Palazzo Pitti and Pecorino

It is my final day in Florence, and I venture to the district known as Oltrarno, which means “across Arno.” This region on the south side of the riverbank was once considered the low rent neighborhood until the Medici Grand Dukes moved here in 1550.

Their base of operation became the Palazzo Pitti, a sprawling edifice just a short walk beyond the Ponte Vecchio. It is both a palatial royal residence and a gallery that houses the Medici collections, and I spend the morning admiring works of art created by Titian, Lippi, Botticelli, Rubens and Raphael.

Behind the Palazzo Pitti is the Boboli Gardens, which the Medici family first cultivated, and is now a rambling historic garden. There are elegant fountains, Roman statues, cypress trees, citrus trees, exotic grottos and song birds, which provide a welcomed respite from the automobiles and motor bikes of central Florence.

Shortly after 5:00 p.m. I find myself, quite by accident, in front of Cantinetta dei Verrazzano, via Taolini, where Massimo bought me the Tuscan bread on Thursday. I notice there is a wine bar attached to the bakery that wasn’t open yesterday morning. I recall Massimo telling me that the bakery is owned by Castello di Verrazzano, a winery in Chianti. It seems like providence to have arrived there, so I step inside.

An affable waiter with glasses, wearing a maroon bow tie and apron, welcomes and seats me. It is a long narrow room with a small outdoor café that opens onto the cobblestone street. The tables have white marble tops and glass cabinets cover one wall. Inside are all types of dusty, aged wine bottles from Castello di Verrazzano. There is the head of a wild boar hanging on the wall and what I suspect is wild boar prosciutto curing behind the meat counter.

The waiter brings me a glass of Sassello, a vibrant ruby red wine made from the Sangiovese grape. It is lush and aromatic with a deep essence of chocolate. For the accompaniment, he presents slices of Pecorino cheese on fresh bread. He brings a large rectangular honeycomb to the table and artfully scoops crystalline amber honey on top of the cheese. He shaves orange zest across the honey, and I am mesmerized as I watch the citrus oils mist over the creation. He finishes with a sprinkling of pepper.

The sweetness of the orange and fresh honey and the tartness of the cheese melt into the chocolate flavors of the wine. It is simplicity and perfection, and a most appropriate finale to my exploration of Italian cuisine in Florence.

Buona sera, Firenze!

© 2006 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Venus on the Half-Shell and Pizza at Ponte Vecchio

I’m standing in the Piazza Della Signoria at 9:00 a.m. when the doors to the Pallazzo Vechhio swing open. This is the “Old Palace” built in 1322 which still serves as Florence’s town hall. It looks like a small fortress on the outside, but inside are palatial rooms decorated in grand style for Duke Cosimo I.

After that, it is a short walk to the Uffizi which was originally built as a suite of offices for Duke Cosimo’s staff. The Medici family turned the Uffizi into an art gallery, and it is now one of the oldest art museums in the world. People line up at the Uffizi like they’re selling tickets for a Beatles reunion. It just proves art appreciation is not dead. Of course, it doesn’t hurt if you’ve got the greatest Renaissance art collection in the world. Fortunately, I’ve shelled out the extra cash for an advanced ticket, and the speed of entry is worth the price of admission.

I check out the gallery maps and make tracks to the Botticelli exhibit hall. I’ve probably had a crush on Botticelli’s “Venus” since high school art history class, and there she is, big as life in all her flowing golden hair and naked splendor. Here in Italy, the Roman Goddess of Love is an icon, and her face even graces the 10 cent Euro coin. If I were in charge, I would have given her the more prestigious 2 Euro coin. Botticelli’s colors are brilliant, even after more than 500 years, and the sweet-faced Venus looks serene as she is whisked across the Aegean Sea on an open clam shell by the winds, and sent into the arms of waiting nymphs.

Once you’re inside the gate, one can, and should, spend hours exploring the Uffizi. I emerge in late afternoon and head towards the Ponte Vechhio or Old Bridge that crosses the Arno River. It is the oldest bridge in Florence, built in 1345. Once it was home to goldsmiths and now is the place of business for jewelry dealers. The bridge is crowded with tourists seeking bargains, but I’m in search of an early dinner. I settle on “Golden View Open Bar Ristorante.” (http://www.goldenviewopenbar.com/) True, the name is hardly authentic Italian, but the dining room riverside view of the Ponte Vechhio is unmatched. Even as rain pours down, the mustard colored medieval workshops clustered along the bridge are radiant.

