The Food Gods

The Food Gods, like most gods, work in mysterious ways. Sometimes, just when you think they hate you, the bestow upon you a great blessing. But man, does one have to pay for it!

Yesterday was a beautiful Saturday, and Jeremy and I decided we wanted to take our friend Erik's advice to take a bus to a little town south of Florence called Panzano, eat lunch, walk to the next, slightly bigger town, Greve in Chianti, and then take the bus back home to Florence. I looked up all the pertinent bus information on Google, packed absolutely nothing, wore a t-shirt and very light windbreaker, and off we set. Except, being us, we had overslept and got a late start. We were still trying to figure out if we had the right bus stop when the bus we wanted blew past us, not stopping because we weren't flagging it down. We took the next bus, over an hour later, only to discover that it required a transfer that took another 40 minutes. We didn't make it into Panzano until past two.

One of the reasons for going to Panzano is that it is the home of Dario Cecchini, the celebrity butcher of Tuscany. I wanted to have lunch at his restaurant, but somehow, we missed it. How did we miss it, in such a tiny town? One possibility is that we found his other restaurant, the one not open for lunch, and didn't realize there was another place. I think it is more likely that the food gods obscured our vision. You see, they had a plan for us. We had a perfectly satisfactory meal at a different restaurant that had the most spectacular view and garden, and then headed off to explore the town. There wasn't much to explore, as it has basically three streets.

While we were walking toward the town's church, we passed this beckoning boar's head. When I stopped to take this picture, a very smiley man in a strange hat came outside and tempted us into his wine-tasting establishment, where he proceeded to have us taste no less than fourteen wines and one reduced, unfermented grape juice. He was chatty, and the wine was good, and we drank and chatted and drank and bought a whole bunch more wine than we probably needed to, and then we drank and chatted some more. Notice the gleam in his eye. Clearly, this was no normal mortal, but a Satyr in disguise, sent to distract us. In fact, I think this was the final test of the food gods, to see if we were willing to sacrifice our plans and our comfort for the pleasures of the table.

Either he did his job well or we passed the test. By the time we left the shop, we had already missed the last bus, although we weren't going to realize that for another two hours. The card at the bus stop said there was one more bus, so we waited. And waited. The sun went down. The wind picked up. I started to become hypothermic. Jeremy gallantly gave me his coat, and then he started to become hypothermic. Thirty minutes after the bus was supposed to have come, we finally went into the town's bar, where the very nice men who spoke no English explained that there was no late bus on this Saturday, although neither Jeremy or I could figure out why. No one seemed to think it was a festival day -- just that some Saturdays, there is a late bus and some there aren't. We thought about walking the rather narrow and now dark road to Greve, thinking it was a larger town and therefore would be easier to catch a bus there, but we were told there were no more buses from Greve either. Plus, I was severely underdressed for such an undertaking. We had no alternative but to spend the night and take one of the two buses that run on Sunday.

I can't say I was happy by this turn of events. I didn't have contact solution or my glasses with me, so I didn't know what I was going to do to be able to see the next day. We didn't have toothbrushes or a change of underwear. I didn't much fancy staying in some random, budget accommodation. I was put out with myself for not having planned and prepared better, and I was disappointed that we were wasting an entire weekend on this rather lackluster excursion. Mostly, however, I was cold, and anything that would get me inside and warm as fine by me. Jeremy was amazing through all this, single-handedly keeping me from having even a little meltdown with his unflagging good spirit, his unshakeable confidence that everything was going to be fine, and his decisive action to make sure that everything was, in fact, fine. Plus, when he needs to use it, his Italian is pretty darn good.

There are no hotels in Panzano, but there are two bed and breakfasts. The exceedingly nice man at the bar called the cheaper of the two for us, and the even nicer owner, Mario, actually walked to the bar to escort us to his place. On the way there, we passed the famous butcher shop, and he asked if we wanted to have dinner there. Well, sure! But the butcher shop restaurant was full. How about at his other restaurant? Other restaurant? Why not? He went to the kitchen door -- the smells were amazing -- and basically begged the women there to make room for us. I should say that Mario is almost a caricature of a small town Italian man. He is tall, bald, mustachioed, with a big booming voice and the presence of a much younger man. He talks constantly, makes jokes, laughs at them, and pours his wine freely. Everyone in Panzano (which does not seem to be a large number of people) knows Mario, and he stops and talks with everyone. Jeremy and I are absolutely convinced that we would never have gotten a seat without Mario. In fact, we are pretty sure the place had been full for a while, and that he convinced them to add a few extra chairs just for us. The negotiations with the kitchen staff involved air kisses and arm waving and eventual smiles all around, and us having an eight pm reservation. I love Mario.

