Firenze - Il Mio Compleanno

On every visit I've ever made to Florence, I have placed coins in the mouth - and rubbed the shiny snout - of this bronze cinghiale (wild boar) for luck. If the coin successfully drops into the grate below, your luck is ensured. If not, you try again and again and again. 

Eventually, you get a hit instead of a miss.

And so my excellent fortune has crystallized into my being able to say to The Spouse: let's go to Florence for my birthday.   This time, it is a quick, weekend trip by train.

I've been to many of the familiar sites and some of the less familiar ones here. Almost all with students. I never tire of the 'biggies,' but given that this 48ish hours of time was ours alone, I wanted to seek out things I'd not seen before.

So if you were thinking you'd see a bunch of the 'biggies' in this post, you may want to go watch a Rick Steves episode instead. 

We arrived on a Thursday evening.  Our b&b owner reserved a table for us at a nearby restaurant, right off Piazza Santa Croce. 

My dinner was a plate of 'drunken spaghetti' - which is, as you surely surmised, noodles cooked in garlic and red wine. 

We're still deliberating over whether the spaghetti itself had wine in it or if the infusion simply happened on the stove - or maybe it's both? - but I found this to be pretty unique in the catalog of my food experiences.  Our shared contorno was a bowl of fagioli - white Tuscan beans (cannelinis, available at most U. S. grocery stores) liberally doused in good olive oil and dusted with freshly ground black pepper.  I love those things.

I will confess to not loving this as much as I would have if I could have put parmesan on it.  And I'm sure that I could have, but when you are served a pasta dish and no one automatically offers cheese, that typically means that you're not supposed to have that combination. So I went without. I just felt that the salty parm would have complimented the sharp acidity of the existing flavors.

Not loving this doesn't necessarily mean that I wouldn't try to make it at home, though.  I'll report on it if I do. 

We went for a roundabout night stroll back to the b&b.  And I couldn't help myself:  I had to capture Cellini's gory Perseus with the head of Medusa.

We agreed that we wanted to explore the other side of the city, the Oltrarno (over the Arno river) district, said to be the sleepier of the two sides (although with the super popular Pitti Palace and Boboli Gardens there, I've never thought it was particularly quiet). It is much more of a hike, given how steeply pitched the streets are.

And so, up we went.

We paused here and there, to take in the view.  This is a pretty popular spot for tour buses to stop, dump out the groups, and let them 'ooh' and 'aah' and take pictures of this beautiful Tuscan city from across the river.

We decided to explore San Miniato al Monte, the church on the uppermost part of the hill. 

This Romanesque (note the nice, evenly rounded Roman arches on the facade, and you'll see them again in the interior) church has a typically Tuscan look about it, with alternating geometrical shapes of colored marbles decorating the exterior.

The motif is continued here and there in the upper registers of the interior.  And of course, a typically Italian wooden roof, too.

Some details of the floor pavement you can see in the larger, earlier picture. It dates to 1207. Sort of a play on Cosmedin floor pavements (you'll see what I mean a bit lower down in this post), with the serpentine/circular arrangements, but in just two tones. This style is called opus sectile. 

One section of the floor was laid out in a large, spherical, astrological design.  So I shot the two fish, for the Pisces celebrating her birthday in Florence.

Down below the main floor, a crypt where the remains of Saint Miniato are kept.

On a wall on the main floor is what appears to be a preparatory drawing for a fresco that was never executed.  This type of drawing is called a sinopia drawing, named for the earthen, reddish-brown iron ore pigment.

You may notice that the style of describing human figures is fairly - but not quite completely successfully - accurate. Notice the feet.  They sort of drape in a downward motion, as if they have no bones in them.  The artists of the early Italian Renaissance were correctly observing that the human form is visualized with volume and mass, and they were working on the mastery of foreshortening - the art of making something appear logically situated in space, particularly when it is projecting towards the viewer.  So while the body of Christ is softly modeled with light and shadow, and therefore the abdomen appears to swell with a sense of bodily mass (as is appropriate), the feet aren't yet described quite as accurately.  Art students will tell you that even today, it is difficult to see and render human extremities with total accuracy.  Foreshortening is a challenge.

