and his compassionate way of
trying to help me muddle through the United States Army’s identity
crisis and do his best not to lose his temper with me.

O
ne wintry morn when violent winds swept and howled across
Fort Sill’s fields pockmarked with the dents left behind by
exploding projectiles and practice rockets and missiles, I was
ordered to inspect our battery’s kitchen. Not knowing what to do, I
went straight away to Sergeant Jefferson for counsel. He referred
me, in Kantian panache, to the proper SOP and added two
important hints: make a list of my inspection’s pros and cons and
base my final verdict on the preponderance, if so, of pros; and, take
a white glove. To leave my mark, my final touch, he advised me to
use the glove to see if there was any grime or grit under the rubber
sealings of the refrigerators’ doors!

After dinner, I returned to my BOQ with manuals stuffed into a

shopping bag, and then sat at my desk with hope that my research
into the culinary intricacies of the United States Army would not
keep me awake into the wee hours nor drive me batty. I scanned
indexes. Took notes. Rummaged around for a checklist that would
guide me along my inspection sightseeing. I wanted to impart a
favourable impact. To do so, I would need to convey my
authoritativeness and knowledge of knowing what I was doing. I
went to bed, finally, at two o’clock in the morning, and fell asleep,
with spoons and knives and forks spinning in my head, thinking how
the morning’s mess hall scrutiny would turn out.

When you inspect a kitchen you have to think about food and the
utensils that hold it and cook it. In other words, every cooking
implement has to be clean, sterilized, and the food that is prepared
in it has to be fresh and free from the bacteria which might cause
outbreaks of massive food poisoning. An army cannot afford to
have soldiers vomiting while at war. Amebiasis,
campylobacteriosis, cryptosporidosis, cysticercosis, escherichia coli,
giardiasis, hepatitis A, listeriosis, nonperinatal listeriosis, norovirus,
salmonellosis, typhoid fever acute, typhoid fever carriers and
vibriosis are some of the food-borne illnesses which might be
caught from provisions improperly handled or prepared. Germs
from raw chicken and meat can give one a serious dose of food
poisoning. They might be found on one’s hands, chopping boards,

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sinks, worktops, dishes, knives or tongs. Raw meats that drip on
other foods in the frig might wind up causing a severe physical
reaction when the affected foods are digested. Chicken should be
piping hot inside with no pink meat left. Burgers and sausages also
should not be served “pink.” Seal and make safe steaks on the
outside by browning the entire surface of the meat. One can eat
steaks rare or pink in the middle. And leftovers must be reheated
properly. My list went on and on to include vegetables, eggs, and
beverages.

Hygienic utensils are a must-look in an inspection and so is the

kitchen area supporting the cooking process. Workers have to be
trained to prevent contamination. Hands must be washed correctly
in adequate hand-washing facilities. Water sources, and particularly
ice, must be approved meticulously. Proper parasite destruction
procedures for fish are necessary. Food contact surfaces must be
cleaned and sanitized. Food must be received and stored at the
suitable temperature. In-use utensils must be stored as they should
be during cooking. Proper cooling procedures must be adhered to.
Cooking times and temperatures must be regulated. Accurate
thermometers are to be provided. Toxic cleaning substances must
be suitably identified. Ware-washing appliances must be properly
installed and maintained. Sewage, garbage and wastewater must
be correctly disposed of. Adequate ventilation and lighting in
designated areas are required. An army is exceptionally attentive
to all aspects of public health, and my kitchen inspection list was
just a part of the overall effort to avoid serious sicknesses or injuries
befalling our troops.

In Vietnam, there were three types of food: A, B, & C-rations. A-

rations were those served at table with plates, glasses and silver- or
plastic-ware; B-rations were hot foodstuffs transported in large
thermoses, usually by helicopter, to far-off base camps not
furnished with kitchen facilities; and, C-rations (Meal, Combat,
Individual) were meal packs we carried in our rucksacks and which
included: beef/lima beans with ham (in a can), chocolate mix, 3
cookies, can of jam, white bread in a can, and mini portions of
cigarettes, salt, coffee, cream (powder), sugar, matches, toilet
paper, gum, and a plastic spoon. There were also, sometimes, a
limited amount of LRRP (Long-range Reconnaissance Patrol) rations
which were dehydrated meals taken on long journeys into enemy
territory by scouting teams. They were tastier foodstuffs and easy
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to prepare by just adding hot water—if it was available. All these
provisions contained a high-calorie diet to feed grunts properly
when climbing mountains on the borders of Laos and Cambodia
around which I lived in a pup tent for four months.

