Food & Wine Archives - Page 7 of 13

Take a ten minute trip to Italy

We went to Cortona to book our tickets for an evening of wine tasting and an open air concert. A very sweet lady conspiratorially whispered to us that the tickets are much cheaper on the night, and that only imbecilic foreigners pay the full price. Also found a lovely hat shop there (do they exist anywhere other than Italy?) and am considering buying a fine Borselina hat. It certainly looks splendid, but appears to cost more than the suit I got married in

Our friends Mel and Soren are from London. They just got back from two weeks in our place in Italy. Soren is such a good writer and Mel is a shutterbug with a great eye. They entertained us no end with their Letters from Italy. We asked them if we could share their photos and written email notes of their trip to Panicale. It was a trip to see it through their eyes.

There are photos all through their notes here and, at the end, a slide show/mini-movie that captures the spirit of this visit. And, stay tuned, a future blog will be their Notes from Home.

See you in Italy,

Stew Vreeland

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IN THE BEGINNING
Hi Midge and Stew,

Happy to pass on greetings to your friends in town, in our basic (but rapidly improving) Italian! Soren has just had his first trip to the barbers – the shave of a lifetime! Only had a couple of days here, but we love it already! We are going to the market tomorrow, and looking forward to doing some cooking, and eating on your terrace.

Thanks once again,

Mel and Soren

the beans of italy, taste of Umbrian fall

DAY THREE

The weather is glorious, but we did have one of those month’s rain in hour storms as we were driving back from Perugia – I actually quite enjoyed the drama of the lightning and the roads awash with equal amounts of rain, leaves and branches. It certainly was Biano who gave me my close shave (you draw him well) and I am impatiently waiting for my stubble to grow to the length required for a return visit, and when I do, I shall pass on your greetings.

All is good here. One small uncertainty: where do we find the glass door that leads us to washing machine? I think we are rather timid explorers and don’t want to trespass on your neighbours’ land, but the position of the glass door is beginning to be discussed in the same terms as one might talk of a fantastical door in a Tolkien novel. We are well stocked with clothes (I should know I carried the suitcase), but we will probably need to get laundering at some point.

Thanks again for the opportunity of getting to know this wonderful part of Italy, right now it’s Prosecco Time at Bar Gallo,

Soren

DAY FOUR

Don’t worry about our comfort – we are absolutely loving your place. Last night we sat and ate, and the view across the lake was stunning -stripes of amazing colors rose in a perfect spectrum above the lake. We just sat and stared, and then sat and stared some more.

Last night was the first time I have cooked. We went to the market and I saw those amazing borlotti beans. Mel wanted some to photograph and I wanted some to cook so they were bought in ample quantity. Having loaded the bag the lady at the market wandered her nimble fingers over a few other trays so that the bag now contained some celery, some carrots, parsley, onion and basil – it was as if she knew I wanted to make a fresh bean soup. I made ribollita, and the fact that everything tastes better on holiday acknowledged, I was pretty happy with results. Mel loved the beans – she couldn’t believe the beans were as pretty as the pods – like ivory marbles with flecks of burgundy, brick, earth and terracotta.

a fine Italian Hat

Our day will consist of the following:

1. Armed with your instructions, a search for the glass door
2. My first go at cooking with umbricelli pasta
3. Cortona hat shop (I’m sure Mel is encouraging my eye-wateringly expensive hat purchase so that she can say “you remember that time you spent two weeks wages on a hat? Well I’ve just found …
4. Wine tasting in Cortona
5. Open air classical concert

How can we ever return to work?

Thanks again,

Soren

DAY FIVE

The door has been found! Mel was getting a little anxious because she was down to her last twelve clean tops, but now the disaster that such a diminished range of options has been averted, all is well.

Mel is slowly finding her feet as far as the camera is concerned, and is looking forward to uploading pictures when she gets back – we decided against bringing the computer after the usual 50 weeks a year I spend as a Mac widow, so we’ll be sure to share upon our return.

