Masolino's Restaurant Archives - Page 5 of 6

WILEY GOES HALF NATIVE

Paulette’s hands guided her down memory lane to total recall moment from her childhood. In short order she remembered exactly how her Italian grandfather had taught her to make them when she was a little girl. I was glad I was there to see her uncover that moment.

As Midge and Wiley get ready to head over to Umbria, I look back on our trip last September. Stories that I had not shared here yet. Just to give you a taste of what kind of unplanned adventures a traveler could expect to have on any given fall day in Umbria. This is part one of three parts.

The Annual Grape Harvest Festival in Panicale, Umbria
DOWNTOWN, UMBRIA — We always get a big bang out of September in Panicale because that is when the Grape Havest Festival is. But that is not the only fun we had in September. Almost everyday this month, Wiley has had a nice hilltop to hilltop walk from Paciano to Panicale. I think that walk became very special to her. Good way to peacefully sort out all the system-overload from two hours of intense, private Italian lessons etc. She can, by the way, and does, seriously string sentences together in a meaningful way now. I think she is pleased as punch. She had a friend from Maine here earlier in the week. Then, a few days later, she was off to see Jenny where she was studying in Florence. They have decided that between them, if they stick together, they can cumulatively say nearly anything in Italian! Wiley made me proud when she went right up to the ticket window at the train station in Chiusi and ordered her own train tickets. Look out now.

Girls enjoying Italian Gelato in Perugia on a fall day in Umbria The other day after I dropped her off at class in the morning I got a fresh loaf of chibatta at a bakery, two crooked brick alleys away from her school, and talked to a lady weaving in her shop a few doors from that and bought some samples of the weaving. Then I was nursing a coffee and listening to the stories an American guy I know was telling me at the outdoor part of the café (yes, it appears he has had 1) one Norwegian wife and 2) two Swedes and now lives in Italy with an American wife – number 4) four. And if you think I was going to miss any part of THAT story. . . ) Anyway, deep in Scandinavian lore we were when Ms Wiley and her Professoressa Daniella strolled by us for one of their many coffees of the morning. They were just a-laughing and a-chatting up a storm from what I could see. And she could not have looked more intent when I popped in on them later in the garden back of the school. They were sitting in the Umbrian sun. The green valley stretching out in front of them all the way to the lake. All good, happy and memorable moments.

DANGER. HOT JAM ALERT

Our uphill neighbor Youngi was in the café and bought me coffee and croissant. As Wiley says ”it is not a croissant dad, this is Italy, it’s a cornetto. And a cornetto is better.” Right you are. Either way, Aldo wants to know which kind I want: créme or marmalade filled. Apricot marmalade, please. And then, after I’ve chosen, he almost won’t let me have it. He’s got it in his hand, but is holding it back, protecting me from. . . The hideous danger. That is. Hot jam. Can he cut it open? Can I make another choice? Please. He’s alarmed, Youngi is alarmed. Alarmalade Crisis? I assure them I can work my way through hot jam. And did. Yesterday, Daniella absolutely refused to warm up an egg and ham panini because it had mayo on it. I grill Grilled Cheese Sandwiches after slathering them with mayo. Have done so since doing a TV shoot about mayo in the Kraft Kitchens in Chicago. And have lived to tell the tale. Here, today, hot mayo is something out of a horror movie and not to be considered lightly.

Cars were featured in a news paper supplement that Simone, Aldo and Daniella’s son and I are looking at. And relative to that and the herd of Ferraris that have just exited the piazza we have a good car talk.Then, I filmed a bit of Biano at his barbering best and then caught a moment with the Ladies of Linda’s. All the ladies from the grocery store were having their morning coffee clutch and they drug me into the café with them. Earlier Linda’s store and the meat market were jammed to the teeth but now it is just the family and me and the video camera. I was there yesterday and got behind a lady with maybe forty coupons and ordering bedspreads with what must have been the Italian version of Green Stamps and oh my gosh I didn’t think that would ever end. What a long, strange trip that appeared to be.

in an Umbrian garden havesting lavender PAULETTE GETS OUT OF A JAM.
BETTER LIVING THROUGH CHEMISTRY.