During my two years of active duty service, I never experienced, or

even heard of, a food-poisoning incident either States-side or in the
Vietnam jungles. Mess halls in the United States were impeccably
sanitary, and while messes in Vietnam were not 100% sterile, they
were clean, well-kept and particularly sensitive to the pressing
issues of proper food preparation and protection from cross
contamination. Vietnamese civilians were often employed to help
tidy offices, sleeping quarters and mess halls where they set tables
and cleaned dishes. I remember one Vietnamese widow who,
following the tradition of her country, wore a headband made up of
a piece of rolled-up white fabric within which was contained the
ashes of her dead husband.

While I was in the US Army I ate rattlesnake and dog. Oklahoma is

rattlesnake country, and rattlesnake hunts are common there. The
meat of the rattlesnake is barbecued and sauces are spread on the
chicken-tasting meat to enhance its flavor. One can buy canned
rattlesnake meat but it is rather expensive. As a solatium officer in
Vietnam, I conveyed the condolences of the US government and
presented $25.00 to the families of individuals killed by US Army
“friendly” artillery projectiles fired, especially at night, to harass and
interdict enemy forces. With an interpreter and an armed chopper,
I was helicoptered to villages where my commiserations—first read
in English and then translated into Vietnamese—were read to
grieving people many of whom screamed hysterically at our
presence. When all was calm, we were usually invited to dinner,
and as I was instructed by my commanding officer (“You will eat
dog if necessary, lieutenant!”), I dined on roasted dog which
reminded me of a turkey’s dark meat. I may be wrong about that,
however. I was so relieved the dog was grilled and so preoccupied
about not wincing in front of the mourners, I did little to concentrate
on what I was consuming.

It is easy for me to be concerned about food especially when I go to

a restaurant where I cannot have control over the preparation and
quality of the food I am going to gobble. In an eating place I will

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check to see if there are water stains on the glasses and dishes. I
will check knives, forks and spoons to see if they have something
still sticking to them. I will feel the linens to see if they are freshly
cleaned. I frequently have the urge to get up and walk into the
kitchen to see how faithful the staff are in keeping to the rules and
regulations of food storage and preparation. When bored or if the
conversation has lulled, I can look around the dining room to see to
what degree windows are spotless, rugs are spick and span, and if
the waiter or waitress’s uniforms are unsoiled and pressed. I
remember when I was a guest in the generals’ mess in Palacio
Miraflores in Venezuela’s capital, I almost could not believe how
immaculate the dining preparations had been! Outside, in the very
streets surrounding the President of Venezuela’s residence, there
was dire poverty and unhealthy sanitation conditions throughout. I
suffered from gastroenteritis a few times in Caracas after having
eaten food served by street vendors, and to this day I never eat in
the street.
And this is not the only discipline the US Army instilled in my
persona! The United States Army made of me a great bane of your
existence, my dear reader, and I try my best, without always
succeeding, in following the advice of Henry Fielding who suggested
this to me: “I have endeavoured to laugh mankind out of their
favourite follies and vices!” In the army, recalcitrant soldiers were
sent on KP for sixteen hours to “stimulate” them into conforming,
into eliminating their follies and vices!. Discipline is not an option in
life-threatening situations. I have been in many in my time. But, in
an army in a combat zone it is restraint and habit that makes an
infantry company function like clockwork.