The Hat.
I decided against the grand purchase, in favour of two less expensive models. One, a fine linen cap and the other a fine summer hat, favoured by men of experience in Italy. The shop attendant assured me that this style of hat was favoured by either very young men or very old – I decided to take that as a compliment, but he may have meant it as an insult! That said, the fine Borselina hat may well still be purchased; making that my first grown-up hat would have been a bit like buying a Rolls Royce as a first car. The two that I have purchased may be important stepping stones.
cafe society, italian style, life in the piazza with a cup of cappucchino

The Concert.
As advised, we managed to pay 15 Euros each, rather than 75, by bowling up at the last minute. The setting was amazing, and hearing the fight of the Montagues and the Capulets from Rachmaninov’s Romeo & Juliet in such a charming square made it all the more special. One slight disappointment was the assembled crowd’s muted response to the finale – I was expecting an uninhibited expression of latin euphoria, but alas, I turned around to see a crowd made up almost entirely of restrained Brits quietly clapping their appreciation. Never mind.

The Trattoria.
Salsicce. What does that come with? For a long while I have complained of London’s restaurants obsession with novelty and experiment. I have been I frequent victim of a bungling chef with a huge ego, attempting to offer an exciting new take on more conventional combinations: liver in lager; prawns in jam etc. Italy and itàs fine trattoria offer me the perfect antidote. Choose Salsicce and what do you get? Two perfect grilled sausages. Pair them with some lovely stewed beans and you have exactly the sort of meal I live for!

DAY SIX

I will fill out some of my observations and get Mel to illustrate them with some pics (she unpacked the tripod last night and was talking about buying an easel – a sure sign she is finding her feet). We can get them to you when we get back, and be assured that Mel and I will really enjoy doing it.

There is quite a tale tell from our wine tasting. The “expert” was not shy with his own measures and unwittingly offered a lovely study in the progressive (or should that be regressive) stages of inebriation. I will get that down on paper soon – I will never forget the moment he took of his sunglasses to reveal two of the hardest drink eyes I have seen in years – priceless.

Off to the barber’s now (where Biano will receive your salutations), and then off to Montepulciano.

shave and a haircut. two bits or three bits of italy

DAY SEVEN

All good here. Started on some blog material (wish I had brought mac now!) will send it for your perusal when I get back. We have jazz in the piazza tomorrow and have decided that I can’t do without a fine Borselina hat, so a trip to Cortona hat shop tomorrow. Love Panicale. last night the bottega shop door jammed (the one fifty yards from you – what lovely people, and what an amazing range of tasty foods in that tiny shop) and it was a fantastic scene of multiple advisors and a series of men Arthur and Excalibur style trying to open it. Much advice and a series of failed attempts followed. I know it is a bit of a cliche, but it was a classic example of italians having a noisy agreement i.e nods of agreement accompanied by shouts of discord. Quite like the phrase two italians having a noisy agreement. Is it mine, or have I borrowed it? Can’t remember.

Couple of questions. Is there a food market you would recommend i.e lots of stalls selling food rather than underwear. i think we haven’t cracked that one yet. Also, haven’t had a pizza yet. where would you recommend – happy to travel for a real top-notch one.

Hope these mails aren’t a nuisance, and please don’t feel obliged to reply to them.

Loving it here, and dreading the prospect of next Thursday.

DAY NINE

THE hat will be purchased.

Had a great night in Panicale last night. A jazz night, courtesy of Aldo, featuring Hot Club Aurora filled the piazza. The whole town seemed to have turned out and it was an amazing atmosphere – swing, blues, ragtime, mambo … (clearly, a very versatile outfit). I loved the way the pretty fountain and its steps formed an impromptu stage. We got there in good time and Mel photographed with real application. I fear her intake of Ammaretti Di Sarrono may have led to some rather abstract photography, but she seemed to have got some great shots.