There are cars with bows on them outside the gate. Aldo had warned me: wedding today. Busy place, just got busier. Now Dante is at the door, asking if I will meet them at Masolinos for dinner. We are celebrating that his aunt, our friend Paulette has been cured. Praise the Lord. Her doctor in California said Cipro and there was Cipro and it was Good. Some places you might need a prescription. Funniest thing. But in Italy you may get lucky and just be able to verbalize it to the Pharmacist. (Do they all smoke here? All the pharmacists?) Anyway, the pharmacist listens to her description of the medicine, takes a couple deep and meaningful drags on his cigarette, exhales thoughtfully, steps over his dog and hands her a sack of Cipro. A day later she was cured — after a week of weakness and misery. She must have been too screwed up to have thought to call her doctor or underestimated the take no prisoners attitude of the ”malatia”. Now she and Wiley are in the garden making interesting little sweet smelling, braided sculptures out of our lavender. Paulette’s hands guided her down memory lane to total recall moment from her childhood. In short order she remembered exactly how her Italian grandfather had taught her to make them when she was a little girl. I was glad I was there to see her uncover that moment.

WHAT MAKES A GOOD DAY: THE KEY INGREDIENTS

I woke up to morning bells ringing out eight times in the blue blue skies. Before waking Wiley, I started laundry and put the fig marmalade we’ve made the night before on to simmer for a couple hours. Eventually, Wiley and I made it to Aldo’s for our morning coffee. For several mornings in a row we’ve met Emma and her friend Manuela there too, just on the same general schedule.

Emma and everyone we met that morning is atwitter about the coming fireworks in Panicarola. I Fochi d’la Madonna del Busso. I don’t know how they could beat Panicale’s fireworks, during our fun Festa del’uva. Seems almost disloyal to praise another festival, doesn’t it? When viewed from a distance of a couple car lengths from where they were being set off, filled me with sufficient awe. Totally tilted me off my axis, mouth wide open and making ooooh noises as every explosion seemed to be the finale but then, no it just got wilder and bigger and louder by the minute. What a rush. And yet . . . . they say, ”that weren’t nothing, wait till you see the famous ones from Panicarola. Probably just watch them from the balcony here as Panicale looks over Panicarola.” Finally! Some people with a real fireworks tie in. A solid, logical reason for lighting off some major explosions. The story is that some local fishermen, years ago were out doing it the easy way. Easy, but typically illegal way. The way where you throw a bomb overboard, it stuns or kills everything in the vicinity and you go about scooping up what looks good to you. The local equivalent of the ever-popular ”jacking deer” with spotlights as rumored to be practiced in the wilds of Maine.

Italian fireworks festival in central Umbria BOMBS AWAY
So it seems that the ”fishermen” were really just ”mad bombers” doing this bit of illegal activity when one of their fish bombs went off a bit prematurely. In their boat. Living to tell about it seemed such a miracle, they quickly founded a church, of course, of course, and named it Our Lady of the Bomb. And now, there is a full blown festival of fireworks in honor of those original bad boys and their fireworks. Being saved from aborted criminal activity seems fairly far off the list of usual saintly miracle reasons to start a church. But, who am I to decide when to start a church?

After coffee and that quasi-religious moment, I walked over to city hall and shook hands around for a minute to remind them I’m here and to not forget about my part of town. When are we really going to repave our street? Wasn’t that supposed to be LAST fall? No pressure, just saying I saw the poster with last year’s date on it and you know, wondered. Again.

Back at the bar, one of the town’s Australians needs a doctor. He does what I do when I have a problem. Go to the bar and tell Aldo, the bar owner and head barista. Steve looks like he might have a a good case of oh, I don’t know, leprosy or something. Nice rash, Big Guy. Whew. Someone is wicked allergic to something. The whole bar votes and decides Steve needs to run off to Pronto Soccorso. Pronto.

More September soon to come. Stay tuned to this spot on your dial.

A day in the life: a Friday in Umbria

San Feliciano is Right smack on the lake. Boats tie up along the park and then there is one small street faced with one seafood restaurant after the other. We like Settimino’s there but today we are so going to sit in the park under an umbrella and watch the world go by. There is a nice stand with all kinds of food, bathrooms, and oh, my God look at the Gelati.

PANICALE, SAN FELICIANO AND BEYOND — Don’t want to waste this one sleeping so I ducked out quietly and headed to Biano the Barber’s hair cut and gossip salon. I saw him yesterday – almost finished with a client – and I said, give me two minutes. Came back and he’d given me two minutes but he’d given the chair to a guy who was positively gloating to have aced me out of the chair. I win I win. His smile seemed to be saying. So, that was yesterday. I pouted and determined to be first in line today. Now, where is that silver haired rascal?

