Everyday life in Italy is made up of a
patchwork of experiences, each patch enriching the whole in its own unique way.
What follows is a true story of one weekend in April. I had been in Florence
covering a fashion event for Women’s Wear Daily and instead of heading back to
Milan on Friday, I opted to visit friends who live just outside of Lucca. It's
a simple story of regular life in Italy.
CAPANNORI, Tuscany - It's a late Friday afternoon in April when
the big blue Lazzi bus pulls into the old walled city of Lucca and stops.
Through the bus window I see Ray leaning up against his car, waiting for me. He
waves. Making his way through the crowd of middle aged signoras and
backpack toting students who shared the hour long bus ride with me from
Florence, he pulls my bag from the belly of the bus and puts it in the
car.
Piazza Anfiteatro, Lucca, Italy |
"Nice to see you kiddo," he says as he puts the car in
gear and circles Piazza Verdi. He drives through Porta Santa Anna, and once
outside the city wall he heads home. He tells me we have lunch reservations
tomorrow at a country restaurant that specializes in truffles. "You do
like truffles?" he asks. I nod. Twenty minutes later we are driving
up the bumpy unpaved road that leads to the 300 year old farmhouse where Ray,
and his wife Sandy, live.
The next morning Sandy and I take our coffee out to the garden. We
duck under the tight bunches of acid green grapes and sit down at an old marble
topped table under the grape arbor. The morning air is filled with
the sweet scent of flowers and fat bumblebees who must think they
have died and gone to heaven. But the tranquility of the morning is broken by
the unrelenting howl coming from the dogs penned up in the backyard of a villa
directly across the shallow valley formed by the soft Tuscan hills.
Putting her hand to her forehead Sandy sighs and says the barking
drives her nuts. And the worst part, she says, is that there doesn't seem to be
a solution. The owner turns a deaf ear to their complaints and the local
authorities say their only recourse is to get a lawyer and sue the dog owner.
But given the speed of the Italian justice system, they'll all be in nursing
homes, dogs included, before the case is heard, she says. She wishes one of the
neighbors would go over and talk to him, maybe the message would be more
effective if delivered without an accent. With that she stands and says
we'd better get dressed as Ray will be coming in soon.
Ray has been up for hours. He is busy pruning the 170 gnarly olive
trees that grow behind their house. It takes about 45 minutes to an hour to
prune each tree and he is behind schedule. I don’t understand why, but pruning
serves to encourage the trees to produce more fruit, and according to Ray, if
he doesn’t get it done in time there won’t be enough olives to bother making
olive oil. That would be a shame.
By mid-morning Ray has had his fill of tree pruning and we are
soon on the road heading south toward the FiPiLi (FeePeeLee) the
Firenze-Pisa-Livorno highway. We are in the Lower Arno Valley, halfway between
Florence and Pisa. The countryside here is lush and green, the fields
systematically marked off by rows of trees, a practice developed by the Romans.
Many of the towns we pass are built over the ruins of old Etruscan and Roman
colonies and you can almost feel the essence of all those thousands of years of
civilizations past hanging in the air.
Bientina, Italy |
The next thing I know we are in a town
called Bientina and Ray is looking for a place to park the car. Sandy and I
head for the closest bar for a second breakfast while Ray heads in the opposite
direction mumbling something about having to go to the hardware store. Just as
we are wiping cappuccino foam from under our noses, he rushes into the bar and
motions for us to come with him. We follow him to an antique dealer across the
piazza.
The shop Ray leads us to is stacked with rustic furniture, sturdy,
practical furniture, sawed, sanded and put together by hand. For the next
twenty minutes I stand by as Ray and Sandy talk price and appear to be
interested in a 200 year old wooden chest. Then, with a "we'll measure the
space and call you" we leave the shop and get back on the road. Direction:
San Miniato al Tedesco.
Ray takes a narrow two lane road out of town. He knows the
territory well. This is the pure heart of Tuscany, the territory of olive
farmers, wine producers and truffle merchants. About one-third of Italy's
prestigious white Tuber Magnatum truffle crop come from this area and
every November the town of San Miniato al Tedesco hosts an important
international truffle fair.
My stomach is starting to make growling noises but lunch seems to
be the last thing on Ray’s mind. Instead, like a shark on a blood trail, he
hones in on a small antique shop directly across the street from one of San
Miniato's best known landmarks, the 16th century Palazzo del Seminario.