I have got into a happy habit of spending the afternoon in the shade filling up a school child’s jotter bought at Panicale’s bazaar. I think we could have a bit of sport where I describe one of the town’s characters and you can see if they ring any bells. I think the first portrait will have to be of someone Mel has dubbed “Lady Scratchcard” who at an established hour exits the bazaar with a train of lottery cards as tall as her and seats herself at Bar Gallo and starts scratching and revealing symbols that seem to mean either outrageous wealth or absolute penury. A small circle of intimates hover around mouthing consolations and congratulations as appropriate – a wonderful bit of theatre to accompany a glass of Prosecco.

italian landscapes

Went to Citta Della Pieve yesterday and really liked it. Bought some amazing pasta (was it really that cheap?) and cooked it up as soon as we got back. Needless to say it was delightful. Also found a great butcher there with astonoishingly good prosciutto and salsicce, only then to return to see that the local butcher had a little hand-written sign announcing “oggi porchetta”. Well seeing as it was only available oggi I had to. Again, amazing. We might still be novices as to the region’s churches, but we have shown real application in our study of its food and wine.

Savouring every moment here, thanks again,

FOURTEENTH AND FINAL DAY

After a wonderful two weeks in Panicale, sadly our time is coming to an end, and we’re starting to prepare ourselves for London life. We’re looking forward to a final evening meal at Masolino’s tonight. Soren has also arranged for his final shave with Fabiano, early on Thursday morning, and we hope to enjoy our last Panicale capuccino and cornetto at Bar Gallo before setting off for Rome Ciampino. We have had a fantastic time, so thank you SO much! We have pictures and copy, should you like to use them on your blog (good shots of the barber’s, who was pleased to show us a print-out of your blog on the Panicale barbers experience!). We’ll send them to you when we get back to London.

Stew’s note: Enjoy the Mel and Soren Slide Show of late summer in Italy. And watch for their next entry based on their notes from back in Jolly Olde England.

September in The City

Another thing we did not know was that the New York Times is not as easy to find as I expected. I think I could have found it easier in Gray, Maine or Panicale, Italy than in New York City’s financial district on a Saturday.

having fung wah yet? bus to nyc from boston NYC, New York – Sure. Blame it on the kids. Why not. Our first choice on travel would likely be kids in Italy with us. Second choice quickly becomes kids or Italy. With one in New York City, one in London and one headed for college at our alma mater of Northwestern in Chicago, it shouldn’t be too surprising that we can’t get to Italy as often as we want. But we are equal opportunity when it comes to where we can enjoy each others’ company. Can’t be in the place you love, love the place you’re in?

So, look out NYC. We found a holiday on the calendar and took the Fung Wah Chinese bus to see son Zak. Are we having Fung Wah yet? I don’t know. These buses are half the price of say, Grayhound, so if you are going Boston/New York, it is a good value. But we’re spoiled bus brats. The only truly good bus is the Concord Trailways paradise-on-wheels bus. We take those Maine to Boston constantly. Anything else cannot compare. So we pout a bit on anything else. Please Concord get a bus to NYC.

But we did like our hotel. We are such slow learners and it is such a big city. Zak has lived there for years and has tried to save us from ourselves. But no. We think of New York and we think Times Square. And stay there. He’d say “Mmmm, why?” And neither of us are 100% interested in staying where he lives in the wilds of Brooklyn. But he keeps saying “Stay down at the tip of the island, near Battery Park and Ground Zero. Financial district.” Having done it, I would have to say I would recommend that.

WHAT I DID NOT KNOW ABOUT THE CITY

And trust me, this list could be miles long, these are just tips of the iceberg floating by on on my sea of ignorance about New York City.

world trade center ground zero from the millenium hotel The first thing I did not realize is that Ground Zero is very finite. Very concentrated. Almost completely confined to one square block. Huge impact on the city and the world but incredibly the damage was mostly to those two gigantic towers. Our hotel, The Millenium Hilton is all glass and our room looks straight down into the hole. Which is just on the other side of a normal street. On the opposite side of the blast site is the all-glass atrium building full of palm trees, etc., and then the harbor beyond that.