While I’m waiting for him, I get to watch the town come to life. It is only 8 AM but it is already a hot one in the sun of the spot I’m guarding. In this corner of the piazza there is nothing but sun right now. Being Friday, there market is in town and big trucks are unfurling tent awnings off all sides and setting up racks and racks of stuff I can’t imagine buying. Tshirts and dresses, mud boots, hose clamps and flashlights. Mostly clothes related things.

There goes Andrea from the restaurant on his new new Bee Emmay Vooo. BMW to you. That is him in the photo on his restaurant balcony later in the day. A grocery truck stops in front of me and the driver loads his groceries into a tall wire rack with wheels. And then pushes it, noisily up the cobblestone street. Street is too small for his truck. Its about a block to the store. He really has to lean into it. I did that one time for our friends in the store and it is a picturesque way to break your back or bring on a heart attack. Hey, this guy is young and he does it several times. No fat on him anyway but wow what a workout.

Uh oh, big tall friendly guy in swim trunks and a tshirt is strolling my way, aimed right at Biano’s door. MY Biano’s door. the one I’m staking out. The iron gate is up and usually that means he’s open. He smiles and points at the door and says Chiuso? I shrug Sembra. Closed? Seems to be. He walks off and a couple minutes later returns with long arm draped around diminutive Biano. Am I aced out again? But no. Fabrizio (the tall guy in trunks) and I both tease Biano about being late and then we launch into the cutting of the hair. Hour minimum chair time.
Fab, as he says Americans all call him, stands right by my chair during the process and we just all have a fine chat. Wicked nice guy, low key, engaging. He leaves and Biano quickly says, Harvard MBA, third largest cement company in the world, his company, lives in Cairo, digs classic cars, has the best racing green Jag and some other fun stuff. The guy in the swim trunks? Just when you think here we are, tiny town stuck up on its hill in the middle of Umbria.

ONE GOOD CUP DESERVES ANOTHER

Had coffee once I had it twice I had it once again. totally equal opportunity coffee buyer. My second cup was at Masolino’s and I noted that all the family was there which is rare in the mornings. They’ve all been up till whatever hour closing the restaurant and here they are again. Ran home to tell Midge this is the time to give them the pancake mix. So we ran back bearing Bisquick to go with the Maine Maple Syrup we brought them last trip. What you should know and appreciate is that Italians are pretty blasé to indifferent about food if it isn’t Italian. That is my experience. They are wild and passionate about Italian food. Other foods? Not so much. Well, hey, I like Italian food too but I really need some Morroccan or Mexican or ’Merican Apple Pie every now and then too. Not Italians. Not in my experience. If momma didn’t cook it I don’t need it seems to be the song they sing.
One exception: Maple Syrup. They don’t know what the heck that is or what you are supposed to do with it but if they get a taste of it their eyes light up like Christmas. That was fun and got all kinds of cooking stories going.

COME ON PEOPLE! LETS ACT LIKE TOURISTS!
LETS EAT US SOME GELATI AND WALK US SOME
HILL TOWNS LIKE WE MEANT IT.

And then we got up from our panicale pancake round table discussion and had to really get cooking because Midge needed to see Corciano. Our friend Kiki said that if we had only seen the industrial strength shopping chaos part of Coriano we had missed something. She said the town proper is way up above the commercial sprawl and was really worth the trip. Some times we get all involved in fussing in the house or the garden and forget to be the curious tourists we should be. Resolving to be better tourist in future.

Now, it’s the usual time problem that confronts people shillyshalling about getting long haircuts and drinking too many cappuccinos and chatting on and on: too late for lunch and too early for afternoon shopping. What to do what to do.

Lets head to Corciano (lower right corner of Lake Trasimeno) but stop before that in San Feliciano for a snack to tide us over. San Feliciano is Right smack on the lake. Boats tie up along the park and then there is one small street faced with one seafood restaurant after the other. We like Settimino’s there but today we are so going to sit in the park under an umbrella and watch the world go by. There is a nice stand with all kinds of food, bathrooms, and oh, my God look at the Gelati. JeemenyWhiz! I, I, I, don’t believe that collection of swoops and mounds and ice cream flourishes in every color in the rainbow. So we munched something but our minds we clearly on the gelato prize waiting in that display case. Hugely engaging latin music playing, boats gently rocking at anchor, bikers biking, breeze rustling lightly in the leaves ok, enough of that get me an ice cream cone!