I order Chianti and Pizza Fiorentino which is adorned with mushrooms, proscuitto and Tuscan salami. The crust is thin and crisp, and the earthy mushrooms and salty ham do a bit of a Tuscan love dance on my palate. I conclude the meal with a Calzone Goloso, which I’m certain is dedicated to the Goddess of Love. It is a pastry calzone, stuffed with mascarpone cheese, covered in chocolate Grenache and sprinkled with pine nuts. The waiter gives me an after-dinner cordial on the house, a potent golden Limoncello, perhaps as a tribute to the goldsmiths of the Ponte Vecchio.

© 2006 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Escapade in Florence

Day One in Florence is full of flavor – medieval prisons, Renaissance masters, domed cathedrals, sheltered cloisters, rustic pasta and the best ice cream in Italy.

Using my most reliable form of transportation, I set out on foot for the Bargello, built in 1255 as the town hall for Florence. In the 16th century, it became a prison, and some notorious Florentine criminals were executed in the court yard. Today, it’s been handed over to the arts and is home to a collection of Renaissance sculpture, where there are a number of pieces by Michelangelo and Donatello. There’s an outdoor sculpture garden of classic figures that makes an interesting contrast to the infamy of the court yard.

Next, I head to Bar Vivoli on Via Isola delle Stinche to investigate the rumor that one can get the best ice cream there, not only in Italy, but the world. Is it hyperbole? Is it story perpetrated by the proprietor? There is, in fact, some truth to the tale. You might almost miss Vivoli if you’re not looking for it. There is a small neon sign above the door, and inside it has the trappings of a traditional ice cream parlor like wooden paneling and marble countertops. But, behind the glass freezer cases, Vivoli does keep a Renaissance treasure. A number of tourists have ducked in to avoid a few raindrops and are placing orders. There are several rows of hotel pans hand packed with deep chocolate tones, and pink, yellow and green varieties. I notice that there is not a single ice crystal marring the velvety mounds. I select Crema gelato for 2.5 Euros which I learn is Vivoli’s most-requested flavor. I let the first spoonful dissolve on my tongue. It is cold, smooth and luxurious, with strong flavors of pure cream and fresh eggs. I make a resolution to return each day during my visit to sample a different flavor.

My next stop is the Gothic church Santa Croce, where one can find the tombs of Galileo and Michelangelo. There are two quiet cloisters and some interesting frescos. Since I’m not on my usual exercise routine, I then decide to climb the 463 steps to the top of the dome of Santa Maria del Fiore, the cathedral, or Duomo, of Florence. It is the tallest building in Florence, and the journey up is a work out. The reward is expansive views of the surrounding city and the Tuscan hills beyond.

I visit the cathedral museum. All of the key sculptures that once adorned the outside of the building are now housed here to protect them from the elements. The actual cathedral now has copies. I gaze at the Evangelists, The Virgin Mary and other Biblical luminaries who stare back at me with a slight look of detachment. There is also Michelangelo’s Pieta, which he actually intended for his tombstone, and used his self-portrait for the face of Nichodemas.

It is now dinnertime, the rain is constant and I am ravenous. Since it has been a sculpture day, I take a seat at a restaurant called Le Botteghe di Donatello, and order a serving of Tuscan Bread Soup and Spaghetti with Fresh Lobster. The soup is a thick, hearty stew of soaked bread, flavored with beans and vegetables. The pasta is brought to the table on a large platter, and there are actually pieces of whole lobster – in the crimson shell – scattered over the mound of spaghetti. There is a chucky tomato sauce which is seasoned with olive oil, garlic and red pepper, and it is a dramatic contrast to the sweet lobster meat. It looks like a challenge, but I manage to finish each strand of spaghetti and extract every piece of succulent lobster flesh from those shells.

© 2006 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Preview of Florence

There is a brisk breeze blowing through the streets of Florence and people are everywhere. I quickly scope out the Eastern part of the city in the late afternoon, and discover that there are medieval treasures around every corner. Just steps from the hotel is the Piazza della Signoria, where a copy of Michelangelo’s David stands, and the Loggia dei Lanzi built in 1382, which is an outdoor sculpture garden filled with classic Roman statues. I walk past the Duomo, the tallest structure in the city, where the sound of steeple bells ring through the piazza.

In the evening, I dine at the Brunello Lounge at the Hotel Bernini Palace, and the food is the type of artistry typical of the Florentines, or as my server tells me, “Just like a painting.” I enjoy a white prosciutto, full of fat, which melts like butter on the tongue. Then there are quenelles of soft goat cheese flecked with briny green olives with dried tomatoes, Tagliatelle pasta with porcini mushrooms and shavings of parmesan, and a wild berry crepe for dessert.