To see an example of just how contained and concentrated the damage was, we had only to look beside our hotel. Right next door is a colonial church. And eerily, a colonial graveyard with old stones and ancient trees. George Washington prayed here. So they say. This is across the street from Ground Zero, this historic church over 200 years old. They lost one tree to the blasts. Not a single pane of its ancient glass broken was broken. Seems incredible, hard to comprehend.

SEND US YOUR TIRED, YOUR WEARY, YOUR HUDDLED MASSES

From our window, as I said, you could look straight down into the hole left by the tragedy. And wonder how massive buildings could just evaporate. People, desks, iron girders, paper, staplers, water coolers, vent pipes. All gone.

And then we could look to our left and see the Statue of Liberty welcoming the world to this very place. It took being there in person to see the proximity of welcome to disaster and be reeled over by that.

NEW YORK TIMES INDEED

Another thing we did not know was that the New York Times is not as easy to find as I expected. I think I could have found it easier in Gray, Maine or Panicale, Italy than in New York’s financial district on a Saturday. Pretty much missing in action. Why they would not have had it outside our door or at least in the gift shop/newsstand in the lobby I do not know. But overall, we did like the Millenium. No, strangely for once I am not misspelling something. I can’t tell the difference, but our two kids are all particular about spelling and to have this hotel’s branded name one letter off in big letters on a big building made their teeth itch a bit. And it made it tricky to find, because there are plenty of “correctly” spelled hotels by this name. But this is the one that is right here where we wanted to be.

Not having the paper close to hand gave me a chance to wander aimlessly in a pre-caffine haze through the area and eventually get my bearings. Parks, fountains, delis, newsstands, good stuff. Starbucks every few feet and one of them eventually coughed up a paper so I could go back to the room and wait for the kids to wake up and come in from Brooklyn and find us.

brew district of the financial district of new york city LETS TALK ABOUT BIG FUN IN THE BIG APPLE

The first night we were in town we spent in the Brew District of the Financial District. Hopefully all these young beergarden brokers had handled all your finances before they hit the beer tents. Acres of beer under tents on old cobbled streets. I guess it has always been this way. Our son says our Dutch ancestors all had breweries and taverns in this part of town, and he showed us where they would have been located. Some were pubs today. We had to sit and sample their wares, as you can imagine. Just to be historically correct, I think was our rationale at the time.

So, the next day, there we were. Wandering around Soho looking, not for a paper this time, but for a place to eat. We had to keep our strength up to go see a play on Broadway later. Tourists. You can plan on them wanting to eat out and see a show. We had tickets to see Ave Q, which is a highly twisted musical version of the Muppets that should not be played to the preschool crowd. It was fun and we got tickets that day by phone.
around Soho in new york city on a sunny saturday in september 2007
Oh, too many places to chose from. Let’s just go, I don’t know, over there! The place on the corner with Brazilian flags hanging from all sides named Félix. Just like the hurricane that by the same name that was, unbeknownst to us, getting ready to sweep in. We heard about that in the cab radio on our way back to the hotel after the show. We sat down by the wide-open-to-the-world full-length doors and just drank it in. Midge pointed at the menu and said “Brazilian, my foot.” Sure enough, it says Félix in big letters on the menu and just under that in the mice type it says “French Bistro.” Huh. And look at that. The menu is in all French. Walks like a duck, quacks like a duck. OK, it must be French. Has to be a story there somewhere. With soccer on the tube over the bar and France and Brazil usually natural enemies atop the ranking (both lorded over by Italy, finally) I can’t imagine the connection. Regardless, it is a party looking for a place to happen. On this link about the Félix you will find good pictures and one irate who panned the place. Wasn’t French enough for him. Oh, my. And the review is from 2005. Pay not a bit of attention to that. Did he SEE the Brazilian flags? Chee. We were bowled over. Fun, fast, fabulous. We ate like darned kings and people-watching was a royal treat too. The lank, white-shirted waiters with tiny pony tails, say, you know, they do sort of look French. Except, so polite, so engaging and fast like snakes, here came our drinks. Then our food. They look all slinky and languid but they were taking good care of us and got us in and out to our show in plenty of time. I could have skipped the show and hung here all night. So easily amused, n’est-ce pas? But what about that silver-maned owner looking guy by the door? Velvet white and gray paisley pants. Loose white peasant blouse shirt. That is a look I could so not pull off, but he is one happy camper. And what about the very tan and very blonde fortish fox in white halter dress made of clingy what, tshirt material? That’s right, the one looking for someone to samba with up by the bar? I LOVE this place. The food is righteous. We had four picky eaters including two hyper-picky vegetarians just raving. Ok, allow that we are from out of town, but then factor back in that we have eaten in Italy enough to have some idea of what good food is.
taxi yellow taxi streets of new york city
There is laughing going on, hugging, dancing, double kissing. Meets my definition of happy bar. Oh, it just got better. We’re always car-spotting wherever we go and now the big candy apple red 1961 Caddy that we’ve seen cruising around town all day has just slid into the primo parking spot right out front. The top is down. Cool guy in shorts, pretty pregnant girl, white white haired older guy all get out and lean up against the car and accept compliments on their fine ride. And later, they amble in at various times. They look like regulars and like everyone else here, when they come in, they look around, grin, and find someone to hug with one hand and find a glass of wine in their other hand. It’s just a love fest in Soho. Who says you can’t buy happiness?

