The last time I had lunch with my friend Lapo Elkann, I learned a highly descriptive term in Italian, called “Burrino”. This refers to the person in the farming community that churns the butter. Once the butter is ready, the burrino, or butter maker, travels to the city to sell it. Along the way he picks up, at least in his mind, the trappings of an urbane sophisticate. So much so that when he returns to his rural roots, he feels compelled to lecture his fellow members of the agrarian class on the finer points of city dwelling. He holds forth with great self-appointed authority on the currently-in-vogue hem length, the acceptable style of waistcoat presently favored by the haute bourgeois. And, if he is a particularly gifted butter maker. If his cows are so endowed by the great goddess of fertility, Aphrodite, to have udders swollen and overflowing with a river of milk so delicious as to drive even the most discerning gourmand to tears. If his cart is so massively overladen with concupiscent bovine issue that his donkey totters perennially at the precipice of cardiovascular collapse. If he were blessed with the mad money-making, loot-slinging acumen of an army of abacus-wielding Rothschilds. Then after a particularly successful day at the market, he might return home and flip back his shirt cuff to display to his ruddy-cheeked kin-folk his ultimate trophy, his testament to impeccable taste and the unerring symbol of his ascension to the ranks of haute-monde sophistication… yes, you guessed it — his Paul Newman Daytona.