* * *

What I am about to say is going to infuriate many foreign women

who live in Tuscany (a third of the estimated number [60,000] of

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Northamericans living in Italy live in Il Gran Ducato), and I am just
biting at the bit to get started! My knives are sharpened. Let me
prelude my thoughts with this little tidbit: I have never seen a lady
from Los Angeles who worked here in Firenze serving tables; nor,
one from New York who put postage on my packages; nor, another
from Chicago who taught school children; nor, one more from Dallas
who nursed patients in a hospital. Yet I have caught sight of many
of these “female aristocrats,” literally soaked in “culture” and
dressed to kill in the latest creations of glorified cocaine-sniffing
Italian fashion designers. And instead of telling their mommies and
mummies that Firenze is a medieval pigsty, they rant and rave—
skipping over their desperately unhappy marriages—about how
they are feeding on the joy of what is billed throughout the world,
by travel agency publicists, as The Cradle of Humanism and/or The
Birthplace of the Renaissance—something Firenze once was. Poor
girls. They are so sickeningly hackneyed! Florence and Italy are
falling apart at their seams. Wherever you look you see the
symptoms of an Italy in dissolution—materially and immaterially.

Let’s take a walk together: River beds and sewers are stuffed with
debris…there are fissures in medieval foundations everywhere, and
if you are about to enter a church, cross yourself and your fingers
and hope the roof, or a piece of it, doesn’t fall on your head…roofs
leak in offices and homes and universities…flood walls are in ruins…
in the autumn, Italy becomes the Land of Landslides…cigarette
ashes are on the floors of hospital delivery rooms…cockroaches
scurry about on the surgical wards…Italian cars begin to fall apart
only months after they are purchased…telephone, electric and gas
bills are Russian roulettes…trailer trucks zoom through residential
areas and spew black smoke in the faces of children and mediaeval
statues…cars are upped on sidewalks, cracked and broken…one
arrives at an Italian airport or train station asking not when
departure time is, but how late the jet or train is…streets and
highways are impregnated with crevices and potholes…lights in
buses and apartment hallways are lit in the middle of sunny days…
monuments are crumbling; or, air pollution is corroding them…
downtown areas are gas chambers…school bathrooms and heating
systems often do not function…there are but a few sports facilities
for children and adults…Swiss ladies have clauses in their health
insurance policies to escape in an air ambulance flight to
Switzerland if they fall ill…banks offer 3% interest on savings then,
after a month, decrease the interest without advising depositors…
see that crooked church?…construction sites, abandoned for years,
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dot the countryside…floods, then droughts, damage crops…filth is
in the air and on the ground…stadiums are wrecked habitually by
acts of violence…hills are polka-dotted with garbage…supermarket
shelves are missing items and others are expired…television
programming is the worst in Europe…thousands of Italian
companies are in debt or going bankrupt…fountains are clogged
with scum and refuse…repair work is shoddy, months late…trees
and plants are dying whichever way you rivet your eyes…urban
planning is nonexistent or corrupt…public places are pervaded with
tobacco smoke…motor scooters zoom to a “what do we do now?”
standstill…STOP signs are GO signs…rivers of photocopied sheets—
blown-down to spy size—accompany students to their
examinations…thirteen-year-olds, during final exams, ask to be
excused to go to bathrooms where they cellphone their mothers at
home to get answers to questions that have perplexed them…
software and CDs are replicated illegally with aplomb…politicians
burp on television…no one knows what the public debt is; they are
afraid to hold it up to view…children go to study tired of watching
television and playing computer games…Italians are intoxicated
with illegal and legal drugs; they are number one in Europe for drug
consumption; every Italian home is equipped with a mini-pharmacy
and they stuff their drug store cubby holes with expired drugs to
brag their pill opulence to their friends…there are no qualified
workers to content hundreds of thousands of job openings…Italians
are the most overweight people in Europe—fat just like
Northamericans, their idols…singers steal music from others…
Italian business people are dressed to kill; the most elegant
bankrupts in the world…they are, according to the International
Monetary Fund, the most dishonest in the European Union…followed
by the Poles—all God-serving Roman Catholics!…the cost of a cup of
coffee keeps going up; nonetheless, the size of the coffee cup keeps
decreasing…kids go to school, defy all in authority, call a strike,
order teachers home, and when they are asked why they have
walked out, they respond defiantly: “We don’t know! But, we know
we must do it!”…business is excellent—for a few!…La vita è bella—
for whom?…Italy is spinning its wheels—going nowhere…from the
mouth of a nine-year-old Florentine girl: “When I grow up I want to
live with Alessandra. But, please understand we are not
lesbians.”…from the mouth of a forty-year-old Prato bus driver
smoking while driving: “I’ll smoke wherever the *** I please!”…
from the mouths of thousands of Veronese calico fans screaming in
delirium: “WE HATE EVERYONE!”…Of course, that is stupid! But, it
is Italian stupid, stupid!”…television audiences are paid off to clap