And inside the chapel of the Cardinal of Portugal, amazing tilework and glazed terracotta rondels by the famous Luca della Robbia, a name known far and wide in the Italian Renaissance for deep relief terracotta work. 

And in the floor:  the so-called Cosmatesque floor pavement, named for the Cosmati family who popularized this intricate, geometrical patterning made of different colored glass and marble shapes. Many churches in Rome also have this style floor pavement.  

Stone inlay, with some fantastic beasties.

A beautiful apse (the semi-dome) of Christ and Saint Miniato. The crucifix is also a terracotta by Luca della Robbia.

A nice view of the interior, looking toward the entrance.  

The obligatory selfie with the (shh! it's a big monument, that Duomo!) iconic city in the background. We had lunch while taking in this view, despite a slightly chilly breeze.

A little later, after busing down the little mountain, we hit Palazzo Strozzi, where an exhibition of work by one of my favorite contemporary artists was staged. Bill Viola is a video artist, and he has been working in this medium for a very long time. This is the fourth opportunity I've had to see his work. 

A few stills from The Crossing, of 1998, in which a slightly larger than life size figure walks in slow-mo towards the viewer and then stops.  Slowly, at first, water drops onto the figure's head. But it then drops with increasing frequency, and finally it rushes in a torrent, eventually eradicating our view of the figure altogether.

What made this exhibition unique was the curatorial focus on pairing Viola's work with historical, Italian precedents - some of them from Florence.  In the space pictured below, a Jacopo Pontormo painting (1528) depicting the meeting of the Virgin Mary and Elizabeth, wherein they exchange their very surprising news, is posited on a wall adjacent to a large video screen, where Viola's characters appear to perhaps reenact the scene in contemporary dress.  Shot in about one minute, slowed down to a 10 minute sequence, and more or less bereft of sound (other than an almost ominous, fuzzy hiss), the video shows us more transitive emotions on the faces of the three women.  We are given the time to study them, to try to read the lips of 'Mary' as she leans in to say something in the ear of 'Elizabeth' (a whispered 'I need to talk to you'). The effect is at once normalized (due to contemporary dress and hairstyles) and eerily synthetic (the lighting, the bland, Italianate background - all like a stage set).   According to this resource, Pontormo's The Visitation was the direct inspiration for Viola's The Greeting (1995).  And according to this resource, Viola never intended to reenact The Visitation so much as he wanted to explore the painting as an inspiration for 'something new.' It was a true gift to see these works in the same room.

And it is a gift to be forced - by art or any other gentle means - to sit in suspense, to forget the clock, to be only present IN the present.

And sometimes street art can be a gift, too.  Even if only for a cynical chuckle.

Back at the b&b - a converted cloth dying factory - The Spouse performs as his alter-ego, Dr. Doolittle - and befriends the b&b cat.

The next day:  the Galileo Museum, for the scientist in this team. Here, you can see the instruments that Galileo built for himself. 

And you can also see the beautiful craftsmanship of hand made Renaissance and Baroque era scientific instruments of all sorts.

A great deal of focus on mapping both the world and the stars...

Italy is long known for its crafting of lenses and telescopes.  I don't know what Italy's share of the glasses market is today, but given the stylish lenses and frames I see on so many faces, I'm guessing: considerable.

Afterwards, a stroll through the city. 

OK, OK, so I did shoot a 'biggie.'  It's rather like the Pantheon in my Roman neighborhood, popping up around corners and surprising you.

And OK, OK, I shot the interior of San Lorenzo, the beautiful, avowedly Renaissance-era church. 

And we watched a restorer work on one of Donatello's bronze pulpits.

And then we went to dinner.  At our favorite place in Florence:  a not-fancy, family run, little place.