See you in Italy,

Stew Vreeland

A day in Italy. Dinner and a show in Florence(continued from previous blog)

We came early (7:30. Early on Italian Standard Time) and it was a bit like being at a symphony hall watching the musicians setting up, getting instruments organized and tuned. The laughing happy people blessed with reservations keep trickling in. Which, with the door really being shut and locked, is a bit of a trick.

Part four. No rest for the restaurant goers.

FLORENCE, Italy – On your feet, walkers. Museum walking done, we do shopping walking and then head off to “the bad side of town.” Here we find our Aussie friends to have a far better grasp of Florence than the two locals we have met so far. Midge thought the part of town was questionable, but all I saw were businessmen in suits, gentle old people holding each other up, people pushing, not drugs but baby carriages.

dinner in florence, italy. The street where we find this unique Italian restaurant is not really even what I would call a street. It is more of a tiny tunnel connecting two streets. The restaurant and its sister sandwich shop are the middle two stores of the four stores that make up their entire “street.” Hey. Door’s locked. Lights are on. People are inside. We’re not. But here comes a demure, deferential waiter. He opens the door about oh, three inches and lets out part of a nose and one eyebrow to ask if we have a reservation. And adds, “se, no . . .” We get the drift, we know the drill, yes, yes we are Mr. Stuardo. He blanches a bit, probably dazzled by my Italian (humor), and says they only have a reservation for an Eduardo. Ok, sure, fine, that’s me too if it gets me fed. “Yeah, that’s him, I talked to him on the phone” says a rough sand paper voice from behind the waiter. Oh, there he is. Face is twice as tough as the tough voice. A reformed boxer? Rough shaved head, classic four o’clock shadow, widely gaped teeth. It would be off-putting but for the mischievous eye twinkle and half grin. Which is good. We’ve pretty much got to be friends here. This place is small and packed already. No chairs. They were surely considered and rejected in favor of small, rattan topped square, backless stools. And those are packed in here with hardly any space between them.