Solociccia. The name means "only meat," ciccia being a tuscan slang term for meat. In the rest of Italy, it means the part of the body we call love handles. I have never eaten in a restaurant like Solociccia. I have never eaten food like I ate at Solociccia. There is no ordering. There are no individual tables. You sit down at a large, communal table already stocked with red wine, water, and house made soprasseta, bowls of focaccia and other bowls with large pieces of raw vegetables. Our table was filled with young, good looking Italians from nearby (and one very well behaved dog named Bernie).  The space, apparently, is an old farmhouse, but the decor is clean and modern.

The meal began with one of our tablemates explaining that we should use the bowls to mix together a salt and spice compound with olive oil and maybe vinegar, and use that as a dip for our vegetables. Our main waitress/hostess/guide -- the very same woman Mario had schmoozed in the kitchen to get us our reservation -- brought us stainless carafes of delicious, rich brodo. She explained (in Italian, of course), that one should not dip one's soprasseta in the brodo. "What are we, Americans?" she said. Did I mention that this lovely woman had blue hair? See for yourself. I, too, once had blue hair. Coincidence, or the evidence of the food gods at work?

After we had time to savor the brodo, the platters started to come fast and furious. There was crostini with a spicy shredded beef topping, and a butcher's fritto misto, with little slices of some unmentionable part of the cow battered and deep fried and mixed in with the onion rings, deep fried sage leaves, and Jeremy's favorite from Venice: polpetti. No potato in these babies, however! There was a disturbing sounding dish called ramerino in culo (rosemary up the ass), that turned out to be a tartar, ever so lightly browned on the exterior but still raw and cool on the inside, skewered with a sprig of rosemary.

And then the kitchen rolled up their sleeves. No more fooling around with bite-sized this and clever that. Now was time for meat. Thick slices of beautifully pink roast, with at least a half inch of fat and a crispy edge. Boiled beef with vegetable salad. Umidi -- braised beef. The beans were an under seasoned afterthought, something thrown in to make the nutritionists happy (although, even those, when mixed with the meat juices from the roast . . . ). It was a symphony of beef, and exploration in the different flavors of beefiness.

For me, the revelation was the boiled beef with vegetable salad. Before this trip, I would have bet money that I would never like boiled beef. Beef, I thought, requires a good browning to bring out its flavor. The bolita (boiled beef) sandwich at Nerbone started to change my mind, and this salad finished the process. It really couldn't not have been more basic: boiled beef, some cut with lots of fat and connective tissue, cooked down to perfect tenderness, with a huge mouth feel from the gelatin. That is served, warm, with cold, raw julienned carrots, celery, and red onion. The only dressing, I believe, was the meat juices. The fat from the meat floated the flavors of the vegetables, so that the sweetness of the carrots, the spice of the onion, the greenness of the celery sang and lingered like I had never tasted a vegetable before. Jeremy preferred the Umida, bravely cooked well past where any self-respecting chef would have stopped, cooked down almost to porridge. It was soft and tender, and there was a deep, resonating taste of fond throbbing in the background.

The meal ended with a barely sweet olive oil cake, coffee (the one thing I skipped) really good house grappa, and Cordiale (a whiskey-like digestivo that reminded me of bourbon), and, dare I admit it? a cigarette bummed from the rather drunk ragazzi outside the restaurant, who invited us to a party and wanted to talk very earnestly about Hurricane Katrina and the American culture of fear. Did I mention how good the grappa was? Strong, and burning, but with a lovely undertone of raisin and wine.

The meal was better than the sum of its many, many parts. Somehow, that restaurant has managed to manufacture that rare, mystical experience that eating, at its best, can ascend towards. There was food, and more food, and then more food, each teaching my palate something or taking it somewhere different and new. There was conversation. There was a keen sense of pacing, with lulls for reflection but never a chance to be bored. The food was sumptuous without being overwhelming, abundant without tipping into excess. It was all simple, but prepared in the true Italian tradition, from the best ingredients with time-consuming or just time-honored techniques for maximizing their intrinsic flavors. It was an apotheosis, although of what, I'm not sure. This is what the food gods had in mind for us all day, and I will be forever grateful for their acolyte.

We staggered the fortunately few steps back to our slightly spartan bed and breakfast room, and tried to fall asleep. It took me hours, because I was buzzing from the wine, the food, the day's adventures, even a little nervousness about our ability to make it back to Florence the next day. Plus, I really, really wanted to brush my teeth.

My concern was for naught. We woke up in plenty of time this morning, had a coffee at the bar, where our friends from the night before double checked the bus schedule for us for the fifteenth time. Mario walked down with us, so we were immediately part of the gang. Our waitress from the night before was buying coffee in front of us. We browsed the very small market, and then, right on schedule, the bus to Florence pulled up and dropped us off, nearly on our doorstep, barely an hour later, tired and smelly but also fat and happy. I'm still not sure if this experience was a confidence booster, that we can roll with travel mishaps, or a confidence killer, leaving us more nervous about heading out next time. I just know that I am incredibly happy that everything happened the way it did.

