I will never forget what Jean Alesi said to me shortly after the 1997 Canadian GP, in which Fisichella’s third-placed Jordan had finished just 0.654sec behind Alesi’s second-placed Benetton: “I tell you, Giancarlo was brilliant today. Fantastic. I honestly think he’s better than Michael. Honestly, in terms of natural talent, he’s better. In parc ferme I saw that his rear Goodyears had massive blisters. Really terrible blisters. Giancarlo and I were running close together during the race, and I could see that his car was all over the place. But, having seen those tyres, I think the way he managed to control his car, in spite of those incredible blisters, was simply amazing.”

Fisichella did not get his hands on a top-tier F1 car until 2005. By that time he had raced for Minardi, Jordan, Benetton, Jordan again and Sauber, bagging nine podium finishes in addition to his win at Interlagos in 2003, many of which had flattered cars that were either bad or mediocre but never truly good. Moreover, Button was not the only team-mate whose performances he had outclassed. He beat them all. Between 1997, his first full season in F1, and 2004, he was a brilliant driver of deficient cars, and the sad result was that over that period he acquired what I call shitbox syndrome.

Shitbox syndrome? Yes, over time, some drivers become extremely good at hustling poor cars to improbable grid slots and even jaw-droppingly impressive points finishes; but put them in cars that are capable of winning races and they sometimes disappoint. Or, to put it another way, if you were to saddle such a driver with a car that was good enough for P14, he might surprise you with P9. But if you were to give him a car that was good enough for P1, P3 might be all he could deliver.

We saw exactly that during Fisichella’s time at Renault. When he arrived at the then super-competitive Enstone team in 2005, he started perfectly, with a pole and a win first time out in Melbourne, but that admittedly fine victory flattered to deceive, for he never won again all season, whereas his team-mate Alonso won seven grands prix and the drivers’ world championship. The following year, 2006, Giancarlo also started well, with a pole and a win second time out in Sepang. But, just as in 2005, he never won again, whereas Fernando ended the year with another seven wins and another drivers’ world championship. Yes, Alonso was and is a mighty driver, but still the discrepancy between them was a surprise.

Fisichella relied on his natural finesse – more Ronnie Peterson than Emerson Fittipaldi, more Jean Alesi than Gerhard Berger. Like Peterson and Alesi – and others whose talent was also immense but mercurial – Giancarlo could sometimes drive mesmerisingly well. Here is an example. For Thursday qualifying at Monaco in 2003, which session decided the running order for Saturday’s all-important single-lap quali shoot-out, I stationed myself near the Louis Chiron statue so as to watch the drivers tackle part one of the Swimming Pool complex. Soon I was joined by two journalists who know how many beans make five – Peter Windsor and Mark Hughes. Visibly fastest was Michael Schumacher, who posted a stunning 1min 16.305sec lap in his Ferrari F2003-GA. Also impressive were Jenson Button, third in a BAR 005, and Jarno Trulli, fourth in a Renault R23. But when Fisichella’s Jordan EJ13 – yes, a veritable shitbox – catapulted into view, the deftness with which he stroked it through that formidable left-right combo, a couple of inches or so from the armco at entry, apex and exit, no more than five degrees of beautifully controlled oppo applied first one way then the other, took our collective breath away. We turned, looked at one another, and, grinning, gave the thumbs-up sign. As we walked back to the paddock after the session, I remember Peter shaking his head and saying, “What a waste of a driver.” When we checked the time sheets we discovered that he was P7: a fantastic achievement in that car.

Although Fisichella was gifted enough to be an F1 world champion, his kind of ability is not always sufficient. Did he lack the necessary killer instinct? Maybe he did. I hate what I am going to write next, but it is possibly true: perhaps he was too nice. I remember having dinner with him in Collingwood, Melbourne, in 2001, and in Granollers, Barcelona, in 2004. Both occasions were friendly and fun. In Collingwood he introduced me to Tignanello, a sumptuous Super Tuscan that he described as “the Pope’s wine”, and in Granollers we shared a bottle of Priorat, made in Catalonia, which has also since become one of my favourite reds. Yes, they were expensive wines, and, yes, he was a prosperous man, but nothing in his manner would have revealed to anyone at other tables, who did not know that he was an F1 star, that he was rich or even famous. He was, and is, remarkably normal.

“Lest we forget: Fisichella came from humble origins”

In 2006, in the Melbourne paddock, I bumped into him and asked: “Could I please interview you at Imola [which was the next race]?” He replied, “No, come and interview me at home in Rome on the Wednesday before. We’ll have more time then. We can have lunch.” Believe me, even back then, it was extremely rare for an F1 star to invite an F1 journalist to a meal at his home. But it happened – and what I found when I arrived at Giancarlo’s and his wife Luna’s plush but not too plush house in Castel dei Ceveri, a smart but not too smart suburb of northern Rome, made me surer than ever that Fisico, as his mates call him, was – and is – a lovely man.

Let us not forget: he came from very humble origins. His father was a garage mechanic. So joining us for lunch were his pals, who were builders or plumbers or taxi drivers or indeed unemployed. I remember Chico, Pietro, and Cesare, who were all happy to be chummy with this British interloper who spoke no Italian. “Cesare has been a mate of mine since we were nine years old,” said Giancarlo. “He built the pizza oven in my garden.” And pizza, cooked by Fisico, is what we ate, together, singing AS Roma songs, at a big table in his garden, which was littered with his kids’ toys – bikes, trikes, pedal cars, trampolines, slides, swings, and wendy houses – around which loped a rabbit and a donkey. “My kids’ pets,” our host explained, perhaps unnecessarily.

You want to know what kind of pizza he cooked us, don’t you? You may rest assured that no pineapples were harmed in the making of them. “I like to cook fast, and keep the flavours changing,” he said, warming to his task. “Maybe I start with a basic one – you know, tomatoes and mozzarella – but then I’ll do one with good Parma ham, then a spicy one with lots of garlic, then a cool one with zucchini flowers.” They were all delish.