Now that we’ve broken in here, we thread our way past an old red metal Coke cooler, an even older wooden madia (an Italian standard, sort of a large, freestanding bread box), crates of dark purple artichokes, and baskets of Tuscany’s best looking porchini mushrooms. These were all where an aisle really should rightly be – so it is really crowded. Stepping over and around obstacles like this brings us to a tiny balcony two steps above the main level. Wrought iron railing, our table and three other dinky tables complete the entire “balcony.”
plates of fine tuscan food. florence, italy
We came early (7:30. Early on Italian Standard Time) and it was a bit like being at a symphony hall watching the musicians setting up, getting instruments organized and tuned. The laughing happy people blessed with reservations keep trickling in. Which, with the door really being shut and locked, is a bit of a trick. Everyone gets the same quiz we got. No reservation? No entry to the kingdom. Consolation prize is that sometimes the door watcher fights their way back to the counter and grabs a business card and passes it though the narrow opening, with a polite, non-judgmental, Try Again. Maybe Next Time. With Reservations.

A quietly elegant black man, in sport coat and turtle neck comes in and stands calmly by the counter. Doesn’t say a word. And is instantly poured a glass of wine. Brandy? Then he becomes for a while the designated doorman, vetting the hopeful and hungry applicants. It’s futile for the hopeful applicants to ask. Every tiny table either has a name on it or someone already sitting there. Midge looked at me, looked at the man, and cut her glance to an old photo on the wall. A younger version of him and the rough character that let us in. Arms around each other, posed, smiling out at us from the black and white world of some long past event. Wine finished, the volunteer doorman nods, waves goodbye and a huggy young couple takes his place by the counter, drinking wine and eating the house rolls, sort of a biscuit-like thing. They do door detail now. And dozens are turned away. One couple, by the grace of god, got in because a person with a reservation had not shown up. Of course those late people showed up as soon as the fill-in people had been seated. And now there really isn’t anyplace even to stand, let alone an aisle for the waiter to work. But he and the owner seemed to have a real zen way about them and took the chaos in stride even though you could hardly move or hear orders being given.

dinner in tuscany, and music too. The food is great and plentiful. And random. We didn’t order either of the first two courses. One was hot salted focaccia drizzled with fresh, green olive oil. The next course to arrive unbidden was a huge plate o’ meat. All sweet treats served under balsamic. I told the waiter they were great and all but I was worried that we had eaten what we had not ordered. Was this meant for some other table? Note, Concerned Citizen Stew reported this AFTER he gobbled it all up. “No, no” the angelic waiter smiled. “It was a surprise for you.” Thank you very much.

Funky place. White marble walls and big hooks in the ceiling. Meat curing? Local torture chamber? Be easy to hose down at night for sure. But the austere aspects of the cold hard white marble were off set by old radios, beat up old guitars, and I can’t remember what all because the people-watching was just too insanely interesting. I’d stay tuned to this channel round the clock if they had a remote cam. Ooop. There goes the chef. He’s just a blurr. He’s a burnished mahogany, shaved head kind of guy who knows half the people here and has a word and a wave and a wink for each of them but never breaks his stride coming zipping in or zipping back out. High theater plus good eats makes this a big big favorite with me. I say to Midge several times I feel like I am in a stage production and have a tiny part in it. Can you see it in the credits: “Annoying Tourist No.7”?

THE SHOW MUST GO ON

Look at some the other characters in this Italian movie. We’re seeing their act at just the next table. I’m so trying to act like I’m not Totally Into It. The man there, you remember the lucky duck who scored the only non-reservation seat of the night? Ok. He is holding forth on who knows what subject. I can hear him and hear parse out that it seems to be Italian but it is just noisy enough to not be able to pick up the drift of it. His lady friend has that long-suffering, furitive hang-dog look about her and never gets two words in between his constant, modulated, unhurried but never-ending, flowing like a river of words, monologue. She’s dark and moody. He’s youngish (40?) but with a silver lamb’s wool head of shaggy hair. And patently clueless. He has an open book in his hand. Here? Yes, here. And he is making eye contact with the girl and talking all the time. I can hear enough to know it’s Italian but not enough to tell if he is reading it out loud, but he looks at it every now and then. And never stops moving his lips. Oh, oh, what’s this? Still talking but now it’s to the hurried but infinitely patient single waiter for this circus. Wool Head is pointing at his bottle of wine. And pouring the waiter some in a spare glass on their table. The more patient than average waiter swirls it, he smells it. He drinks. He thinks. Drinks again. Both hands on the edge of their table, leaning into it in a thoughtful, engaged way. Says not a word. If ever there was going to be a cartoon balloon over a guy’s head it would be this guy, now. And it would be saying “Buddy. We let you in. You scored this aces corner table. You’ve drunk 2/3 of the bottle. It’s wine. This ain’t The Ritz Carlton.” He shrugs, leaves. A few minutes later he is back with a bottle they are all touching reverently and wide eyed. He insists they take it and keep the other one too. Does killing with kindness ever really kill? Would that it could?

