Vanstone's Roman adventure

AMANDA Vanstone, Australia’s outgoing Ambassador to Italy, talks politics, pasta and the perfect limoncello.

Australia's outgoing Ambassador to Italy, former senator Amanda Vanstone, shopping at her local market: "Italian food is very fresh, very simple." Photo: Anthony Geernaert

THE dining room is a long, restrained space of polished parquetry and antique silverware. Seated halfway between each end, our Ambassador to Italy Amanda Vanstone rests her elbows on the table.

The main entrance is shut off and yet the room reverberates with noise – next door in the living room, three drag queens are rehearsing for their performance here tonight at an official reception being hosted by the Australian embassy. Periodically, workmen and event managers burst into the room to check on floral arrangements and canapes and marketing collateral.

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Throughout her 23 years in public life as senator and minister, Vanstone was anything but bland. As the minister responsible for pursuing fugitive Christopher Skase she said, on the news of his death, “Let me put my dancing shoes on.” And following the 2003 federal budget, which included small tax cuts, she famously remarked, “Five dollars. Hell, what will it buy you? A sandwich and a milkshake, if you’re lucky.”

And it seems the most colourful personality in Australian politics packed that inimitable panache in her knapsack when she set off three years ago to be Australia’s most senior diplomat in Italy. Naturally, I have to ask whether having transvestites perform for 250 Italian businesspeople is part of a regular kind of day. The answer I get is there is no such thing as a regular kind of day.

“The thing about this job is its variety,” she says. “I’ll go from the signing of a defence contract to a summit with the Canadian, New Zealand and UK ambassadors to a trade function at home for 250 people like this one.”

Of course there always has to be an angle and a dividend for Australia. This function is a trade initiative to introduce major Australian and Italian companies that might do business with each other – including executives from Westpac, Parmalat, Ferrero and Ducati. The cross-dressing, singing and dancing is courtesy of world-famous La Sorelle Bandiera, or Flag Sisters, the drag act whose lead is Perth boy Neil Hansen.

After three years building bridges between the two countries, what does she think are the key differences  between them? “I’ve noticed Italians seem to understand how important it is to have a good life. We mistakenly call that la dolce vita, meaning good food, good wine, great times. But they don’t mean that. They do like good food and they certainly enjoy wine, but what they mean is they want a happy life, they want their family life to be happy, they want their kids to be happy. They want to feel secure, so they’ve got very high personal savings in Italy; they don’t go racking it all up on the credit card. This is in contrast to what I see in Australia, which is much more materialistic.  So I think la dolce vita is misunderstood.”

Earlier, we took the short journey by car to Ponte Milvio, the bridge where Garabaldi fought off the French in the 1840s and where, quite a bit earlier, Emperor Constantine had his vision that converted him to Christianity. Today, the bridge is known more for the assortment of padlocks that encircles its lamp posts, on which the besotted engrave their lovers’ initials and throw the keys into the Tiber below. Right by the bridge is a clutch of cafes and shops and a small, fresh food market. Behind the market, low-rise apartments line the street.

“Almost all Romans live in apartments and that is partly why everyone goes out for coffee and gelato all the time,” Vanstone explains as we walk from the car. “I couldn’t live that way. That’s the great thing about home. Our backyards and our gardens.”

So has it been hard to adjust to life here? Does she miss Australia? Politics? “One of the aspects of Australia I miss are the smooth roads. Cobblestones are fantastic to walk on … in a movie. And I’m surprised at this answer but I don’t miss politics at all. I can’t understand why I don’t, but I don’t. I haven’t had a moment’s regret.”

Many politicians-turned-diplomats struggle with the huge hierarchical shift, going from the master of bureaucrats and MPs to a servant of them. Legend has it that when Vanstone’s former colleague Robert Hill was tempted from politics by a diplomatic posting, he insisted on the United Nations because, thanks to Australia also having a Consul-General to New York, the UN ambassador is the only one who doesn’t greet the Foreign Minister’s arriving plane – which at that time would have carried his arch-enemy Alexander Downer – at the airport. One would think that, for Howard appointments, the loathing would run even deeper with Treasury benches now occupied by Labor.

“I’ve had no problem with any of that,” declares Vanstone. “In my term there have been more ministerial and official visits to Rome than ever before.” She looks at me and points her finger menacingly. “And they all went like clockwork. Having been a minister, I think I know what visiting ministers are looking for. They’re not after something fancy – in their positions they can do fancy any day of the week. What they want is something real, something authentic.”

And it doesn’t get much more authentic than this market, selling loaves of warm bread right out of the oven, broadbeans the size of zucchinis and an impressive array of cheeses. Even a whole roasted pig, still with its head intact, its entire hide turned to crackling, whose sorry hind the frenetic grocers slice away at. We join the queue.

“Italian food is very, very fresh, very simple, very clean,” Vanstone tells me. “That’s the key difference between Italian and French food, which is not to say that French food isn’t fresh, but more preparation is involved before it gets to your plate. So the freshness of the ingredients, which you can’t really get at home, is what makes good Italian cooking stand out.”