Osteria de' Pazzi (pazzi means 'very crazy'...and if you know my last name, then, well....)

Spaghetti alle Vongole.  A favorite.

I love any family style sort of service like this, where a large vessel of olive oil with birds' eye peppers suspended within is unceremoniously (and almost wordlessly, except for when our server warned, 'molto piccante') dropped off at the table...for making your spaghetti with clams as spicy as you'd like.  The 'we like it, so you might like it too' sort of approach, with no fuss, no ornate presentation, no soliloquy about the origins of the oil or the peppers.  

Even though this traditionalist typically wants birthday cake on her birthday...this time, she's in Florence.  So someone's humble, homemade tiramisu will do very well, thank you.

It was wonderful.

Florence on a fast weekend jaunt was wonderful.

I highly recommend going - especially in a month when the tourist count is low, the weather is perfect for the 'pale people' (like me), and there are always new discoveries as well as the reliable treasures. 

Viticulturalism, Take Two, and Trust

It's a good idea to allow people who know the ropes to actually show you a thing or two.

And even if you're the tiniest bit a control freak, you should occasionally allow someone to show you the ropes without asking any questions in advance. 

Just trust, and let yourself be taught.

So when I was invited by some women for a girls' only night for wine tasting, I didn't ask questions.

I just said yes.

Enter, a wine tasting.

 A thorough one. 

First, an aperitivo, a before-dinner drink. The Aperol spritz is always a good fall-back (if you click on that link, don't do what I did and forget that the maker of Aperol is Italian and will therefore ask you to enter your birthdate in a slightly reversed order).  And God bless the Italians and plenty of other Europeans who know that a cocktail should come with snacks. 

It's a civilized practice (translation: alcohol should never hit your empty stomach).

Aperol is a bitter orange liqueur and it is hugely popular here (you can also get it in the States).  Mixed with some prosecco and sparkling water, added ice cubes (what? you say: Europeans don't do ice...oh yes, yes they do...just sparingly, and not voluntarily in very many drinks) and an orange slice, and presto, a refreshing drink.  The Spouse and I, on the evening we officially became Spouses, included this as our signature wedding cocktail, alongside Bellinis.  

And on to the wine tasting.

This one was held at Roscioli, a well known business with several outlets - a bakery, a restaurant, a coffee bar, and a popular wine tasting room - in Rome. 

And clearly, they've got things down to a science, with the place mats designed to organize your wine experience.  And the atmosphere in this case is designed for conviviality; we were seated with several other small groups of people from a wide variety of places around the world.

So, for a more authentic experience, you book a wine tasting with several wine and food pairings, plus a little pasta dinner squeezed into the middle. 

You'll note that there is typically some kind of bread or cracker present at most tastings, so that you can a) have something on your stomach to compete with the rather impressive number of wines you're consuming (although no full glasses are poured - you can ask for a second taste, usually) and b) cleanse your palate between wines.

And as it seems to be di rigeur, here, you begin with the bubbly: prosecco.  

For many - including me - it is a preferable alternative to Champagne.

Both are bubbly beverages that are only called what they're called IF the right grape is used.

Champagne uses select grapes from dedicated regions in France.

Prosecco - the same - in Italy.

Prosecco takes a lot less time to make. It generally costs less. Sometimes a lot less.

And I enjoy the flavor of it - which is a bit sweeter - better. (plus, less chance of a headache the next day)

And with the first white wine of the evening comes a pairing with select cheeses.

Mozzarella brings up the rear, then a soft, creamy Burrata (a very soft, wet and creamy cheese) in the middle (with some fire roasted tomatoes) and a goat cheese with fig jam in the immediate foreground.

Our tasting guide - who happens to be American - encouraged us to think a lot about how the flavors of food informed the wine, or vice versa. 

Have a small sip of the wine without the food to follow.  Taste what that's like.

Now try the actual pairing. And taste what that's like.