I swear I may only be partially right in remembering how they spelled my new taste treat. Agreto ? di Sicilia. All the citrus of Sicily in one. Pink grapefruit, oranges and lemons. So I had that with cantilope melon flavor. Well! I am a new and better person now. Don’t take my word for the taste or the spelling, get over there and get you some! We must have mindlessly passed the time there, just being, just hanging out for a couple hours. True happiness and hardly any expense. Quiet day in the park. And like I said, it had bathrooms. Always a plus on a tourist itinerary.

I’VE HAD THE BLUES THE REDS AND THE PINKS
Eventually we tore ourselves away and got down the road and up the hill to Corciano. Damd, that town is PINK. Wheeeow. Good pink, pale pink admittedly, but still pink. The stone in every town is a different shade. Our town is more brown. Some like Cortona are golden hued. Corciano is bunny pink. Looks good on it.

Very well kept and pleasant place. And there must be a town bounty paid on pink flowers. Every balcony and doorway was awash in pink geraniums and other fun flowers. They all clearly got the memo. Lots of neutral jasmine too. The whole town is very much of the same fabric and it works. Must have been a bit religiously zealous at some point in time as it was solid covered with churches and bell towers. Now, I’m from Iowa. Well, born in Florida. But FROM Iowa. And if we have two church steeples in town that means we have two churches. Two denominations even. You might have your Presbyterians over here and your gasp oh no you wouldn’t let your daughter marry one of those Methodists over there. Ok, but see, those are two nominally different churches.

This is Italy. Rumor has it that all the churches here have the same label. Very Catholic brand. So how in the world can I stand in one place in a town the size of a strip mall and see seven or eight bell towers? Each one attached to a church-sized and church-shaped stack of stones? Mystery to me. But sweet mystery because it is scenic as all get out. But really. Fund raising must have been a bit less userfriendly than it is today.

PIGGING OUT. UMBRIAN STYLE.
We had to leave sometime. So we did. Someone had been looking for the perfect porchetta sandwich so we remembered that on the way back out of here we wanted to go by one and we would take a photo to show them. Well, now I have the photos but don’t remember who cared. But choices? You bet. Play Pig? Or King Pig? I not sure which of them we liked best – but there were a whole lot of police cars around Re di Porchetta and more streaming in as we went by so I’m betting I would try that one first.

GETTING BACK TO THE GARDEN
Back at home we had a couple hours of pre sunset garden duty. Reading, totally distracted by the changing colors of the long lazy sunset spectacular. How many days can we just go wow, look at that color, did you see those swallows, are they extra bright colors tonight, are the swallows wilder than usual?

But today for the third day running the cherry on the ice cream cone has been the Renaissance flute music wafting, no I mean it, real wafting, over the garden. Its just too, I don’t know, wonderful? for words. It comes and goes out of lower limits of your ability to hear.

One minute very soft but clear and obviously and then it wafts away and you think Did I really hear that? And then there’s more and it is just so nice we had to go check it out at the source which isn’t all that hard as the church is only right over there, a part of a block away.

They were doing a course and some students were inside walking around the Baroque interior lost in their music and every now and then one would step out to a stone bench overlooking the lake, just outside the door, and practice a little piece for awhile and then duck back into joint the group. Even when they were all inside the door was open and we could hear them at some almost subconscious level.

CARLO AND THE CARNIVORE GRAPES OF PANICALE
Then it was to dinner at Elida and Guenter’s. Perfect way to end a perfect day. Picked up some dessert wine like the bottle that we had enjoyed together the other night at a restaurant, and strolled out to their place outside of town. Midge had been there earlier in the day. Cleaning squid? Yes, so she claimed. Here’s my rule, if Elida cooks it, I’m eating it. No questions asked, even if it is squid big enough to have eaten Capt Nemo’s cat. Elida worked over the big industrial range and the rest of us drank her wine and sat in the garden and told lies and watched the chickens pecking whatever they peck in the lawn. And then when the sun had set, we went out on their stone veranda under the grapes with little Christmas lights in them. Strangely and totally wrongly these grapes are somewhat my doing and I’m kind of proud of them in an abstract sort of way. Blind leading the blind will actually work out a certain per cent of the time you might say. This would be one of those times.