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at the right moment…games are fixed…sportspeople are drugged
left and right…buses, frequented by millions of people coming from
all over the world, are never disinfected…at least every month in
Firenze some school or restaurant dishes out contaminated
foodstuff…a hotel near my home was closed for a month after
Spanish school children were infected with tainted water drank from
the taps in their rooms…it is common in Florentine restaurants to
substitute bottles of mineral water with tap water to save money…
sterilization units in bars and restaurants are often not heated to a
high enough temp to disinfect plates, glasses, cups and eating
utensils…if you drink a cup of coffee in Firenze, do so with your left
hand, if you are right-handed, to avoid the lipstick marks on the
other side…sure the rugs are dirty…you’re right, that’s slime on
your plate which was not cleaned correctly…bartenders wash cups
with sponges so dirty they are nearly black…going to the bathroom
in a restaurant, bar or public area is a nauseating experience:
stinks, no toilet paper, no soap, urine on toilet seats, urine on the
floor, bathrooms are the size of those in nuclear submarines, and to
enter you have to ask permission to have the key…a recent edict
forbids public restoration owners to bribe customers (“if you want
the key to the toilet, you must buy something”) with a €160.00
fine…do not drink water from public fountains…if you are walking in
the street, do not go under construction scaffolding, I repeat, do not
walk under those riggings…who knows what you might catch
pressing an ATM button?…a hotel remote control?…taking a bath in
a not-so-elegant hotel bathtub?…want to use that bedside
telephone?…want to risk washing your laundry in a Florentine
laundry mat?…the only classical music station in Italy has to be
subsidized by Tuscany region taxpayers’ money because it cannot
count on private donations…the United States’ ambassador, in
2007, said he was worried that American business men are
refusing, more frequently, to invest in Italy…the United States’
ambassador, in 2008, said he thought Italy risked going into
decline…are you sure those supermarket cart handles’ are
disinfected?…what about that mouse in that Internet café?…those
doorknobs on the restaurant’s toilet entrance…the faucet handles in
the café’s men’s room…the chef’s kitchen sink…don’t eat
mozzarella cheese that has been made within a 250 kilometre
radius of Napoli…Italy is Number One in Europe for work-related
deaths…see those sewer grates and the rats going in and out of
them?…I’m in the back kitchen room of Franco’s coffee/shop/bar in
San Frediano…he’s preparing tomorrow morning’s brioche…the
dough is laid out in front of us shaped in long slabs which will later

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be cut and rolled for baking…Franco is smoking…every once in a
while he puts his cigarette down at the side of the dough…or he
puts the cigarette in his mouth while he is talking to me…ashes fall
on the dough…Franco blows them off…some remain…he brushes
them off with his hand…Roberto has invited me to work with him
collecting grapes during the vendemmia…I work in the vineyards
for eight hours…15% of the grapes are dead but we are instructed
nevertheless to pick them and throw them into the baskets with the
healthy grapes…on our way back a tractor hauls us and our
harvest…Roberto’s muddy boots are set on top of the pile of grapes
in the cart being pulled by the tractor…I ask Roberto if that is not
such a good idea, and he replies: “Don’t worry, these grapes are for
the United States!”…ad infinitum…ad nauseam…

R E M A R K S

Italy is on its way to extinction.

It is doing not much to defend its position.

Italy is in a laid back position.

Sudden enlightenment is not an Italian option.

Italians do not crave to observe, to feel, to weigh themselves

against others.
Nor, do they desire to seek a diverse reaction not in keeping with
their own.

Jonathan Howard, professor of Cell Genetics, at the Institute for

Genetics,

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 University of Cologne, Germany,
quotes another illustrious biologist
who believed that adaptation is simply
the consequence of an interaction between contingency and time.
Extinction is the outcome when:
• The contingency is too strict
• The time is too short
• The competition too intense

Authored by Anthony St. John

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