Ok, ok, it is crowded and more crowded and we’re going to do something helpful. And leave. The show must go on, and we hate to go, but it’s the right thing to do. I mean the food was great, but it’s gone. Plates are shiny clean where minutes ago artichoke on pasta was sitting. The porchini on chicken plate looks the same. We give up our table and take the few steps to cash out. There is absolutely no space to move here. And yet, somehow, there is now an old accordianist playing away. Music to pay by. The bill, with wine, is 65 euros. They already threw in two courses and, unasked, the waiter rounds it down to a nice round 60 with a raised eyebrow sort of “is that ok?” look. For dinner and a show? You bet. We unlock the door and let ourselves back out into the real world. Someone inside flips the key and now we are on the outside looking in. Was that real? Must have been. Don’t think I could have made all of that up. Here’s an attempt at a mini movie to prove we were there. And help us stretch the moment out and relive it from afar.

Good night, Florence. Lets do this again sometime.

See you in Italy,

Stew Vreeland

A day in Italy. A story in several parts. And in several parts of Italy.

I cleaned madly and ceremonially closed one set of shutters after the others, and as a final act of love, I talked to the mason about a wall that needs fixing. See, house? We do care, even though we are leaving you here by yourself. Then it is off to the piazza for coffee and hugs goodbye, “tante cose belle!” and we are Siena bound.

cuppa Joe, Simone? coffee at bar gallo, panicale, italy PANICALE, SIENA, FLORENCE – Or, as we say: Breakfast/Lunch/Dinner.

Part one. Breakfast in Panicale.

Today really is the proverbial Movable Feast. Lovely, busy, interesting day. Slightly on the maudlin side to start with because the trip had wound down to these final moments. But, onward and upward, there are many fun things to do today. I cleaned madly and ceremonially closed one set of shutters after the others, and as a final act of love, I talked to the mason about a wall that needs fixing. See, house? We do care, even though we are leaving you here by yourself. Then it is off to the piazza for coffee and hugs goodbye, “tante cose belle!” and we are Siena bound.


Part two. Lunch in Siena.

Pulling into Spannocchia, I see Midge in the midst of a sundrenched tableau. Sitting on a stone bench, her back to a warm stone wall, her friend Gail beside here, other friends left and right, a big shaggy white dog dozing at their feet. I hated to break the spell.

But what the heck.

It was lunch time.

We filled our plates in the kitchen and moved this Magic Moment to the veranda in front of the main villa and just let the sun wash over us. Cukes freshly cut from their vines lying in the warm Tuscan dirt that morning, plus fennel also from the garden and pieces of oranges made up the salad. And see the pasta in red sauce in the photo? Not at all. It’s just not pasta. It is eggs, if you can imagine, cooked like a thin omelet and cut in strips. What will these people think of next? Well, that was all swell but we have places to go and yet more food to eat. And plus, it is time to go. Midge and the Spannocchia board have been to so many meetings they must be getting punchy. Over lunch the conversation turned to cats. Not a good sign in the best of times. And that turned to the potential of cat-a-pults as a way of effecting population control. Everyone slaphappy, we pack and exit stage left.

Pulling out we take a minute to see if we can get into a restaurant in Florence we heard about when we were olive-picking. It is Saturday and some Australian friends said it was great, but tiny and reservations were sort of mandatory. Ok. We’re in. They are expecting a “Mr Stuardo” at seven thirty. That’s me. Stuardo T. Vreeland. And we’ll do that story in an upcoming blog. Stay tuned to this channel for Part Three and Part Four in this Day in the Life series.