Each can benefit from the other, if a knowledgeable person has orchestrated the pairings to begin with.

One of many reds on the tasting menu, paired with a red tuna.

The Italians love their tuna.  There is plenty of canned tuna - just as you enjoy it at home - but there is also plenty of other types, of higher caliber. Here is a recipe for a different way to use your tuna and a few other ingredients that you might already have on hand (or can easily get). I love this anytime, but especially in the summer when I don't want to turn on anything that makes more heat happen.

The fish pictured here was a very dense, very rich-tasting tuna.  It was as meaty and substantial as a beef steak.

It completely changed my expectations for that type of fish.

Yum.

Another red, a deeper, spicier, almost chewier red paired with cured meats, like prosciutto, pancetta, speck, and salumi.

And with another red, here is the little dinner wedged in the middle:  Pasta all'Amatriciana...in honor of that ill-fated city, reduced to so much rubble in the first of the serious earthquakes that happened last August. This is a salty dish (a lot of commentators on Roman cuisine often mention the love affair that Roman chefs have with salt, in general), with a tomato-based sauce enriched by small bits of pancetta or another kind of salt-cured ham. The preferred pasta type is large and tubular, with ridges to catch the sauce and crevices inside those little tubes to cradle the pieces of ham.  I will confess to having ordered many dishes of this at several places in this country.  For me, it is a way to judge the quality of the restaurant.  It's ubiquitous - on many, many menus - and affordable, as it uses easily obtained ingredients and sparsely includes the most expensive one (the ham). 

After that pasta dish, we were introduced to another red wine and asked to write a few words about the associations we mentally made with the flavor.  Our steward said we could even write a poem if we wanted.

So, after having tasted a few wines already and feeling them in a slightly swimmy head, I did.

I didn't save it, and would like to think that this is precisely how that should have gone:  that the steward should have instead kept my scribbled word portrait of how I imagined being at a slightly trashy, small-town summer carnival at night, and tasting sweat on the lips of a boy I kissed as we sat on fragrant grass near the big-top. 

Pure invention, except for the grassy and salty notes of that wine.

But that invention won me a jar of those fire-roasted tomatoes, so here's to poetry-inspiring wine.

And honestly, I've little else to literally show for this experience, as the dessert wine was a disappointment (suddenly, way too sweet for my liking) and I was so thrown by it that I failed to capture a shot of my first tiramisu in Rome...which was excellent.

I stopped drinking coffee in 2011 or 2012, I think (when my Italian teacher heard me say this in class the other day, he half-jokingly pantomimed showing me the door and ushering me out!). But that cannot diminish my love for 'pick me up' tiramisu, which needs to be made by an experienced aunt or a grandmother, carefully but with some degree of abandon (because she knows the recipe by heart), so that it's not photogenically perfect but it is every bit authentically perfect in taste. There are tons of recipes for tiramisu, so just find one you like and make it.  It will require some work and quite possibly some searching for a few moderately special ingredients (don't panic), but on a warm day, a stolen spoonful from the beckoning container stored in your fridge is heaven. 

And no, I don't think I wrote that as if I have ever done such a thing before in my life. Ever.

This is not the tiramisu I had at Roscioli.  This is another tiramisu (because sampling a wide variety of examples of your favorite thing is a natural right, if not a mandate), which is a little deconstructed, with the ladyfingers rakishly placed this way, rather than fully embedded in the dish, soaking up coffee liqueur and sweetened mascarpone cheese and zabaglione and...oh, just go make some for yourself so that no one has to rely on imagination alone, which would never measure up to the real thing anyway.  

........................................................

Aside from that dessert wine snafu, this wine tasting told me a lot of things about how well you can orchestrate an artistic experience with food and drink.  

Not in all matters, but certainly in some, I need to trust people who suggest things like this to me, as well as the people who planned the liquid and solid pairings.  They curated my experience, and that's how it should be.

Save for one minor aberration, and in the company of good-humored women, it was exquisite.