THE CARNIVORE VEGAN JOHN BROUGHTON
“I’ve decided to become a vegan, Johnny” murmured Carlo, the barman, out of the corner of his mouth. He looked around shifty-eyed to ensure that no-one had managed the impossible and heard him. The words came more than half-drowned by the rock music he insisted on playing despite his patrons’ declared preference for local tarantella melodies. Florence and the Machine blared their latest hit in competition with the raised voices in the bar. Why men standing less than half a metre apart had to shout at each other to communicate baffled Johnny, an English ex-pat living in the remote southern Italian region of Calabria. Not allowing the general cacophony to distract him from this astonishing declaration, he stared aghast at his friend. Carlo, he associated with barbeques on festive occasions of epic eating and drinking lasting all day, with steaks suited to famished Canadian lumberjacks. Not to mention the salamis, sausages, sheep’s and goats’ cheeses and omelettes.
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