Pressing Engagements in Italy

PACIANO, Umbria, Italy– It is a gorgeous day in Paciano as the road winds its way up past il Casale Restaurant toward the frantoio. The olive mill. Manicured green, green stair-step terraces of silver-leafed olives shimmer in the sun and look for all the world like they were done by Disney. Can’t be real. Have to take my word for it. Mouth open. Camera closed. I missed the photo op but lived the moment.

at the olive press The view from the hilltop frantoio was resort quality. Lake in distance, Cortona beyond that, very romantic. Inside the mill everything was all business, all chrome and spankyclean, industrial blue, high-tech-looking Italian olive oil pressing machines. You can wax as poetic as you want to. But basically, your hard fought olives go in here and the oil comes out there. In your polished metal can at the other end of the system. I came, I saw, I got it. Fine, ok, lets eat. As best as I can tell, anything potentially interesting is happening inside those machines and they’ll tell you all about it if you ask. People were asking. The answers sounded like machine noise to me. And heck, I’ll take their word for it about how it all happens. My attention wavered in oh, about ten minutes.

Did someone say lunch? NOW, I’m focused.

Steve’s hosting the post pressing party, an Italian tradition, so he’s got a reason to bail out of Machine World and I jump in with him. To help. Well, I offered. He says we’re “Having soup”. Yes, yes we are. Military sized caldrons of it. Plus grilled sausages. And salads. And grilled Italian focaccia sandwiches. And we are so not considering the lunching officially started until the other pressing buddies have triumphantly entered with repurposed wine bottles full of the cloudy green, minutes-old olive oil to drizzle over hot hot wedges of grilled and garlic rubbed bread. Even as we eat Steve keeps slicing and dicing and seasoning and stirring things bubbling, sizzling in various shiny pots. And bringing yet more food to the table. Where is he getting all this? You know the clowns spilling out of the tiny car at the circus? That is Steve with his spotless galley kitchen. Party time Italian Style
Maybe the spotless galley thing is why I didn’t get pressed into asst chef role so much. I was allowed to carry things to the table. Like cheese. How much could I hurt cheese. Did I mention Cheese? Well, I should have because we were covered up with cheese. And bread in loafs and sticks and circles and one loaf is white tuscan bread and the next is dark and heavy and, and its stacked up and down the table next to plates of nibbles and snacks and bottles of wines and we keep eating and passing and passing and eating and OH NO it is FIVE PM and yet, we continue to keep LUNCHING . . . Is that my phone ringing? Is it my stomach calling in a Stop Order? No, no, it is happy Peter and Sarah who have just landed. They’ve flown in from Maine to see the progress on their home’s renovation. And . . . can I go to dinner with them? Dinner? Like, with food? Tonight? At Eight! Dear God in Heaven! Is this Lemoncello I’m drinking while I’m distractedly talking to them on the phone? Am I in the early stages of a food coma? What! Does Steve really have a pan of Tiramisu in each hand and a bottle of champagne under each arm?

Must leave, must leave now. Every man for himself. Maleducato Stew is backpedaling urgently away from the table. With some waves, and hugs of congrats on the raccolta to the proud Mini Oil Barons of Panicale, he’s done and gone. Wave bye bye to Baked Stuffed Stew.

Andrea and Umbrian Truffles
A couple hours later – hours, mind you – the wheel has turned another revolution. Peter and Sarah’s stay here is beginning. And mine is ending. Ending just as it started. With Andrea shaving white truffles over home made pasta at Masolino’s. How I worked up even a morsel of an appetite in a couple hours I do not know. Go home, Stew. Go now. Pack. Close up your soon to be lonely with out you house. Tell it Goodnight. For now. Because even in leaving, I’m thinking about the next trip. And the next time we get to say . . .

See you in Italy

Stew