Strawberries mean summer

Finally it seems as though summer is here in Florence. The weather is still a mess for this time of year, it's chilly at night and raining a lot. But my visit to the Sant'Ambrodgio market this morning confirmed that, despite the inclement conditions, the seasons are changing.
As I rounded the corner to the market, the first thing I smelt were the strawberries. Piled high in their plastic punnets, almost every stall sported a collection of berries, from the farmed variety to the 'contadina' sort (I guess organic, or grown in people's gardens or farms.)
The summertime impression of the strawberries was backed up by glistening piles of cherries, apricots and rock melons.
A visit to the market should never be preceded by breakfast - you eat your way around the stalls, chatting with the stallholders.
'Try these, they are fabulous!' exclaimed the wizened 70-something year old popping s strawberry into my hand, and another into her mouth.... 'Or, if you prefer, a cherry?' with another sample.
I bought both.
Making my way down the outside of the building I snacked on porchetta (a roast stuffed pork) trying to avoid the beady eyes of the head of the pig with a large lemon in his mouth, fetchingly perched next to the server. At the back of the stall, a loaf of bread with a sign proclaiming 'Cooked in a wood oven' that was at least a metre long and half a meter wide. 'The olives are delicious too' I was told. They were. I bought some.
And prosciutto, here try a bit. And cheese... And salami...
My bag bulging, there was just enough space to squeeze in some Sardinian tomatoes - about the strangest tomato variety I have ever seen, a dark emerald green, with mottled tinges of burgundy, that I was told are sweet and delicious in salad.
Having had appetizers en route, I was nonetheless determined that this would not spoil my lunch, and made my way over to Il Pizzaiolo on Via dei Macci, next to the market.

Davide, a Napolitan friend from work, told me during the summer that this was the best pizza to be had in town. The margherita pizza I ordered with buffalo mozzarella was piping hot, and fabulous, although, like many pizzas here, it is pretty runny. Those who come expecting to eat pizza by the slice with fingers could find it messy going!

Automatic wine tasting

After a long night at Slowly, the day started in an appropriate way - not fast! It was throwing it down with rain, so as Terence picked his way through the puddles to the Uffizi, I chose the more domestic option of cleaning the apartment! After lunch at Yellow, a pizza joint downtown in Florence that is as American as they come butstill pretty appealing - its been there since the 70's and is something of an institution, we were encouraged by the sunshine and headed out to Greve-in-Chianti.
Once we had found a place to dump the car, we made our way through the village to the destination of today's tour - the Automatic Wine Tasting shop.
Le Cantine developed and patented a way to do automatic wine tasting that has now been adopted in other parts of the world (a google search mentioned Australia for a start). You get a stored value card, and a couple of glasses then make your way around the machines, selecting the samples by the glass that you want to try. We didn't have long, so in the photos we are trying the break-the-bank reserve samples at 4 euros a pop. Yum.

Terence in Tuscany: the wonders of technology

Through Facebook I have been in touch with many people that I have not seen or heard from for years and years, it has become a fairly common thing to log on and see an email from someone from my past who has added me as a friend - always a nice surprise.
But it was still pretty mind-blowing to see Terence, a guy that I was at school with in Hong Kong way back when, when we met at the taxi rank at Florence station. In Milan for work for 2 weeks, Terence took a few extra days to tour Italy, and started with a stint in Florence.

Despite the slightly soggy weather, we had a great trip around the city - starting with a panino at ino, then making our way up to Piazzale Michaelangelo, and San Miniato, then down again to the Palazzo Pitti and Eduardo's wine bar for a refreshment. The rain started to trickle down, so we went into the Palazzo Pitti museum. The rooms are staggering, OTT opulence, and at first you try to take everything in, later giving up and whisking through to the highlights.

After Palazzo Pitti, a quick stop on the Ponte Vecchio for the obligatory photo shoot, then to the Mercato by the golden pig - another Kodak moment.

We popped into Grom for a gelato near the Duomo, then off to Boccadama to meet Chiara, Kostantino and Goia for dinner. When the waiter brought over the vin santo 'on the house' Chiara said it was a bad sign in terms of the size of the bill - and she was right!
The night finished in Slowly, with mojitos and music - much like many nights in Hong Kong years ago!

The panda is in back in perfect shape

Finally the Panda is back to its former glory, with huge thanks to Leonardo who took her away while I was away, fixed her up, washed her inside and out, and returned her to my office car park so she was there when I got back from Indy. And I haven't paid a centisimo. However much the insurance was, it was worth it!