Intermediate Italian

I cannot learn Italian -- at least, it seems hopeless that I would ever achieve anything even approaching fluency. I can read fairly comfortably (assuming I have a good dictionary beside me), but launching into a conversation and being able to keep up? Never. However, on this trip, I have progressed past the very basics that I have had in the past. I can ask questions and often understand answers. I have mastered the all important deictics: I would like one of these, or, could I try on that over there? When people ask me follow up questions, I don't have the impulse to drop what is in my hands and flee.

You may be getting the picture that I am fearless neither in my social nor my speaking skills. You would be right about that. That fact has, in the past, kept me from sampling some of the simpler joys of Italian cuisine. O sure, I  mastered "Potrei assaggiare?" (May I have a taste?) before I stepped foot in this country. I mean, some things are basic. But, the idea of going into a bakery, asking them if they make sandwiches (they all do, by the way), asking what kind of meat and cheese they have as options, negotiating the eighty-five different varieties of bread, was so daunting that I had only two kinds of sandwiches in my past trips: ones I made myself, and pre-made ones I could order via pointing and grunting. Oh, to think of those lost opportunities! I grieve for those uneaten sandwiches!

Sandwiches here are great. In a country of great cured meats and amazing cheeses, what else would you expect? They tend to be extremely simple: some sort of roll, one kind of salty pork, sometimes cheese, sometimes tomato, rarely both at the same time. Many bars make piles of sandwiches in the morning, and they sit in the case until someone points at them. I am a fan of any country that considers a ready and immediately accessible supply of proscuitto and scarmoza sandwiches a necessity. Almost directly under our apartment is a little bar called Baldobar (it's associated with Baldovino). They have these delicious mini-sandwiches that one can get just as a snack. I'm telling you, my life will be considerably emptier when the snack sandwich is not nearby. Baldobar calls this size sandwich a mignette, but that seems far to French, so Jeremy and I call them paninini.

Such sandwiches are good, sure, but you have no doubt already spotted the weak point of this system. Slicing bread and then having it sit out for hours is not good for the bread. It's not great for the salami or anything else, either, but the real problem is the bread. Plus, you are at the whim of whatever kind of bread they have decided to put your preferred swine flesh on. For really good, fresh sandwiches, one must brave the local panificio (bakery). Once inside, one must order a sandwich -- and here is the tricky part -- usually without help of a menu, or indeed any indication that they have either ability or desire to make a sandwich. One must identify bread, meat, cheese, accompaniments. One must even explain how big a sandwich one wants. It's all a little intimidating, but oh so worth it!

Our favorite panificio is, conveniently enough, on the walk home from school, which I take right about lunch time, so I hit it enough that the guy knows me. It's called Panificio Brunori, and it is right next to La Giostra on Borgo Pinti. They seem to specialize in schiaccia, a foccacia-like bread baked in enormous sheets. It is salty and crusty, with a dimpled surface filled with olive oil, and a chewy interior. There is, at lunch time, always a massive line, which is why I went in there the first time. I figured the line would take so long I would be able to figure out what was happening by the time I reached the counter. They cut the bread to the size you want (I often tell them I want a big sandwich, for my boyfriend, but then eat the big one myself), then go into a magical back room where they slice the meat you have ordered. I have settled on porchetta and arugula as my sandwich of choice. It's not the usual porchetta, which is hot and sliced thickly. This stuff has already completely cooled, and he slices it salami thin, which means the ample cold fat, which would be really gross any other way, acts like the fat in salami, melting immediately in your mouth to create a lovely, rich mouthfeel. Sometimes the bread is still warm. Sometimes he puts a little very thick balsamic on the arugula. Always, it is just sublime.

And now that I have mastered the panificio for sandwiches, the next step -- cookie ordering -- was a piece of cake, so to speak. The problem with cookie ordering is two-fold: 1) there is no way to know the name of the infinite number of cookie varieties. The thing is, Italians don't know the name of them all either, so everyone just points. 2) cookies are sold by the kilo here, and who knows what a kilo of cookies looks like? Again, the answer is embarrassingly simple. Just say how many cookies you want. I want six. Of those. No, those other ones. What was I nervous about?

For cookies, we like the bakery in Sant'Ambrogio market. They have these sandwich cookies that begin with a buttery sugar cookie shell, filled with apricot jam, and then partially dipped in very dark chocolate. The darkness of the chocolate is the key, because its bitterness offsets the otherwise too sweet jam. I was skeptical about the partial dipping, being fairly sure I would prefer full chocolate coverage. I was wrong -- the partial dip allows a good chocolate-apricot-cookie ratio, as long as one isn't so greedy as to eat all the chocolate side first. In other words, there is some chocolate management that has to occur. But, that is a small price to pay for cookie heaven.