The beauty of Florence will have to wait for another week thought, as my next destination is Chateau du Fey in the Burgundy valley of France.

© 2006 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

The Glorious Grape

Thursday, September 7, 2006: It is harvest time in Tuscany and the wine grapes hang fat and heavy on the vine. There are gently rolling hills bursting with Chianti grapes, Sangiovese grapes and fruit I’ve never heard of before, such as Foglia Tonda. I set out for a morning walk in the vineyards, admiring the plump clusters of fruit glistening in the late summer sunshine. The dark grapes are deep purple in hue, accented with shades of blueberry, amethyst, cobalt, and black. It’s like watching a dazzling kaleidoscope as the rays of the sun dance on the skin of the fruit. There are perfect clusters of green grapes and lovely pink garnet grapes use for lighter varieties.

The grapes of Tuscany are a revered source of food and drink. The vintner produces a spicy, intense reserve Brunello. I learn from the staff that there is no Brunello grape. The wine is made from 100 percent Sangiovese grosso, and must meet very specific and lengthy aging requirements before it can be dubbed a Brunello.

Out in the vineyards, workers are gathering the grapes into red tubs. On the hill beneath the villa, grapes are removed from the stems by machines, pressed through a crusher, and left to ferment in steel tanks. Nothing is wasted. Even the remaining skins from the grapes are distilled and used to make Grappa.

In the Osteria on the estate, the chef uses wine grapes as a garnish, a color accent, in reduction sauces and as a sweet surprise in pasty. One member of the staff teaches us to prepare sweet cake dough for dessert that is studded with dark grapes and anise. Thin slivers of veal are sautéed in butter and stock and dressed in a ruby-red reduction sauce of balsamic vinegar and wine grapes. Risotto is bathed in Brunello, turning a shade of rosy pink. The meal is an exuberant celebration of the vineyard.

At the end of our evening banquet, the table looks like a post-modern work of art, with wine bottles and decanters littered across the table, and more than a dozen, deep round glasses with just a hint of violet residue in the bottom. We marvel at the brilliant full Tuscan moon as we return to the villa to retire for the night.

© 2006 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Bologna Culinary Journal

Tuesday, September 5, 2006: This is a story about pasta on the table. Thin pasta, thick pasta, gnocchi and lasagna noodles. It is the story of a skill that was once passed from one generation to another, but someday might be forgotten.

I watch as a tiny, compact woman with steel-gray hair, kind eyes and formidable hands rhythmically cracks eggs into a well of flour in the center of a wooden board. She plunges her hands into the pool and carefully and methodically she works the bright orange yolks and flour into a sticky paste and then a firm, pillow-like dough.

Our instructor explains that this woman of Bologna practices what could be a dying art. More and more Italian families now eat fresh pasta made by machine. The craft of pasta by hand is too time-intensive for most. The woman tells us in Italian that her daughter doesn’t make pasta, but sometimes, her son and grandchildren will attempt it. She has been perfecting her craft for more than two decades and learned it from her own grandmother.

The first batch of dough is now soft and pliable, the color of golden sunflowers. She sprinkles just a touch of flour on the board – always the right amount – to soak up any excess moisture. The wooden board absorbs the rest. She takes a long rolling pin – the length of a yardstick – in hand. It is beveled smooth by years of use. She possesses the skills of an athlete, a musician and a surgeon, rolling with speed and precision, keeping perfect tempo, carefully assessing the dough, shifting it, applying varying pressure to the rolling pin until the pasta is the desired thinness. I am given the chance to try my hand at rolling. She gives my work a friendly nod of approval, but fingers conditioned by years at a keyboard can not possibly produce the same quality results. Eventually, the plump pillow of dough is transformed into a long thin sheet, the texture of smooth leather, but the weight of a fine fabric – extremely light and almost translucent.

She makes a second batch, this time adding spinach, massaging the green leaves and eggs into the flour. The bottle-green sheets of pasta are sliced into large rectangles for lasagna. Finally, she manipulates potatoes that have been pressed through a ricer, eggs and flour into gnocchi. She rolls the dough into long strands of rope and cuts off small rectangles. She teaches us how to get that distinctive gnocchi shape by pushing the individual rectangles down the tines of a fork.

The final presentation of the gnocchi is perfumed with sage, and is all the more satisfying for the history and artistry it imparts. And now, she has passed on the tradition of hand made pasta to me, a mere visitor in her homeland.