Our neighbor Carlo in Maine told me I had to plant some grapes and to raise them right I had to feed them lard. What do I know. I didn’t even want any darned grapes so I didn’t care if they choked on the lard or grew world class Vino Nobile. He kept coming over and bumming beer from me and waving his cane at me till I agreed to DO RIGHT, mind him, get grapes and don’t forget the lard. And. I have serious grapes. Thanks to lard evidently. So, a couple years ago Guenter asked me if I knew anything about grapes and I told him Yes, Lard, Yes. And he, in this land of ancient vines and ancient vintners, took my Iowa/Maine word for it and is presently covered with grapes. Lard. Who knows. So we sat under the extra healthy carnivore grapes of Panicale the Christmas lights twinkled, glasses were filled and clinked, the painted ceramic plates were passed, and we ate some darn stuffed squid. And a potato salad with fish in it. And because we cleaned our plates, we got to have a lovely semi-freddo made with another guest’s fresh apricots. The stars came out, the time went peacefully by and we walked home without saying hardly a word. We were tired little teddy bears. Passing through the gates with home in sight and the tower bells striking twelve I thought You know, I’m pretty happy to be right here right now.

A July in Umbria

When we arrived at Masolino’s on Sunday night there were a couple tables full and then ours with the tiny gold Reservato on it waiting for us. I asked our friend Andrea if it had been a busy summer for him. Over his shoulder he said ”non ti credi”. Within five or ten minutes I saw what he meant as the place filled solid including the outdoor balcony. Which was grand for everyone until the mother of all summer storms hit with wild wind wild rain lightening all at the same time. Waterfalls pouring over the awnings drove balcony dinners running into the already full restaurant with their plates in their hands and napkins flapping like speed streaks behind them.

Whew. Made it. Arrived. Just ahead of a dramatic summer squall. Dark trees in waving seas of sunflowers. Bathed in bright sun one moment and dense shade the next as white clouds traded places with black ones every few seconds. Changeable as our rental car radio. It’s a Lancetti. Well that seems properly Italian now doesn’t it? But it is a Daewoo. And the radio just comes on full blast whenever it feels like it. If I could only find the off button but it all seems to be in Braille and you know how it is when you jetlag yourself off the plane and first insert yourself back into polite society. More airline stories later.

We are so easily amused. Or another way of putting it is that small pleasures are often the best. One of our great treats in Italy is to arrive dog tired and stay awake long enough to get to Masolino’s restaurant and have the Belfico family cover us in comfort food and then go climb into blissful sleep coma and get two night’s sleep in a row almost and gently get acclimated to this time zone.

NOW ATTEMPTING RE ENTRY INTO EUROPEAN TIME ZONES

I can’t really make sense or talk the first day back so seeing houses and trying to take pictures immediately is almost counter productive so I gardened like a maniac the whole first day and got everything how it wanted it. I can garden and prune in my sleep. And sort of did I suppose.

The next two days Midge and I went around like crazy seeing houses with Katia from Citta della Pieve in the south to Cortona in the north. What a fun whirlwind and you will eventually see the results in This Just In and on the web pages. One townhouse in Cortona really rings my bell. Neither words or pictures will ever do it justice. 490,000 euros and well, just totally down town and just stupendous, classy, chic. Architect designed and finished with such good taste. And views out to Tuesday that include high lake views. Won’t tease you any more with that till I have all my photos organized.

MORE MORE PERFAVORE
(more MO ray, pear fa vore ray)

Before gardening the first day we needed artificial stimulation in the form of our morning cup or two of cappucchino our favorite caffine delivery system of choice until they invent a convenient IV drip system for home use. Good trip. Between cafe Masolino and cafe Bar Gallo (they are four doors apart) we got two dinner party offers and one was for that very night. Life is good.

Post gardening Midge did the right thing and took a siesta. I did what was right for me and went for gelato. What’s this? Looks a new flavor to me. MOray. OK, Moray. I’ll bite! And lick too. Black berry is written ”more”. I can remember a yogut in a store with the engaging headline ”piu more” which I kept wanting to translate as more more. But in reality is more blackberry.

This is my flavor du jour for the trip. Must totally be the season. I have at least one blackberry gelato a day and love each new one as much as the first one. That is Aldo at the top of the page handing one of many. Last night I completed the MOray Trifecta. Totally by accident. My favorite dessert is Stefi’s famous Panacotta. Cooked cream never tasted so good. She can do it with chocolate, with a carmel or my favorite Frutti di Bosco. Wild berries. And at this season that means more MOray. Say it with me now! MOray. MOray. And after dinner Andrea brought us complimentary after dinner drinks and asked what we tasted in it. Midge got it on the first try MOray. More more more. I really can’t get too much of this good thing. And the Recioto della Valpolicella classico Domini Veneti was a very good thing.