She points at the table. “You can’t get this burrata [mozzarella] at home. They have so many raw milk cheeses here that are good. Everyone says the tomatoes here are better. There’s a very long season on artichokes. At home you can get a variety of olives but not the variety that you’ll get here. We do have very good fruit and vegetables in Australia, of course we do. But here, sometimes,” she says ardently, gesticulating at me like a true Italian, “they just have that little bit better.” She pauses. “It really is a country of simple pleasures.” 

Inevitably though, nostalgia creeps into her narrative. “But if you come from a multicultural country like Australia you do miss the range of foods that we have at home. There aren’t many Thai or Chinese restaurants here. I wouldn’t serve a predominantly Asian meal to Italians if I have them to dinner. They just wouldn’t like it. They happily say, ‘We’ve got the best food in the world, why would we have anything else?’ ”

Art and the Pantheon
The route to dinner takes us through the Villa Borghese, the largest public park in Rome. A motorcade of taxis and limousines snakes through the gardens, past young families and lovers, hand-in-hand, on their evening walks. The Palazzo Borghese museum and gallery reopened around 15 years ago and, for art lovers, is one of the true gems of Rome. “In the galleria they have some fantastic Antonio Canova sculptures,” Vanstone says. “One of them is Paolina and it’s just amazing. I’m much more for contemporary art but this piece of sculpture is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. She’s lying down on a long chaise lounge and you cannot believe that the indentations in this cushion that she’s on so perfectly reflect what the indentations would be with a woman lying in that way. It’s just fantastic.”

Hearing about this find begs the obvious question: in a city saturated with history and art, how do you sort the wheat from the chaff? The answer: with great difficulty. “Unless you think you know a lot about art and you can decide for yourself, you’d be swamped,” she says. “If you have uneducated eyes, how do you know which of the 400 paintings to focus on, give some attention to and remember? You don’t. You’re just looking at a lot of things. I didn’t go to the Palazzo Doria Pamphili until [NGA director] Ron Radford was in Rome and he said, ‘I’ll take you through and I’ll show you the best of it.’ So I’ve been lucky on occasions to have an educated eye tell me: ‘These are the four things that are the best there to look at’.”

And so her absolute favourite Roman artefact or architecture or art? “It would have to be the Pantheon. It’s way above the Colosseum for me. Other people like the Colosseum because of its size and, sure, it does look beautiful at night. But when you walk in the Pantheon and you look up under that dome, and you realise the rain can come in and then go down the drain, and you look at it closely and it doesn’t look like a drain, and you realise how many hundreds and hundreds of years ago that was built, you cannot help but be really, really impressed that it’s still there and that so many people still go and enjoy it.”

Our destination is Trattoria Dell’omo, which has an unassuming and frankly drab facade, and is right by Termini station. The place is a glut of linoleum and fluorescent tube lighting, like in those slightly morbid canteens you see in ’80s Eurocinema. It’s oddly atmospheric and, indeed, once you taste the food you cease to care about the decor. The place could be perched on the summit of a sewage treatment facility and you’d still rave about it. Vanstone had assured us during the previous days that we were in for a treat. Previously she had brought Alfonso Iaccarino, the-two-Michelin-starred Italian chef whose footprint includes his world-renowned Sorrento dining room and a restaurant at Marrakech’s La Mamounia hotel. “Alfonso ate the bucatini amatriciana and declared: ‘This is classic Rome’.”

I’ve eaten bucatini amatriciana – the classic Roman dish – in at least 20 trattoria around Rome and this is the best by miles. There’s not too much pancetta in the mix and what there is is lean, not fatty. The dish avoids being too salty by boasting a perfectly adequate sum of tomato. It’s the very perfection Alfonso, correctly, referred to.

Our waiter, Gino, is on the wrong side of 80 but, doggedly, and with elephantine stealth, rambles around the floor, dishes in hand, white cloth over the shoulder. His somewhat younger wife Guiseppina is the stalwart of the kitchen while their son, Antonio, runs the business. It’s a family restaurant in the truest sense of the word.

For the main course, the table overwhelmingly swings itself behind the house saltimbocca, an effortless, bucolic plate of the tenderest veal fillet in a shallow, divine butter sauce. We brood over the dregs of vino and then order some bloodcurdling shots of Amaro Jannamico. The bill arrives. Dinner for seven people, including a robust quota of wine, comes to a grand, dumbfounding total of €150 (S220).

The Australian Ambassador’s official residence in Rome sits on the hillside suburb of Parioli above Piazza del Popolo, amongst a cluster of diplomatic missions including those of Poland, Bulgaria and Denmark. Right around the corner, on via Eleonora Duse, is Bar Gelateria Duse, a predominantly local hangout and, arguably, purveyor of Roma’s finest gelati. During her term Vanstone brought  former governor-general Michael Jeffery and his wife here. And on most nights the dashing Carabinieri drop in for a sugar hit, sporting their red-striped Armani suits. Their HQ is nearby.