© 2006 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved


Bologna Culinary Journal – Monday, September 4, 2006: I rise just before 7 a.m. and prepare for the day. It doesn’t take long, since my choices of attire are still limited. It is a short walk down the street to the Piazza Maggiore, an enormous open square lined by churches and palazzos and guarded by Neptune’s Fountain. At 8 a.m. Bologna is still a sleepy Northern town, with just a few pedestrians and pigeons in the piazza.

I return to the lobby of the Hotel Roma where I meet our host and instructor Mary Beth Clark, a charming and gracious woman who is the founder of the International Cooking School of Italian Food and Wine. She will be our gastronomic guide through the week. I am joined by a selection of fellow Americans hailing from Washington DC, Charlotte, NC and Los Angeles, CA.

Mary Beth leads us across the Piazza, and through a narrow passage and we begin exploring the food markets of Bologna. We stop first at a cheese shop. Bowls of creamy white cheeses, some soft and some with curds, and large golden disks of Parmigiano-Reggiano are clustered in glass cases. Slabs of pink prosciutto, which must be cured for at least 300 days, are strung together and hung from the ceiling. We visit fruit stands where the aroma smells like a heavenly orchard and watch butchers at work swiftly dissecting whole chickens. We even pause to inspect the wares of a purveyor of horse meat. Around every corner there is something for the eyes to savor, as we watch the artisanal craftsman of Bologna’s food market begin a new day.

Our next stop is an historic palazzo just minutes away from the market where we will work for the next several hours. Mary Beth leads class in the professional kitchen and we are joined by an Italian chef, an assistant and a valet who attends to our every need. Throughout the day we learn about typical ingredients, scents and flavors of the Italian kitchen. Intoxicating aromas of seafood, fresh rosemary, red wine, olive oil and chocolate and hazelnut fill the air. The yolks of the perfect brown eggs are deep orange, likely due to hens fed a diet of corn and sunflower seeds.

The staff carefully demonstrates the culinary techniques of Italy and we all take a hand in the process. While most of the instructors speak little or no English, by watching and observing their handling of the food, I begin to understand them. I am discovering there is, in fact, an international language of food, and it is one of passion, instinct and mutual reverence.

By mid-afternoon, we sit down to an extravagant luncheon at the palazzo around a beautifully set table decorated by our valet with luscious ripe summer fruits – peaches, plumbs, strawberries and red currants. There are four courses with perfect wine pairings. The food is sumptuous, the wine flows freely and we enjoy learning more about each other over an exceptional meal.

One last biscotti accompanied by a lovely sparkling rose wine, and it is time to conclude. After a brief stop at the hotel, where I learn my luggage has been delivered, I spend the remainder of the day with camera in hand exploring the medieval city of Bologna, which by late afternoon has become a bustling metropolis jammed with people and motor bikes. Warm sunshine bathes the piazzas. I walk to the nearby Bascilica di Saint Stefano, which was built during the period XII – XVII. The ancient stone holy place was formed from four Romanesque churches and has a stately, two-level cloister where I spend some quiet time reflecting on the events and aromas of the day.

Darkness falls, and I take a seat at one of the cafes on Piazza Maggiore and order a glass of vino rossa (the two words I actually know how to say in Italian). I sip my wine and watch as tourists eating gelato, students, lovers, beggars, adventurers and philosophers wander by enjoying the warm summer night. A bulging three-quarter moon peaks into the piazza, illuminating the fortress-like exterior of Basilica di San Petronio, much as it has done for centuries.

© 2006 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved


Bologna at Last – Sunday, September 3, 2006: That’s what the poster on the wall proclaims as I exit the shuttle bus and entered the airport terminal to claim my luggage – which hasn’t arrived with me. But, this journey is about food, and not travel disasters, so enough on that story.

There is an enormous, glowing half moon in the sky as my taxi driver speeds me to the Hotel Roma in the historic district of Bologna. We quickly cut through some routine residential areas, and enter the narrow streets of the ancient city. It is very late on a Sunday evening, but there are people about, some on motorbikes. There is stone, and brick, and a large tower up on the hill that I need to learn more about.

My fellow class mates at the International Cooking School of Italian Food and Wine have long since gone to dinner, but my host has arranged for the hotel to provide a cold buffet for me. Once settled in the room with my meager belongings, I feast on salty prosciutto, fresh mozzarella, bread, green salad and white wine. After the drama of my journey, it tastes superb and feels very welcoming.

Tomorrow morning, we meet for a tour of Bologna’s food market and our first cooking class of traditional Italian and nuova cuisine.

© 2006 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved