The choco pass

The choco pass is a booklet with vouchers for free chocolate! Yes, I have died and gone to heaven. On the back page of it is a kind of treasure map with numbers marking the spot of where the sugary brown dubloons are located. So like a woman possessed, or one who forgets she has a room full of clothes that no longer fit her, I am off on a mission. Like the holy grail, choco pass seems to contain magic powers that curiously cure me of my map dyselxia. Drooling like a bloodhound about to do what it was born to do, I am hot on the trail of every chocolate shop in town.

I enter the first one with a certain amount of English reserve and embarassment at asking for something for nothing. I delve into my bag and bring out the choco pass. The woman who works surrounded by chocolate but has hip bones you could slice ham on, looks at me with a a derisory ‘oh god not another cheapskate’ but as the keeper of the gateway to chocolate she knows what to do and reaches behind her for a little clear cellophane bag of freebies. With a perfectly manicured hand she reaches for my booklet and tears out the voucher. Outside I do not hesitate to sample what I have bagged and it goes down a treat. From here on in I am hooked, first blood has been drawn and I am no longer the new kid on the choco pass block . After only a cursory glance at the map the directions are firmly fixed in my mind with photographic accuracy and with sugar rush superpower strength I push my way through crowds to my next destination. Metres from the next shop I flick to the right page in the booklet and in one fluid motion without slowing up I rip out the voucher with my bare teeth . I enter the shop at a gallop , choco pass held aloft like the olympic torch, ‘choco pass , choco pass’ I shout, in my best Godfatheresque accent. I am at the counter and the trade is made. Success and onto the next one.

After all this excitement I stop for a slice of mushroom pizza and then make my way past the Egyptian museum. It is a lovely three story terra cotta brick coloured building. My couch surfing host Sergio is a big fan of this and every night whilst he tears creammy mozarella on to a plate for me asks if I have been to it yet. I turn my back to hide the hundred weight of empty gold foil wrappers I empty from my bag into his kitchen bin and say I haven’t had time yet.

Am I the only person that didn't know that the word FIAT stands for Fabbrica Italiana Automobili Torino ? Anway it does, which means that Torino is the home to the Fiat factory. This is usually the kind of detail that would interest The Beard and have me yawning, but is actually interesting to little me for two reasons. One , it is no longer a car factory but a fabulous shopping centre - the second one being that it was here they filmed part of The Italian Job the original one where they ‘only meant to blow the bloody doors off’. I get the bus to what is now called The Lingotto building. I am day dreaming about being cast as an extra in the next version of this film and so miss the stop, by several miles.

Because of a particularly long section of one way system and because I am basically incompetent I spend the next hour getting on and off buses going in various directions. Eventually I arrive at The Lingotto and enter at the south side. It is a pretty unremarkable shopping centre, until I get to the other end and ‘the north ramp’. This is a corkscrew curl of road winding its way up to the 8th floor. Wide enough for 2 minis or puntos or pandas side by side, it is of course now pedestrianised although no one else was on it and most people use the lift to pass between floors.

I walk up to the top , imagining the roar of car engines, stacks of stolen cash in my pockets and angry carabinieri on my tail. It's a bit of an anti climax to find at the top it is all closed off and I can't see the track. I feel a bit cheated and go in search of ice cream. I get side tracked by a sign for entry to the private collection of the Agnelli family which I read somewhere is housed on top of the building. I ride in an elevator that unlike the others I tried takes me up to the. No one stops me although there are a few people around. It's not my fault I'm a helplessly lost.

It is pretty cool with big banking ramps at either end. Many years ago I owned an ancient dark blue Fiat Panda and it is sweet to think of it starting life racing it's little heart out round here , the sun on it's bonnet and cypress tress in it's rear view mirror.

Next I head over to a new venue called "Eataly" it is the kind of appallingly cheesey name you expect to find on a pizza restaurant in Florida, but this is a seriously serious food hall. Inside are the wealthy of Torino, it is like the Harrods foodhall, but all the food is grown on the hills around us not shipped. When I look a the prices I wonder if I am mistaken and it was flown here by supersonic jet. A kilogramme of dried pasta is nearly 10 euros, the price of the fresh pasta would make you faint. I spy a tin of tomatoes labelled ‘miracoli de Gennaro’ at nearly 3 euros a tin. Even if it the miracle was that it made you live forever you couldn't afford to feed yourself for that long at that price.There is a tiny tin of ‘Octopus, potatoes and peas’ at 7 euros.

It's fun looking though, it's like an indoor market and no doubt everything is top quality. My limited baggage weight prevents me from taking a tin of tomatoes to try but I do have lunch here. There are wooden bars with stools to sit on all along the walls. It is divided into sections depending on what you want to eat . There is Pasta , formaggio , contorni , and le verdure, which is my my spot. Courtesy of the man next to me who has in front of him the loveliest looking plate of food I've ever seen, I also get lasagne al pesto. Baskets of delicious bread and unlimited bottles of water get replaced on the bar as they empty. It is delicious and a very friendly place to eat.

If you are serious about ‘slow food’ and want to sample the best of what Italy has to offer it is a trip worth making. I am going back on Saturday for my last Italian supper before I head back to England . I am calling it ‘investment eating’.