TUTTO E’ POSSIBILE

Everything is possible in Italy we have found to our delight. The culture is so accommodating. I feel guilty admitting how often our friends here fill needs we didn’t even know we had. We are undeservedly covered with kindness. Just yesterday a neighbor passing by our house noted our highest figs seemed mature and that we needed to harvest them. I agreed in concept and (trying to get out of manual labor) said my ladder was too short.. A couple hours later Bruno was calling over the garden wall with a gigantic ladder and was soon up in the tree. But first he whipped out a bright red train engineers oil can and oiled all our shutters’ tie back mechanisms. When we got to our terrace we saw he had delivered, unasked, a waist high pot of basil. I protested we were only going to be here, as he well knows, a couple more days. He just shrugged and smiled. The next night when we got home, this bouquet of artichoke flowers was on our coffee table. Not for you. For your wife, Bruno said with a wink. Is this a great country!?!

MUSIC IN THE AIR.

We can see a baroque church from our house and today we could see it and hear it. A group of flutes was practicing for a concert later in the afternoon and their notes were wafting magically through the air over our garden and into the streets for anyone who was quiet enough to separate them from the swallows and cicadas. Another day in Panicale. Or. We have died and gone to heaven. Watching the literally unbelievable pink pink Hollywood sunset over the village church and the lake a couple hours later, we started believing that maybe we had slipped off terra firma and into another more peaceable kingdom.

HIGH. AND DRY?
Up in the air over the wide, wet Atlantic. And surrounded by water. In the plane. In the airport. In sport bottles of every size and shape.

Water water everywhere indeed. When did this start? Did I NOT get the memo, again? Every person, on every plane I’ve taken lately has had a bottle of water ready for their use at a moment’s notice. Bottles in their hands, sticking out of pant’s pockets, snugged into special holsters, hung on belts and on all sides of back packs. Ok, how incredibly under-hydrated am I? There are drinking fountains in the airports and places to buy and drink water all around in the airports. And on the plane the waitresses in the sky are handing out drinks rather non-stop. Water, coffee,tea, and excuse me, excuse me. Must step over sleeping giant on aisle seat to go to the bathroom. Now. After 20 hours of being forced fed liquids almost constantly, if anything I’m feeling OVER hydrated. And my hands are full. I would so sit on my bottle and look more out of control than usual.

Lance Armstrong. Middle of France. On a mountain. Several hours into the ultimate aerobic exercise. Now, HE needs a water bottle. I saw whole families with a bottle bolted to every member from baby to teenager to parents with their hands and arms full of strollers and diaper bags. But if we crash into the Sahara, then who will have the last laugh?

SPEAKING OF ALL WET. HERE’s A REAL CORKER

We landed in London. Lines for passports, lines for shuttles. And then we had some off line time waiting for our gate to be announced.

A nice looking middle aged man pulled his bag over and sat across from us. Business man? Manager? Computer technician? Who knows.
As soon as he pulled out a plastic bag and began rooting through a minor league cornucopia of candy and chocolate odds and ends. Wait. now what’s he doing? Yes, I think he has just pulled out a wine glass. A glass wine glass. With a stem on it. Short stem, ok. But a stemed wine glass. Now he is polishing it intently with a Kleenex it appears. And out of a grocery store shopping bag comes a half full bottle of wine. The cork is sticking partially out. He pulls the cork, pours himself a glass of red, crosses one knee over the other, swirls the wine around takes a sip like he is on the Via Venato on a summer evening. Except this is Heathrow. At 5:15 a.m. I was a bit sleepy and confused at the time. But I really don’t think I could have made that up. Later, I thought, do you think maybe he started out by having a sport bottle habit and just took it up to the next obvious level?

IF YOU ARE IN THE MOOD FOR SOME BOLOGNA

Wow. This Grisham book is quite different. No court rooms. Just barely any lawyers. And surprise. It is all in Italy. Just like we are. Full of Italian dialog and characters and places.

It gives the sense that Grisham himself is in the midst of learning the language and the rhythms of the streets as he is writing this. And like his character in a witness protection program, changing into and becoming a real Italian. Good summer beach chair ”thriller” or ”giallo” as they say. (three layer and ja al low. That comes close to how you say them. Well, in StewWorld.) OK, it is not Shakespeare, but it kept me turning the pages much later in the night than I may have intended.

Allora, I hope this stream of consciousness wasn’t too random and maybe gives a peek at one tourist’s week in Umbria.

See you in Italy!

Stew

WHEN IN ROME . . . .

Were they in the right place at the right time or what? New pope’s first public mass and Sean and Dayna were right there. Sean says his first clue was all the guys in red dresses on the balconies of St Pete’s.

