We sipped our first espresso of the day, surrounded by a clutch of red uniformed, oil stained engineers, high voltage electricians and beautifully tanned, needle sharp upholsterers, taking mid-morning caffe e panini. In the background there was an omnipresent, spine-tingling yowl of screaming V8’s filling the Modenese air as an endless stream of blood red Ferrari’s coursed through the tifosi-lined streets of Maranello. La Dolce Vita, indeed.

It was the Saturday before the final championship deciding round of the 1996 Formula One Grand Prix season and with my two brothers we had just arrived in town, road-weary, sleepless and hungry disciples at the holy grail of Grand Prix racing and womb of priceless Grand Tourers. Traditionally, the factory would celebrate the season finale by erecting a vast screen at an appropriate location in the town in order for their flock to revel, indulge and reminisce. That final, title clinching race was the Japanese Grand Prix and was due to be broadcast live at around 5am on Sunday, so time was on our side as we planned and anticipated our indulgences.

The shops, bars and restaurants tempted us with trinkets, tat and treasures. Beautiful people ventured out from their villas and teased us, piercing our eardrums and satisfying our souls with popping exhausts and pretty girls. We wandered the galleries and exhibitions, spent money we didn’t have and dissolved ourselves into a frenzy of high performance hedonism at this highest of high altars. Then, we thought about lunch. And conveniently enough, just opposite the hallowed gates guarding the earth-tone red factory buildings on Via Abetone Inferiore, is the renowned Ristorante Cavallino.

Cavallino Rampante

Although recently refurbished into a genuinely world-class eatery by arguably the greatest chef alive today, it was back then a more humble affair, albeit humble in a very relevant and classically Italian way. A large emblem of the Prancing Horse adorned the wall at the ominously forbidding entrance, where a stern and incredibly handsome concierge granted access to pre-booked, designer clad guests. We three dishevelled and naive young barbarians from the northern lands stood bravely before this most elegant of men and attempted to talk our way in. “A table for three please” my brother voiced in his perfectly toned west country accent and with a cheeky confidence borne of ignorant youth. The concierge dismissed us with nothing more than an experienced and well crafted, yet subtley informative smile.

Our plainly obvious Englishness disguises the fact that we are actually, half Italian – our mother is from a small town just outside Venice. And as a result, I have managed to craft together a mash-up of the Venetian language mixed in with some colourfully vulgar Milanese dialect and a few Italianesque words of my own invention. So, for our second attempt, I tentatively step forward and attempt to convince the Rudy Valentino look-a-like that we are worthy, well behaved, and the 50,000 lire note in my hand is easily and willingly transferable. I’m not entirely sure how my attempt at basic Italian translated, but fifty grand is fifty grand in any language and by the grace of the racing gods, we were in. There was a condition attached to our admission though, we were afforded one hour only, and for one course only. No problem.

It was a rather epiphinous moment for the three of us, sat amongst the chosen few and surrounded by framed images of historic victories, artisanal race cars and the colourful characters of days long gone. We pondered who before us had sat at these chairs and eaten from these plates. Immortal racing drivers demonstrating perfect lines, the most talented of designers and engineers drafting sketches on napkins and cigarette packs, businessmen and intrepid entrepreneurs striking lucrative deals. The rich, the famous and the beautiful. Movie stars, rock stars and fallen stars. All have graced this ethereal dining room, irresistibly drawn by the vision and passion of one great man. We humbly reach for the menu.

Ristorante Cavallino

Richy chose Vitello Saltinbocca, succulently soft and milky white, jump-in-the-mouth veal topped with prosciutto crudo, a sage leaf and sautéed in butter. Dean opted for the Risotto Zafferano, unctuous Vialone Nano carefully and soulfully teased into earthy life with strands of golden saffron and served all’ onda. I couldn’t resist the Gnocchi Ripieni, perfectly round balls of incredibly thin and soft potato pasta filled with a truffle paste and bathed in a surprisingly light porcini and Grana cream sauce. I clearly remember how beautifully made they were, as precisely engineered as the bearing sets being crafted and ground in the factory opposite. In our naivety and youthfully misplaced wisdom, we stupidly ignored the obligatory Lambrusco and soaked up a Chianti for our chosen lubrication – we live and learn.

The room was heady, it tingled and buzzed with a special kind of calmly chaotic energy. History seeped from the walls and saturated us. Various plates of white polenta, osso buco, bistecca fiorentina, fish and all kinds of pasta were elegantly dispatched to diners nonchalantly waving forks and wine glasses around as they operatically shared mythical tales of speed, fortune and failure. Italian madness at it’s very finest.

As we left the restaurant, the beautifully tailored concierge approached, he’d kept a keen eye on us and recognised how much we’d enjoyed and appreciated our time there, he flashed his exquisite smile one more time, reached out to shake my hand and with a wink, palmed my 50,000 lire back to me. Another great man, another expert at his craft.

By the next morning we had a new – and British – world champion, the Scuderia were about to enter the most successful era of their modern history and we had been blessed with the good fortune to have experienced an incredible lunch amongst the spirits and ghosts of a glorious past, rampant stallions and, of course, the beautiful ones.