Nonno Franco Talks Women, Cocktails & Kardashians
His daughter constantly scolds him for blasphemy
Franco Benardini—or “Nonno Franco” as he is known to his family—was born in Garbatella, the Ostiense quarter of Rome, in 1933. He is eighty-eight years old, has an elderly one-eyed mutt that he calls Capitano, and lives in the apartment he grew up in with his daughter, Benedetta Benardini, who works as a nurse’s aide. Her twenty-seven-year-old daughter, Gina, an Instagram influencer, also lives at home.
Nonno Franco’s wife, Italia, passed away about five years ago. The apartment was sold in 2016 as a “nuda proprietà,” which means the people who bought it can’t move in until he’s dead. Waving his index finger side to side in front of him, Nonno Franco says, “I’m not going anywhere. They haven’t figured out they’ve got Highlander as a tenant.”
Why Nonno Franco? Because I am utterly besotted with his innocence, his creaky, thin-timbred voice, his heavy Roman accent, and his occasional naughtiness, which always gets him in trouble with Benedetta.
He agreed to do this interview only if we brought him a bottle of Berlucchi, an upscale spumante in a gold foil coiffe, which his daughter, Benedetta, strongly disapproves of. “Papà shouldn’t drink so much,” she mutters, giving him the side eye. But Nonno Franco is a proponent of harmless pleasures. He knows it all, has done it all—or so he thinks. In his mind, he’s the ultimate decider of what’s good and what isn’t.
In the interest of readability, I have translated this interview into English.
We were told to get Nonno Franco up from his nap, which is how we found ourselves in his bedroom. There’s a poster of Gina Lollobrigida on one wall, and a crucifix on the other—his wife’s crucifix. Nonno Franco hangs his shirt and jacket on it. After making sure we brought the Berlucchi, he shuffles out to the kitchen, pours himself a glass, bolts it, and then pours himself another one before his daughter catches him.
We set up camp on the formica coffee table from the sixties that looks strangely at home here. An equally geriatric espresso maker, crusty with use, sits on the kitchen countertop. Nonno Franco waves his hand at it and says, “Don’t be fooled. It makes real coffee.” He gazes into the far distance, a tuft of sleep-mussed white hair sticking out of his head, and suddenly becomes a battle-hardened veteran. He’s seen some things. “These capsules they use nowadays. That’s not coffee. It’s just water that’s brown.”
Once he gets settled, we explain that we’d like to conduct the interview by asking his opinion on a variety of subjects. Nonno Franco seems skeptical and suspicious of this, but then, out of nowhere, he says, “I buy all my wine from I Castelli Romani. Do you go to I Castelli Romani? There’s a cantina.”
We confess our ignorance of the cantina, but see the 5 liter, 10 liter, and 25 liter vats of wine lined up in the kitchen, which tell us that these visits must be a frequent occurrence.
ME: As a lifelong Italian, what’s your opinion of sushi?
NONNO FRANCO: You mean raw fish? Who wants to eat raw fish? If I eat fish, it’s cooked in a pan.
ME: How about fast food?
NONNO FRANCO: (fidgets uncomfortably). Like Barginine?
ME: Um … do you mean Burger King?
NONNO FRANCO: (shrugs.) B’oh. It’s fry this, fry that. If they could, they’d fry my underwear. In my day, a plate of spaghetti was all we needed. Like I tell my daughter, never eat anywhere you don’t know the butcher.
ME: Do you have a favorite food?
NONNO FRANCO: (with a gleam in his eye). Rigatoni alla pajata [entrails] or trippa alla romana [entrails]. In my day, we ate everything.
ME: Have you ever tried French food?
NONNO FRANCO: (fingertips of one hand touching and then moved up and down in a gesture meant to say, what, are you putting me on?) Any food you can’t cook without butter—what kind of food is that?
ME: How about music? Do you like any contemporary artists?
