Amore and Amaretti (15 page)

When World Cup soccer season begins in June, Gianfranco moves our communal television down into the outside bar area. Every Friday and Saturday night for a month, matches are held between various countries and Gianfranco has made it perfectly plain that, as of 10.00 p.m., when the match begins, he will not be available in the kitchen; if customers want main meals, they must wait for half-time. He sits beside Ignazio in his stained apron and his clogs and they smoke in rapt concentration, periodically puncturing the thick air with howls of delight or derision, while male customers form small circles around them.

In spite of the harmony with which we work together, and a tamer side to his wildness I noticed from the beginning – and especially in spite of my determination all these years later not to be affected by his tantrums – Gianfranco remains a perpetual source of tension and mystery. One minute he is being so loathsome that I feel only contempt for him, and the next he has brought into the kitchen, cupped in his large hands, a sparrow from whose head blood gushes, which those same large hands tenderly wipe away. He calls me over to look, attempting to get the feeble little beak to sip some of the water he has trickled onto his palm. The tears that shoot into my eyes have less to do with the poor bird than with my compassion for this man with these crazy mood swings. Randomly occurring, they always manage to redeem him, to render him forgivable and lovable.

Non c'è amore senza amaro

You can't have love without bitterness

Tuesday is the day we close the restaurant. I invariably catch an early-morning bus into Florence and spend the day there. Gianfranco and Cinzia often travel to his village, while Ignazio tends to sleep until midday before linking up with friends. Sometimes he drives to hill towns like Montalcino and Pienza, returning with wheels of pecorino both fresh and aged.

One Wednesday morning Gianfranco erupts into the kitchen clutching a paper bag, which he thrusts at me, demanding that I open it. Even before I do, I recognise the smell, but am still unprepared for the vision of so many black Umbrian truffles, like nuggets of coal. Gianfranco's smile is wide enough to split.

We set up a trolley outside, in the top dining area among all the tables, and adorn it with the pecorino, the truffles, fat fresh
cappellacci
pasta stuffed like little pillows with ricotta and porcini mushrooms, rolls of salamis,
finocchiona
and pancetta. Also included are the two baked ricottas Gianfranco discovered in Greve – one studded with rocket and the other with strawberries – a whole prosciutto, a bottle of balsamic vinegar and several straw-wrapped flasks of Chianti. He arranges deep-green vine leaves around the platter of truffles, and on the bottom shelf of the trolley, beside a pile of white plates, he places one of my berry tarts, a glass bowl layered with creamy tiramisu and a splendid
torta della Nonna
.

No one eats inside any more, and most nights the sounds of ongoing parties drift into the kitchen, the guests staying later and later. We rarely dine together anymore, either – I usually finish work well before everyone else, so I carry my large bowl of salad, bread basket and wine out to a vacated table to luxuriate in the bliss of finally sitting down, observing other tables, and eating and drinking my way through a soft, warm night.

There occur the occasional days off when, in an anti-Florence state of mind, I catch a bus somewhere, anywhere – a randomly plucked village in Chianti.

One of the first lessons Gianfranco taught me was about Gallo Nero and the Chianti Classico wine zone. This was in the early days at the restaurant where we met and where I would type up the lists of wines, enchanted by the poetry of their names. That first restaurant was a celebration of Chianti wines, and its cellars – three, vast, low-ceilinged rooms at the back of the dining area – were crammed with endless bottles laid horizontally in wooden racks depicting every type, year and region. It was a collector's dream. I learned that the Chianti Classico zone covers about 7,000 hectares between Florence and Siena; that the black rooster (
gallo nero
) appearing on the neck labels of many Chianti Classico wines is the symbol of the Consorzio del Vino Chianti Classico, a foundation of producers in the region whose aim is to promote the wines, improve their quality and prevent wine fraud; and that the wine must be produced with a minimum of eighty per cent Sangiovese grapes.

And so, to bump along roads which wind through valleys and hills gazing out the bus window at these familiar names feels like finding myself the character in a book I have read, as well as constituting a journey through towns, villages and vineyards that compose a list of Chiantis I have drunk: Impruneta, Radda, Castellina, Querciabella, Badia a Passignano, on and on through postcard countryside. Until, suddenly, I am inspired to alight. At Panzano, there is just one main road leading through a medieval town which was originally an entire castle among vineyards. It always amazes me that, despite the ongoing fashionability of Tuscany, there are so many villages where you may be the only visitor browsing in shop windows, having an espresso in a bar, taking photographs of church façades.

One afternoon Ignazio surprises me by inviting me to accompany him on one of his trips to Montalcino, famous for its Brunello wine. His car winds up through vineyards until we reach the top of the hill. From the fortress the valleys below are bathed in pale gold. We sit outside at a little table and drink wine the colour of translucent cherries, our conversation innocuous and comfortable, then climb more stepped and narrow streets for more views and, in another bar, more Brunello tastings from enormous glasses.

Another day I choose Il Ferrone in order to visit the terracotta factories I have often heard mentioned; on yet another, Piero, my old boss from I' Che C'è C'è, arrives to take me out. My arms encircle his waist for one of our motorcycle jaunts up to Montefioralle, a fortified village within medieval walls so lovely I fantasise, briefly, about living there. Cobbled streets and low doorways and tiny windows belong to another century; it is only the presence of several posters up on a wall that suggests the present. From a small plain menu we order crispy
fettunta
(grilled bread rubbed with garlic and drizzled with olive oil), spaghetti with spicy wild boar sauce and moist grilled chicken with zucchini. Even in these timeless little hamlets there will always be at least one chic boutique selling exquisite garments neatly folded on shelves: smart linen trousers, delicate woollen knits, silky sensuous blouses I dare not disturb with my clumsy, grubby fingers.

I am asked to write an article about panettone for a prominent Australian food magazine's Christmas issue. On several Tuesdays I spend time at my favourite Florentine bookshop, the Libreria Edison in the Piazza della Repubblica, where I position myself in front of the cookery section and learn about this traditional Christmas fruitcake. The article must be written by the end of July and enclose a workable recipe.

This bothers me somewhat, because I have never known anyone who has actually made this cake, a cake famous for being labour-intensive and complicated. Once the piece has been written, Gianfranco and I set about the task of creation. We quickly discover how no one in his right mind would ever consider making panettone
so unseasonably in the middle of summer, what with the twenty minutes of kneading the dough required. We share these twenty minutes with perspiration coursing down our faces as we grimly work through a heatwave. The whole process takes between nine and twelve hours, although most of this is yeast- and dough-rising time. Just before midnight I remove the panettone from the oven to find it is a spectacular failure. It has barely risen to the top of the special, high-sided tin I have purchased for it; moreover, it is slightly burnt! My disappointment is fractionally less intense than my sense of panic.

We try again the next day using a slightly different recipe from a magazine. This time I am so determined to succeed that I do not heed the discomfort. The vision of that puffy golden dome and the perfume of the vanilla sweetening the air come as a great victory at the end of the night. I send the article off several days later, accompanied by some proud photos, but somehow cannot bring myself to even taste the thing, which has ceased to be food.