ROME, Italy— Were they in the right place at the right time or what? New pope’s first public mass and Sean and Dayna were right there. Sean says his first clue was all the guys in red dresses on the balconies of St Pete’s. The next thing they knew, here came the new popemobile and bob’s your uncle there was Benedictine numero 16 — an arm’s length away. Actually we call him Benedict 16 and Italians say Benedetto 16. Regardless of how you say it Sean, ever the consumate professional, was right there with a camera in hand, taking full advantage of the lucky turn of events. That was Sean and Dayna and Harry watching the sun go down in our garden, it was at the top of a blog page a couple days ago (and now on our home page ) at our annual foreign correspondent’s picnic. And now here’s a note from See You In Italy’s Chief Vatican Correspondent and continental man about town: Sean Riley.

Stew, attached are my pictures of the Pope. It was way cool. We took over 200 pictures on our wonderful trip. You will be happy (or Sad) to know that Dayna started pouting after leaving your little town. Yikes! I had told Sean that, like him, we discovered Panicale on a 25th anniversary trip and my wife had pouted until we bought a house there. ’spensive trip. But, Yes Dear, worth every penny.

You would be so proud of me. Being the non-creative guy in the family and company. I took tons of pictures of little alley ways with hanging flowers and little old lady’s walking through. I thought about doing posters and calling them “Alleys of Italy”

Sean & DaynaWe had such a wonderful time. I still think the dining highlight of the trip was with Andrea (Masolino’s Restaurant, Panicale), especially the second time we went. The food was so delicious. But I asked if I could say hi to Mama Bruna. The whole family came out and we took pictures. I know this might sound silly, but that was one of the experiences I was looking for. It was a definite highlight!

Thanks so much for your hospitality. It made it so much more meaningful.

We also loved our stay at. the Villa Lemura We loved the place and the people!

Thanks again Stew!

April ends. So does our time in Umbria. Parting Shots.

I have oceans of the Italian cult comic Dylan Dog. I can rationalize having my nose in a comic instead of Calvino by saying I’m doing it improve my Italian, my way.

PANICALE, Umbria— Parting is such sweet sorrow. Especially when swallows are swirling overhead having a bug fest / breakfast / airshow that starts early and goes on until after sunset every day. And even harder to leave when your rascally roses are only moments from blasting into full sunshine yellow bloom. The buds were numbering in the millions and getting fatter by the hour. Yes, that is how often I was checking. It is almost a cruel local joke here how I fuss over my roses all year long, but have yet to see them in bloom, missing them on one side or the other of their usual full month of glorious (so I’ve heard) bloom. Note to self: schedule trips to Umbria for first of May. And May is generally a more dependable weather month in Italy than April anyway. Duly noted.

IN THE GARDEN. MAYBE READING A LITTLE DYLAN.
Enjoying the garden in spite of the spite-full reluctant roses. I know they are teasing me. I love it all back in the garden anyway. It is just becoming so alive at this time of year. And one of the nice things about cleaning up a garden for company is that once they arrive I can quit cleaning, weeding and fussing. And do lazy things, like dragging out a chaise and reading in the sun.

Nothing like some Dylan in the garden. Of course, when I say Dylan, you know I mean Dog, not Thomas. I’ve always been a sucker for comics. I have oceans of the Italian cult comic Dylan Dog. I can rationalize having my nose in a comic instead of Calvino by saying I’m doing it improve my Italian, my way. Anything with pictures is a big step up and after a while you realize any author has a certain way of writing and a certain vocabulary and it gets easier with each new reading. I’ve learned a lot of conversational street talk from Dylan. To each their own. Its what works for me. My daughter Wiley is all about pop culture and her favorite guilty pleasure is gossip magazines, both in the states and in England where she goes to university. She and her favorite Italian language teacher here in Italy use the Italian version of those awful tabloids as text books when they do their lessons together and it seems to really work for her. All I know is Wiley’s Italian was better after every lesson. Again, with the words and pictures.

SOLVING THE AGE OLD DESERT DILEMMA

The other fun thing about having company in Italy is that it gives us an excuse to have fun picnics in the garden, drink wine watching the sun go down and to look forward to going out to eat next door at Masolino’s. I’ve cleaned out the frig so that is my excuse to wind up the trip eating every meal there. Three times in two days. Not counting breakfast coffees. They are so busy at night we can’t chitchat properly at night at all so I will stop in on my way into the piazza in the morning and really catch up. Anyway, I was there for lunch on Wednesday with fun clients I had been writing to for a year and was dying to meet in person. Kept thinking, pace yourself Stew, don’t have to eat everything on the menu right now, you’ll be back again in a few hours. Temptations abound.