NONNO FRANCO: No. I don’t understand a word they’re saying. Not like Natalino Otto [Genovese singer of the 30s and 40s who introduced swing to Italy] or Quartetto Cetra [Italian jazz vocal group from the 1940s]. What about Domenico Modugno [Italian singer from that same era]? Who even writes songs like that anymore?
ME: What about a favorite TV show?
NONNO FRANCO: (clearly considering this question). I like Lascia o Raddoppia [in English, it means Let go or Double. It’s from the late fifties, considered to be the Italian equivalent of The $64,000 Question].
ME: Were you ever a Berlusconi supporter?
NONNO FRANCO: Berlusconi? Porca Miseria. Why would I vote for somebody like that? He’s an undisciplined, womanizing louse. They’re all crooks. It’s not like the old days when you knew who you were voting for.
When the Americans came at the end of World War II, they brought us chocolate, oranges, new shoes, even cigarettes. Lucky Strikes [he pronounces it loo-key stryk]. Maybe Berlusconi should do that.
ME: Do you attend church?
(Benedetta enters the room carrying a crocheted lap blanket for her father.)
BENEDETTA: Church? The last time I took Papà to church, he fell asleep and started snoring. Before that, he stumbled and said, “Porco Dio!” [a terrible blaspheme that means “Pig God”] loud enough for everyone to hear.
NONNO FRANCO: When I go to church, I get a pain in my side.
BENEDETTA: (scowling.) First, it’s febbre [fever]. Always febbre. He thinks the church is too humid and cold. Then it’s “Non mi sento bene” [I don’t feel well].
NONNO FRANCO: (leaning in to whisper.) The priest is un vecchio bavoso [literally, someone who froths at the mouth]. He is a lech and needs to be defrocked.
BENEDETTA: This, coming from a man who has a poster of Gina Lollobrigida on his wall.
NONNO FRANCO: (smiles.) Gina. Now, that’s a woman.
ME: What do you think of Kim Kardashian?
NONNO FRANCO: Who?
ME: (brings up a photo of actor Anne Hathaway on my phone.) What do you think of her?
NONNO FRANCO: (gives me a pained look.) Why do you show me a picture of a man dressed in woman’s clothing?
ME: Tell me, have you ever been to Milan?
NONNO FRANCO: I don’t trust the Milanese.
ME: How about the Neapolitans?
NONNO FRANCO: I was there once during the war. They stole my wallet.
ME: Have you traveled to any foreign countries?
NONNO FRANCO: (shrugs.) Where can you go once you’ve been to Rome?
(Nonna Franco’s granddaughter, Gina, enters the house. She rolls her eyes when she sees Nonno Franco holding court, and then goes inside her room and closes the door.)
BENEDETTA: We took him to Porta di Roma last week [a mall in Rome]. There’s a store, Lush, do you know it? And what do you think he said?
NONNO FRANCO: I said it stank like a whorehouse. I hate this mall. Ten thousand square meters, and not one butcher?
ME: One last question, Nonno Franco. What do you think of the women today?
NONNO FRANCO: Zoccole! [literally, it means clogs, as in anyone can wear them. Figuratively, it means loose women] They go with this boy, and then that boy. Who knows how many boys? Maybe they should stick with just one boy and get married. My Benedetta was married. He ran off with a Romanian woman.
ME: Before we go, is there anything you would like to ask me?
NONNO FRANCO: Why do Americans drink cocktails? Why would anybody want to drink something you can’t make on a farm?
ME: (grinning.) Thank you, Nonno Franco. When I have an answer to that, I’ll let you know.
Do you have a Nonno Franco in your life? If so, I’d love to hear! Please leave your comments below.
Never really knew any. But if I keep working on it I might become one.
That was totally delightlful!! my ex-wife's grandmother and Nonno Franco would have gotten along famously, depite her coming from Austria and him from Italy. She and my father in-law would sing bawdy songs at Friday night dinner (generally after several, few, lots of glasses of wine), and then when we'd ask her what the song was about, she'd reply, "Ach! It cannot be translated..."
By the way, who came up withe Italian version of the Manhattan Transfer? Or maybe that should be the other way round.