27 call. And I have a salary. Last summer I became a navigator and I thought "Ok, I'll try!”». And how do you see the future? «I see it as a training. Because this pub will become a restaurant. And the shop will also be born in a space owned by another prison entrepreneur, producing sprouts grown in the Prison of Viterbo that, consumed within a given time after germination, provide a protein intake in 100 grams equal to that of half a kilo of meat. And we are talking about most valuable proteins». Among the grids and bars of the old scenography conceived by the previous owners, I look at the paintings realized by a boy, a prisoner from Rebibbia, who replaced the stroke of the brush with his digital fingerprint. «He paints without the help of photographs, only with the imagination», Oscar points out, hugging me goodbye. Banda Biscotti, Dolci Libertà, Dolci Evasioni, Sprigioniamo Sapori, Cotti in Fragranza, Vale la Pena are the labels marketed by Economia Carceraria; Le galeotte, La soffiata, Focac-cella, Freearielli, Provola a prendermi, Tagliere la corda, Fuorigregge, are the names of the excellent dishes within the pub menu, flights of fancy and word games based on the assonances between Italian idioms, cookery terms and prison terms, of which Stefano Bartezzaghi too would be proud. If, on the one hand, I understand that they work in order to desecrate the detention issue by imagining an ideal escape from the prison, on the other hand I also realize that they represent a concrete way to emancipate from it. Whoever buys the chocolate breadsticks by Farina nel Sacco from the Turin Jail, or smears the Pistachio cream by Sprigioniamo Sapori, or tastes the chili, or sea salt, or orange fondant iubi – which in Romanian means ‘sweethearts’ –produced by Cotti in Fragranza at the Juvenile Prison in Palermo, knows that he is not buying a brand like any other. Like those who sip the Lazzarelle coffee – in Neapolitan, the feminine equivalent of ‘street urchins’, the so-called scugnizzi. Pozzuoli - At 10 sharp on a sunny morning I arrive by motorbike to the appointment with my first day in prison. «Hi, I'm going to jail! That’s what I say at home every morning», tells me Paola, Imma's colleague, who receives me at the Correctional Facility of Pozzuoli. The panorama of the Gulf of Naples, the port, the seagulls, with the glimpse that from Capo Miseno frames Bagnoli, is enchanting. I take a photo. The last one, because from here on my phone will be stuffed in a locker with all my personal belongings – except a pen, naughty because of the humidity, and a notebook. The warden, a young boy, tall as a lamppost, checks in a bunch of sheets headed ‘Ministry of Justice’ if there is my permission to enter, while Paola helps me with the locker. «They gave you one of those on this side, where the key always plays up». Do you know all of them by heart? «Yeah, well, I've been working here for years». Paola looks like a feather, blonde and very thin, but a Buddha to my eyes, thanks to her willpower and conviction. She explains that the Correctional Facility of Pozzuoli was once a convent, that’s why it has an enviable position. Inside, beyond the perimeter walls, there are some green spaces, which partly act as a vegetable garden. «It is the largest, and only female, prison in Campania. The second in Italy, after Rebibbia», she explains. Paola also shows me the grids behind which there are the inmates' dormitories. «Mixed on the first floor, awaiting trial on the second, and already judged on the third». Passing the entrance, we leave the cells on our right, and then behind us, going all the way down a path where a green space and a small building overlooking the garden make their way, where Claudia and Teresa are at work. We are at the coffee roaster of the cooperative awarded, talking about the most recent commendations, in 2017 by the social enterprises Gesco, in 2019 with the Gold Vesuvius and a few months ago with the title of Ambassadors of Civil Economy in Florence. «And we support by ourselves, without public funding» underlines Paola. Meanwhile, behind an immaculate aluminium counter, Teresa, Vesuvian like me, continues to manoeuvre a scale. She is from Torre del Greco and is weighing the ground coffee for the 250-gram bricks that Claudia, from Teano in the province of Caserta, presses by hand in a wooden mould and inserts in the vacuum machine. What strikes me most from the overall picture of this large room is the order, I would say typically feminine, by which every corner of the roasting responds to the processing cycle of the various products signed by Lazzarelle. Before each illustration, as Neapolitan hospitality teaches, stands the sacred coffee moment. «Let's take a break, girls – Paola announces – so I can introduce you to Sandro and then, if you like, you can talk to him and answer his questions». In a few expert movements, Claudia prepares four cups of classic blend coffee, 50% Robusta and 50% Arabica. I decide to proceed to my first taste without adding sugar. Paola immediately notices it: «Do you have it bitter?» «I am following the instructions of my first teacher, Imma», I reply. «Aaah, so you've already been chewed out!» she points out, laughing. «Cursed, verbatim». Even Claudia, very tall, straight red hair peeking out from the required laboratory cap, and Teresa, typical Southern Mediterranean beauty, can’t help the tiniest hint of a smile, signing the release form that will allow me to talk to them. The Lazzarelle coffee has a taste turning to sweet, despite the absence of sugar, restricted so as to fill just over half of the Vietri ceramic espresso cup, admirably painted by a master ceramist, provided by the cooperative to cafes and customers for big orders. The golden cream on the surface does not extinguish at the first sip, nor does it stick to the faces of the cup, giving me a little great joy – as well as an injection of energy that, shortly thereafter, will almost be lethal to me. In fact Claudia, putting the cups away, begins to tell me all the steps of the process. «In the corner, as you can see, we have the sacks with coffee beans, both Arabica and Robusta, from Central America, South America and Africa». The proportions of the recipe that each roasting company secretly guards are also written on each sack. How much do they weigh, more or less? «The sacks weigh 60 kilos each» replies Claudia, showing me the pallets with four other sacks. Inebriated by the classic blend, I ask Paola: «Can I get one?» «Try, but be careful». Ipse dixit, despite useless weekly gym and pool workouts, the sack bends in the middle, regardless of my grip on its top, and I can just lift it 2 mere centimeters up from the pallet, before having to give it up and rub my back. Claudia, Paola and Teresa laugh at my uselessness as a roasting worker. «But how do you girls do that?» I ask, with injured pride. «We drag them» replies Paola. Indeed, the open sacks filled with beans, which I try to eat and sudden I have to throw – Why does everyone who comes to visit us do that?, Paola wonders – are very close. Next to them, there is a
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