Later that same day, at a different table I was eating with our long time friends from Colorado. They had just arrived and they wanted Masolino’s to be their first stop before even unpacking. Visions of panicotta and creme carmels danced in their heads.

Then sweet Stefi one of the owners and the pastry / desert chef came out and started listing all the goodies that were on the desert menu for the night. Choices, choices, choices. Hate to make decisions? Don’t. We finally we cut the Gordian Knot. And ordered six different deserts for the five of us and just kept passing them around. A desert buffet. You know how places often have AntiPasti Misto? Same thing but sweeter. Dolce Misto?

Call it whatever you want we made them all go away, didn’t we? Its kind of a trick in Italy as the deserts are often kind of a let down compared to the terrific antipasti and pasti lead ins to every meal. Stefi keeps it fun and light and is determined that even after a big meal everyone should still be looking forward to one of her treats to finish it all off.

Here’s what we had:

Panecotta. Yes. But which kind? With frutti di bosco? Chocolate? Or carmel? Questions within questions. I’m in a horrible rut. I run with a pack that is honor bound to keep trying panecottas with fruit everywhere they go just to compare them to Stefi’s. Tiny little wild forest fruits. Berries that look like raspberries and blue berries? Awful good whatever part of the fruit kingdom they below to. But then Jeff of Colorado swears by the chocolate and it is awesome. Wicked good, almost black chocolate swirled and drizzled about over the snowwhite panecotta and it just takes the panecotta to a whole different place. And, ok, I sampled someone’s carmel and I liked that too. Still a sucker for the fruit. Oooh, oooh. There are two panecottas in each order. They come out of a mold and have a pretty depression on the top to hold fruit or chocolate. Order one each with friend and divide them up. Don’t have to wait till you have a big smorgasbord group feed.

Tiramisu. Tira. Mi. Su. Get it? Pick. Me. Up. Because in my understanding of its traditional form it should have two caffine delivery systems, one coffee and one of chocolate. There was a debate raging as Stefi patiently waited for us to get over it and order already. The debate was more or less this: is Tiraminsu just too much of a clique? Is it only on the menus of Italy for the amusement of low brow American tourists? Hey, its Italy. Its Italian. Lets eat it. We did. It was a beautiful thing, it was light, it rocked and earns its fame. And its name. Quando a Roma.

Torta Fragola. Strawberry cake. Hmm. The other night I thought, “gosh if I order that it. . . means I’m not ordering Panecotta.” What to do? What to do? Will I like it, Stefi? She assured me it was worth the risk. Because I had so happily had it already, I lobbied for it to be in the mix. No one quite believed it. She called it cake but I don’t know what it was really. It just about floated off the plate. True fact. Fresh strawberries in almost cream/cake arrangement. Light, but not limp, it holds its slice-of-cake shape, but a fork just sighs and slips through it by gravity.

Cookies in Holy Wine. The VinSanto classic. The cookies are homemade of course and are of multiple shapes and ingredients and have a hint of citrus to them. I usually don’t get this because I’ve had enough wine by this time and I think I see Andrea pouring some complimentary experimental thing for us over by the bar. (turned out to be an excellent light yellow grappa based liquor. The next night the surprise Umbrian desert wine was a dark communion grape juice colored Vernaccia. I hope I spelled that right. Very much of the grape flavor. Loved it. I will see if I can get a picture of the bottle on here some time soon. But I digress from the deserts.

Crema Catalana. How about something flamable in carmel so everyone in the restaurant will look up and think “that does look like fun, maybe we DO have room for desert”. Flames of liquor burning bright, a foot or so in height. Just wait. They burn down and out and ok, NOW you can stick your spoon in there. Why wait for your birthday to have your desert set on fire? Our friend Harry had this flaming concoction two nights running and for all I know he is there tonight ready to potentially sacrifice his eyebrows once again over this showy treat.

THAT’S IT. PACK IT UP.

Well, as we know, all good things must come to an end. We did a final night with friends from Maine stirred into the equation to good effect. They seemed to be settled into the good life Villa LeMura and looking like they could get quite use to that. The next morning came, I coffee’d and hugged my way around the piazza, took this photo of Katia (Giancarlo’s new assistant) and her family by Panicale’s fountain, gave my rascally roses one last look and said until next time –

See you in Italy

Stew Vreeland