Cintra Wilson Visits Beretta

I’ll Take the Shiny One With Bang!
It was panting-hot the day I shopped for guns, so I ran into Nello, a sidewalk cafe on Madison, for a bottle of sparkling water. The thick cylinder of glass gave me an inkling I was about to get soaked, but even preclenched, I was unprepared for the bill to be $18.
Ordinarily I would flip the safety off my silver tongue and give the maître d’ a new air vent, but it stopped me cold. I wasn’t even appalled; I was tranquilized. Like a disastrous ticket from parking unawares in a handicapped Pope-only zone, this unwanted extravagance was a twist so novel as to be more a source of awe than upset; an existential dimension shift. I was forced to relocate myself on my inner GPS and to re-evaluate my entire contextual landscape in light of $18 bottles of water.
The Italian firm Fabbrica d’Armi P. Beretta S.p.A., or simply Beretta, has been run by the Beretta family ever since Bartolomeo Beretta began making hand-hammered muskets for the doge of Venice in the mid-1500s.
Although Beretta was granted another contract to provide M9 pistols to the United States military earlier this year, the company caters primarily to hunters. Wars come and go; the Berettas learned this lesson when orders from Napoleon’s army dried up after Waterloo.
Fetishists and Italians alike nurture a cultural tendency to idolize objects by making them ever more baroque. The Beretta store is an ornate, sentimental shrine devoted to the hunting-lodge aesthetic and the sport of shooting things. One step inside, dirty looks from the glass eyes of a riot of taxidermy tell you that you just lost all your friends at PETA.
His and Hers safari khakis and grouse-hunting tweeds reside on the first floor, as do Hapsburg linen suits and offerings from the Susanne von Dörmberg Country Classics line of pricey German tweeds (jacket, $975) — very Queen Elizabeth when worn with Wellingtons, an Hermès scarf and corgis. A hallowed display case contains Ernest Hemingway’s actual S03, the weapon he used for duck hunting in Venice and around Finca Vigía, his retreat in Cuba.
Hemingway is clearly Beretta’s man-god, the embodiment of the Beretta mystique. In thrall to the image of this hero of letters and adventure, Beretta provides all the equipment a would-be Hemingway needs. Zebra throw pillows ($350) go with zebra-hide ottomans ($6,500). Horned matter from a variety of beasts decorates pewter beer steins and magnifying glasses ($75). A leather Game Book records Shoot, Guns, Bag and Remarks ($185). For the man who hates ostriches, there are wallets, as well as large eggs on an ornamental chrome stand ($250).
Perusing the silverware and cocktail tumblers, I asked if Beretta had a bridal registry. The counterwoman was so nonplussed I was tempted to ask where they kept the weapons of feminine protection.
On the second floor there is small gallery of framed limited-edition paintings, such as “Devoted,” a tribute in oils to the dewy-eyed obedience of the noble Labrador retriever ($895); a grouse-hunting scene is also available for your home or hotel wall. The American Waterfowlers line on the second floor is distinctly butch: Indiana Jones hats, lots of Gore-Tex and leather straps.
On third floor: racks of rifles and shotguns (the store does not sell handguns on the premises), alongside black-and-white photos of handsome markswomen with dead cheetahs, and a photo of George H. W. Bush loading an SO6 EELL (Extra Extra Luxo Luxo) with members of the Masai.
“So, how do I buy a gun?” I asked Beretta’s affable master gunsmith, Ed Anderson. I was fantasizing about an Xtrema2, Max-4-camo-print 12-gauge to match my Xtrema Gear Decoy Gloves and Gear Bib with 18-inch overboot cover flange and high-back kidney warmers.
“For a rifle or shotgun, you’d have to go down to Kew Gardens, Queens, and get a permit.”
“What about a regular handgun?”
“You’d have to get a permit at One Police Plaza. Do you drive?”
To my dismay, I learned that even with a permit, one can’t take one’s rifle on the subway. Good news for the staff at Nello.
Mr. Anderson was a font of expertise and cautionary tales for the skeet shooter: “She was a very smart woman, a lawyer! I said, ‘Hey, you might not want to lay your gun down like that.’ She says, ‘But it’s only a target load.’ ”
He rolled his eyes — my cue to cluck my tongue.
“A target load will liquefy anything within range! I said: ‘Listen, the priest who died did exactly the same thing you just did. He shot himself in the ankle. He died because they couldn’t put the tourniquet on his leg fast enough and he bled to death.’ ”
Mr. Anderson opened a display case and showed me an obscenely terrific $130,000 shotgun with enough minute currency-style engraving to have previously belonged to Sir Walter Raleigh. Killing clay pigeons with quarter-million-dollar guns is apparently all the rage these days.
“All the guys on the front of the business pages are in shotgun clubs that cost $100,000 just to walk in the door,” Mr. Anderson explained. Enviable shooting is largely determined by the free time you can afford to devote to it, and customizations like the carving down of the walnut butt to minimize impact on your face during kickback.
It is a strange romance of conspicuous consumption that Beretta indulges, but rich guys apparently love dressing up like Ernest Hemingway and shooting things just as much as little girls love to wear tutus and dance around like prima ballerinas.
A champion marksman I know said he can shoot just fine with a $1,000 gun, but that’s beside the point. That $18 bottle of water hydrated me more than I ever thought possible. All about living the dream.

Via Bookofjoe