'Why are you here?'
We stop by at Duse after dinner. Inside, our small entourage goes totally nutty – their best flavours are mandaora (almond) and nocciola (hazelnut), although only a minority of us go the full Italiano and opt for the whipped cream garnish. Outside, young Romans mill around their Vespas or sit on milk crates, smoking and laughing. They regard us quizzically, five English speakers, the equivalent of a horde, like Titus and his army marching in from Jerusaleum.
“I was here last year with friends and one of the customers wandered up to us and said, in Pidgin English, ‘Why are you here?’ ” recalls Vanstone. “When I told him I worked here in Rome and these were my visitors he said ‘That’s OK. It’s usually only neighbours here.’ So this place is the real deal.”

It’s a balmy evening in Rome and so we take a seat outside the gelateria and enjoy their merchandise al fresco. While we sit, I ask Vanstone if there are many prominent Aussies who live in Rome and whether she’s come to know more of them. “To be honest, there isn’t a large Australian contingent. One person I’ve seen a bit of is [Cardinal] George Pell. Before we had an Ambassador to [the Vatican] based here, I decided that any very prominent Australian who was here could expect to be contacted by the Ambassador to Italy. I asked him if he’d like to come for lunch or dinner, which he’s done and I’ve really enjoyed his company.

“He and I disagree on a number of things and we know that, but he’s good company and very generous. Doesn’t mean I’d vote for him if he was standing for Parliament but so what? It’s a good thing to mix with people who have different views – that’s what it’s all about.” Vanstone smiles. “I think we might be like the cat and the dog at the vet that know they’re not allowed to fight.”

Which brings us to Gus Vanstone – possibly one of the most notorious political pets since Nixon’s  cocker spaniel,
Checkers. A sleek and athletic Weimaraner, Gus made headlines last year when he bit the Pakistani Ambassador. Then when the Caribinieri came around to investigate, he bit one of them too. “Gussy is a sweetie and my heart is torn over him because he’s frankly found it very hard here. I don’t think I could have left him behind. Once they’re part of your family, they’re part of your family. Pet people travel with their pets.”

Gus is an imposing figure around the residence. He bounds fearlessly towards arriving guests, he circles the table at meal time, occasionally mounting the dining chairs expectantly, and he mooches nonchalantly around the living areas whenever the mere humans gather there.

“This place is confusing for him. The house has three levels, there are live-in staff, there are regular workmen and there are other workmen. Then there are friends of ours that come, some who go to Sicily or Venice and then come back, some of whom he remembers, some of whom he doesn’t. There are official guests, some of whom are repeat, some of whom are not. Then there are 250 people coming over for a function.

“You know, he’s a very sensitive, gentle dog but [he does] get anxious. I can’t wait to get him back to a normal home. He’s a lovely boy,” she concludes, her eyes twinkling with fervid affection.

In the evenings at the residence, Vanstone rarely misses an opportunity to wheel out the homemade liqueurs – limoncello, predominantly, but also its variations orangecello, mandarincello, and a feisty grappa. For Vanstone, it was something of a new discovery when she arrived here. “I was invited to a dinner and in the course of making conversation with someone I noticed the limoncello behind the bar and I said, ‘Italians seem to drink that. What do you think?’ This man said, ‘It’s great. Molto buono!’ I asked how to make it and he told me his mother makes it. So I asked if I could get his mother’s recipe. Sure enough, it turns out he’s the member [of parliament] for the Sorrento area, which is where the Italians say limoncello lemons should come from. So he came back the next week with a couple of crates of lemons and, as promised, his mother’s limoncello recipe!”

I’m assured the recipes don’t differ much. The proportions of sugar, water, alcohol and lemon are the same. The differences, says our aficionado, are the length of time the skin stays in the alcohol and whether the sugar and water is made into a syrup or added separately. Near the embassy itself (as opposed to the residence) there is a Sicilian coffee bar that stocks mandarincello.

“I thought well let’s try that, and it was really good, except it was a pain in the neck to make. Mandarin is easy to peel by hand but not to get all the pith off, which you need to do. With lemons it’s easy. You need something like 200g of fruit for every litre of alcohol so it’s quite a lot of mandarins actually. We had a guest staying and I rang him up and said that the price for staying here was slaving away on the mandarins. ‘Come on down,’ I said, ‘now is your chance to go to mandarin heaven!’ ”

Apparently though, the drink is not just for drinking. It’s the ultimate ice-breaker. “Ever since then I’ve realised, if there’s a lull in the conversation somewhere, if you’re at a big dinner and you don’t know everybody, it’s not hard to say, ‘Does your mumma have a limoncello recipe?’ And off they go.”

I change the subject and ask, quite directly, what her views are of the state of federal politics back home. Vanstone, after all, has been in Rome since before John Howard lost the 2007 election. “I don’t think it’s for people who’ve retired to provide running commentary on the day-to-day aspects of politics,” she responds. “But I do think it’s a matter of regret that the Liberal Party was left in the position it was in. If you value something and you’re given the care of it, my own view is you should leave it in as good as, if not better condition than when you got it. And I don’t think that happened to the Liberal Party after the Howard years of government. But everything’s recoverable. Time changes everything.”

Amanda Vanstone’s appointment as Ambassador to Italy concludes this year. It is expected that her successor, David Ritchie, will take up his appointment this month.

This story was originally published in the July issue of Wish magazine, free inside The Australian on Friday, July 2.