Indianapolis - its a long, long way from home

Indy is far from Florence. I had to look it up on the map, but its in the middle bit of the states, not so so far from Chicago (about 3 hours in a car).
To get to Indy from Florence there are a few routes to take, but no easy solution. Our plane from Italy to Paris was a little late, and as we got off, we had to take a U-turn through customs and then wait on a bus to get over to the next door terminal. Then again through hand luggage control and finally to the gate.
Where the plane had just closed its doors, without there being an announcement of any kind, despite the fact that we arrived with Air France, and were flying on with Air France to our next destination.
Despite the frustration at having missed our plane, we were lucky. It seems that there are a number of flights between Paris and Detroit (who knew it was so popular?!) so we were put on the next plane, and managed to negotiate lounge passes on the back of Maurizio's (expired) elite card for the 3 hour wait.
We worked throughout the flight, and, on arrival in Detroit, were all exhausted. You have to identify your luggage (collect it, and then rescan it) and we also went over to the NorthWest desk, as instructed in Paris, to ask whether our boarding passes were OK, or whether we needed a printed ticket as well.
I approached the desk, already thinking that the bloke sitting in the Northwest uniform behind it, looked less than authoratative. 'Are these alright, these boarding passes?' I asked him.
'Hmmmmm', he said, peering at them through squinted eyes. 'Well no, there seems to be a problem' he added. 'They are in French - where did you get them from?'
'Errrr, Paris...' I said.
'Oh. No, its OK - there is English on them too!' he added.
Not so tired though that we could not appreciate the parade of Monopoly games in the various shops in the airport - with Micheganmania sporting Michiganopoly, next door to the chocolate shop with its own version Chocolateopoly, then Dogopoly, Catopoly - and no, I am not making this up! Needless to say, we resisted the temptation to buy anything.
Hours passed in Detroit, and further plane problems (late crew, a mechanical fault)before we finally headed off to Indy. It certainly seems a long long way from Italy so far!

The news says...

... that 12 million Italians were on the roads tonight coming back from the break. No wonder there was traffic! That'a a lot of blown kisses for my friends in the Suzuki...

Latin Lovers in the Traffic

The stories of Italian men tour the world, but often the reality here is that guys are the same as they are anywhere else.
There are times though, when being here really makes me smile.
Today sitting in interminable traffic, there was a Suzuki Swift on the outside lane. As we crawled along, I looked out of the window at the vineyards on the other side of the autostrada, when a sudden movement caught my eye. The guys in the Suzuki were waving furiously.
I gave them a smile back and they both blew me a kiss!
Hilarious, and a very welcome break from the jam.
(5 hours after I left, I finally returned home, many waves later, and still laughing!)

High class cooking

Marchigiana fare tends to be pretty standard - you can count on great antipasti, especially the prosciutto, and normally a nice piece of meat thrown on the wood-burning fire for afterwards, with a mixed salad. A coffee, maybe a digestivo, and everyone is happy.
The food in Marche is generally excellent, even given its simplicity. This is still farming country, so the veggies were in the fields minutes before arriving on the plates, and the same, I suspect is true of the animals, although I would rather not think about that.
But basically it is not messed around with, very few herbs and spices, and seasoned mainly with lemon.
One exception to this simplicity of flavour is truffles. Marche is truffle country, and whilst in other places they cost the earth, here they are both reasonable and fresh. That is to say, they can be, but one of the reasons why truffles are so pricey I guess, is that they are famously fragile - i bought one in the winter and, despite following all instructions to the letter, it had no taste at all.
There are a lot of great pasta dishes with truffles in here, Ai Pini in Sarnano does the most lip-lickingly fabulous tortellini with cream and truffles - totally decadent, but worth the calories.
But Il Colle, a turn or two off the SS78 at Gabella Nuova, just out of Sarnano towards Macerata, is one of the few places I have seen around here that flavours meat with anything. The results last night when I went for dinner, were fantastic. We ordered fillet steak, cooked on the fire, and seasoned with a sauce flavoured with grated fresh black truffle, and fresh parmigiano cheese. The steak melted in the mouth, and the truffle sauce was so good we chased it around the plate with chips to try to mop up every last drop, washing it down with a Rosso Piceno Superiore called Notturno from the producers Cherri, from down at the coast near San Benedetto del Tronto. Highly recommended!