San Minato al Tedesco |
Unlike the shop in Bientina, the furniture here is a mélange of
rural simplicity and European sophistication. The owner, Signora Bellini, tells
us she often scouts the antique markets in France, and if we don't see anything
we like she has another storeroom nearby that is full of other treasures.
Ray, who is an interior architect, circles the shop once, twice.
Then, without a word he leaps up on a dusty landing and pulls out a small table
partially hidden in a dark nook. Signora Bellini is visibly disappointed.
She tells him the table is from one of the town's government offices and isn't
very old, probably no more than a hundred years or so. No doubt visions of
dollars have been dancing in her head, listening to our American accented
Italian, and the table Ray is interested in is a small fish compared to other
pieces in the shop. Ray jumps down, brushes the dust off his slacks, and begins
turning the table this way and that.
"How much," he asks.
She hesitates. "125 euros".
"One hundred," he says.
Before she finishes nodding her head yes, he is out the door with
the table tucked under his arm. Sandy and I can hear him chortling with glee as
we head for the car, finally on our way to lunch. Apparently he’s bagged a
bargain.
La Giocanda Ristorante, La Serra, Tuscany |
The restaurant, La Giocanda, is in the tiny borgo of La
Serra, a couple of miles southeast of San Miniato and 5 miles south of the
prestigious leather tanning district of Santa Croce sull'Arno. Sandy and Ray
are regular customers and when Vittorio, the owner, sees them he greets them
with open arms. Hearing their voices, his wife Valeria pokes her head out the
kitchen door to say that she has just gotten in a fresh supply of white Marzoli
truffles. Sandy, who is somewhat of a truffle expert, tells me Marzoli are
spring truffles.
“They are not the mythical, white Tuber Magnatum that
sell for $1,500 a kilo (and up) at the annual San Miniato truffle fair,” she
says, “but delicious nonetheless.”
We sit down. I open the menu.
Within seconds Vittorio is at the table putting down bottles of
mineral water and wine. Then he begins to recite the daily specials. I look
over at Sandy, and then at Ray.
"Ravioli filled with cheese, herbs and shaved truffles",
says Sandy picking up a piece of thin, crispy Schiacciata bread.
"Gnocchi with sweet gorgonzola, butter and shaved truffles,”
says Ray.
I'm uncertain, torn between wanting what they've ordered, and
wanting something different.
"The fettucine with cream sauce and truffles is nice,” Sandy
volunteers.
Ray nods his head in agreement. They want me to make up my mind so
we can eat.
"Okay,” I say. "The fettucine it is".
Sensing my uncertainty, Vittorio comes to the rescue. He suggests
putting a bit of all three on each plate. It's a good idea. The offered tris
will also prevent us from squabbling later over who's primo was best.
More Truffles, Please |
The pastas are so exquisite we practically lick our platters
clean. Then Vittorio brings on the main course. A succulent Florentine steak
that has been seared over a wood burning grill, sliced, sprinkled with olive
oil and herbs and blanketed with a cloud of truffle shavings. And just to round
things out Valeria sends out a bowl of white Tuscan beans topped with, you
guessed it, more truffles and their own home made extra-virgin olive oil.
Desert? Mmmm, oh my, well . . . only if you insist.
As we waddle out the door, my cholesterol count on its way to the
moon, Vittorio presses two bottles of red wine into Ray's hands. "For
tomorrow", he says. And all for less than $30 a head. Satiated, I
seriously question the wisdom of my decision to live in Milan.
With the sun getting low in the sky, we start back to the
farmhouse. Ray makes one more stop, this time at Torri, a gelateria in
Lucca. Once home, we make sandwiches with the left-over steak we
doggy-bagged, and then sit out in the garden savoring spoonfuls of Torri’s
heavenly gelato, marveling at how we can still eat after our mid-day
feast at La Giocanda.
Sunday starts full of bright sunshine and after a leisurely lunch
Sandy and Ray drive me to Florence just in time to catch the late afternoon
train back to Milan. Through the train window I watch the Tuscan landscape roll
by. As we travel north the country side starts to flatten out, the hilly Tuscan
panorama diminishing with every tunnel we go through, the light fading by
degrees. All too soon we are in Bologna. Next stop, Milan.
LA GIOCONDA
Via San Regolo, 84 - La Serra
56020 - San Miniato (PI) Italia
56020 - San Miniato (PI) Italia
Tel. 0571.460318
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