Country Living

After many years in Hong Kong, I am a city girl at heart. I love the energy of a city, the bright lights and the rhythm, the restaurants, bars and shops. But every now and again, there is also a real joy in coming to my house in the country and doing something totally different.
When I am in Florence, I work for hours and hours in the office, staring at the computer screen, or in meetings, talking endlessly about various things. Often when I arrive at work it is dark, and when I leave, dark again. It is not much of an outdoor lifestyle.
But when I come to Marche, everything changes. The country speed is totally different, and, very enjoyable at times!
My days here start with the sun coming through the curtains to wake me up. I deliberately turn off the alarm and leave the shutters open so that it is the warmth and the light that stir me, and not the electronic cuckoo that has that pleasure the rest of the time.
I stroll up to town for breakfast, and a natter with the baker and the man in the bar who makes a cappuccino without even asking for me. And then ponder about how to fill the day.
When I reflect when I am here in the mountains, I realise that there are some things in life that I have missed out learning about, and they seem to be things that are difficult to understand if you do not have the inside track.
I am not a golfer for example, although I can whack a hockey ball, so how different can it be? But it is not a world that I am a part of, or have an access into.
I am not a computer gamer - I am guessing Guitar Hero doesn't count (I love it! but don't own it. But who can resist the chance to make like a rock star with the riff from Stairway to Heaven - its air guitar for techies!)
Nor am I a gardener. Although the difference about gardening is that a) I own a garden so I really need to learn and b) I actually really enjoy it - even though many of the things I buy die within a few months.
I planted a row of rose trees on the edge of the garden some years ago, and from 6, was down to 4. What was once a solid line looked more like perforations. There was a need to fill in the gaps.
With this in mind, yesterday I set off to the garden centre. I can spend hours in the garden centre, hoping that another turn around the plants will help me to absorb some knowledge so that when I get back it is slightly easier to know what I have to do. I found one of the garden centre employees for advice. A man in his 60s with few teeth, gnarled hands and a baseball cap not only looked the part, but was smiling at everyone, so seemed a good bet to ask. "Rose trees" I asked him. At which he indicated the golf cart parked nearby (unnecessary- it wasn't far - but very fun, especially as the driver, on request, went the long way round up and down the hills). On arrival at the trees, we debated the ideal choice for me to take away. In the end I settled on 2 yellow rose trees, which are already in bloom so bring some much needed colour to the side of the garden. The man explained that I needed to make sure that I removed all the roots of the dead trees, or the new ones would be affected from the roots upwards.
So on getting home, I changed into my best gardening gear, and went out in the sunshine to start digging.
The soil here is solid clay, and quite revolting. The roses seem to like it, but it is almost impossible to shift as the spade gets clogged with gloop as soon as it hits the ground.
About 2 hours later, I had successfully dug one hole, and was well on my way with the next when I saw a shadow pass in front of the sun. Someone had come to have a look.
I looked up and pushed the hair out of my eyes (at the same time leaving a smear of grey clay over my cheek) and saw the priest from the church on the corner. "Did you do this?" he asked me, gesturing at the hole.
At this moment, I had one foot down it, so was up to mid calf in mud and clay, the spade was in my hand, I had a recent smear of clay on my cheek and a large blob on my t-shirt (still not sure how that got there!)
"err, yes" i replied.
I was expecting at this point the lesson. The townspeople here in Marche are lovely. They think me rather eccentric I imagine, as I come here on my own and do unfeminine things like dig in the garden, but nonetheless they are always ready to share advice. Normally when someone stops when I am mid-chore, it is to tell me that I am not doing it the right way.
So I was a little surprised when the priest just said "Brava" (like well done) and smiled and moved along.
By the end of the day my face was pink from the sun (the first real sun I have been out in this year) and I was aching all over from the digging. But there are two small yellow rose trees brightening up the side of the garden that make the effort all seem worthwhile.
Now if only I can get them to live....

In gamba

May 1st is celebrated as the festival of workers in many parts of the world, with places from China to France having a day off. Last night, after an eventful day in the office, Chiara, my friend from work, and I went for dinner at a place called Il Santo Bevitore. On the Oltrarno, I went there once before on the occasion of the first book club. Its a great place, large but still friendly and we sat at the bar and tucked into aged proscuitto, pecorino from Sardinia with fig chutney and some delicious bread, followed by Pappa al Pomodoro - a tomato soup-type concoction, with bread in it.
Inside the menus there is a phrase written "Ecco quello che sono veramente, sbronzo, cattiva, ma in gamba." I wanted to translate it, but a direct translation won't capture it.
In literal terms, the phrase says 'This is what I really am, drunk, wicked, but ...' it is then that I hit the difficulty.
Gamba is the word for leg. When I have heard the expression used in the past, it is used in the context of when someone is a good person to know - he's in gamba - a compliment. I looked it up in various online dictionaries and the translations that are used indicate 'on the ball' ' no flies on them', but basically its a good thing.
After a bottle of wine and dinner we went over to Santa Spirito. It is a real sign that summer is on the way, as when I have passed the Piazza in the winter it has been totally deserted. Now though there are a few stragglers sitting around the fountain, and many more huddled onto the church steps. Come the summer, when an enterprising soul parks a shipping container and turns it into a bar, and there is live music every night at 9, the place is heaving. Still at this time of the year, you can meet people, and we had a long chat with 2 Tuscan guys who were out for a quiet drink like us. One was from Florence, but did stress that this didn't mean he wasn't 'in gamba'.