“Il Pozzo” I’m on a Tuscan-food high. I’ve just consumed a lunchtime repast fit for a king (although grounded in the cuisine of countryside peasants) in a small hilltop town in the province of Siena known as Monteriggioni. It’s a gray, rainy November day in central Tuscany, and as Cyndy and I approached the small town --- which sits perched atop a large “poggio”( a big, rolling “hill”) --- I was already anticipating the aromas and the welcoming warmth of “Il Pozzo” (literally the “hole” or the “well”) where we’ve decided to have lunch today. We climb up the muddy incline from the communal parking lot to the medieval walls and southern “porta” of this perfectly preserved fortress village. A few hearty souls are out and about in the small main piazza --- some Asian tourists ducking in and out of bric-a-brac shops to keep out of the rain, a few elderly residents out for a few errands. Mostly though, there’s a steady beeline for the two “ristoranti” that front on the town square. It’s lunchtime --- a sacred part of each afternoon dedicated exclusively to the gastronomic pleasures of the Italian table and the company of family and friends. Under the pressure of an evolving “new” economy, many modern Italians today shun the traditional sit-down lunch in favor of a quick panino or some other facsimile of American-style “fast-food” at a bar or caffe. They’re still in the minority, however. Many more continue the tradition of closing their doors and their minds at 1:00 PM sharp until the last drop of wine has been consumed and the last caffe has been knocked-back around 3:30 PM. Not a bad way to live. And so it is at Il Pozzo on this drizzly, dreary late autumn afternoon as we’re congenially guided by one of our hosts to the last open table in the restaurant. As has become my habit at lunchtime, the “good” inner-John and the “naughty” inner-John become engaged in a battle for my free will. The good: “Now John, don’t overdo it today. You’re here for three months, you’ve got plenty of opportunities to try everything you want. And there’s still dinner tonight…. Don’t be a pig.” The naughty: “My God, would you look at the size of that Fiorentina bistecca at that next table? And how about those papardelle ai funghi over there --- you know those porcini are only in season for another week or so. Go for it, John, you’re only here for three months!” Usually (well, ok, sometimes), I’m able to strike a reasonable compromise between “good” John and “naughty” John. Not so today. I’m overwhelmed by hunger, and by the sight and smell of so many appealing possibilities drifting by our table --- not to mention a wine list that reads like a who’s who of Tuscan oenology, including dozens of high-quality labels of mature vintages at incredibly reasonable prices. No, today I’m giving myself over to “naughty” John --- I’m going for the full panino! Cyndy rolls her eyes as I order, but I know that as soon as the first course arrives I’ll be able to count on her enthusiastic participation in this afternoon of gluttony--- as long as I don’t go for anything “troppo strano” (“too strange”). The “troppo strano” category generally includes, by Cyndy’s definition anyway, any kind of innards (very popular in Tuscany; they actually have a name: “il quinto quarto” or “the fifth quarter”), salumi or sausages stuffed with meat from the head, cheeks or feet of a mammal, horse (popular in the south, but not so common here in Tuscany), cat (another southern delicacy) or pigeon. We’re going big, we’re going long, but we’re going mainstream --- mainstream by Tuscan standards anyway, if not by the milk-toast and porridge standards of a Boston Brahmin. We start out with “affettati misti” (literally “mixed slices”), a plate of various Tuscan cold-cuts including prosciutto, soppressato, and finnochionino (a regional salami made only here in Tuscany). Each one is a perfect combination of taste, aroma and texture --- a mix of meat, spices and herbs that’s perfectly cut and balanced by the heady acidity and concentrated fruit of the 1993 Brunello di Montalcino that I’ve chosen for a wine this afternoon. It’s a good warm-up for “i primi” --- a pair of pasta selections --- which are next. Cyndy’s opted for pici al ragu, a very particular handmade pasta which looks like extra-fat spaghetti but has the texture and “bite” of fresh egg noodles. It’s sauced with a traditional slow-cooked meat ragu, a combination of veal, beef and pork simmered for hours with aromatic vegetables and a touch of San Marzano tomatoes. I’ve gone with a tried and true favorite --- papardelle al cinghiale. “Cinghiale” is the wild boar native to the Tuscan countryside which is hunted feverishly this time of the year by Tuscan men, both for the pure sport of the chase and for the pleasure of eating its distinctly savory meat. Both dishes are hits --- in fact both are out-of-the-ballpark good. The handmade pasta is obviously the product of true artisans who’ve probably crafted thousands of hand-made sheets of fresh egg pasta over the years. “How can something as simple as pasta taste soooo good?” I wonder. It’s actually a simple formula; simple on paper at least, but not so simple in the execution. Start with large, incredibly fresh local eggs from free-ranging hens. Combine with locally-produced flour made from high-quality wheat milled to exact specifications for pasta-making (as opposed to bread, pastry or pizza baking). Add some sea salt, maybe a thimble-full of extra-virgin Tuscan olive oil (just for texture), and then give the whole mass over to the trained hands of a local “Nonna” who’s been kneading this same dough to the perfect consistency for the last thirty years. Cook to precisely the correct degree of doneness --- the infamous “al dente” (by the way, guys, the correct pronunciation is “ahl dayn-tay,” not “al dahn-tay” --- the Italians will snicker at that latter pronunciation, let you know that Al Dante is a person not a way to cook pasta, and then throw their hands up in incredulity as they mutter to themselves that it’s no wonder these Americans always overcook their pasta) --- no more and no less. The result: “Ottimo (the best)!!!” I’m full after i primi, but that’s not going to stop me this afternoon. I’ve ordered a grilled pork chop as a “secondo.” Cyndy’s decided on some locally-raised lamb. There are roasted potatoes and fresh sautéed spinach on the side together with a small green salad. It’s all incredibly well-prepared, incredibly fresh and memorably “gustoso.” As the cameriere clears the plates, I can hear the words of my friend Joe (an authentic second-generation Canadian-Italian) echoing in my brain: “Ora, voglio solo di morire!!” --- “Now, I just want to die!!” “Ma, dopo i dolci.” --- “But, after dessert.” That’s exactly how these people think --- they know as we do that death is inevitable, but if possible, they’d like to pick the time and place, and moreover, they’d like to keep putting it off as long as possible so as not to miss the next pleasure that this goodly earth promises to deliver up to them. Accordingly, we do have biscotti and we do have Vin Santo --- the luscious sweet dessert wine unique to Tuscany. It’s the one substance I know capable of rendering our dear friend Linda --- who once marched our families through an hour-by-hour five-day tour-de-force of Walt Disney World which really did have me muttering “Voglio morire” --- unable to think about her schedule for the next day. I have no schedule for the next day, so, for me, the effects of this wonderful meal, the wine that went with it and the Vin Santo which topped it off, simply draw me into a pleasant state of feel-good contemplation. We head back out into the piazza. The rain has stopped, the wind has died down and thought it’s still gray and cloudy, the surrounding countryside still has a certain mystical charm. Cyndy and I head across the square to a small enoteca/caffe and have espressos at the bar. It’s now actually warm enough --- if you have a grappa with you --- to sit outside for a while and watch the world go by. And so we do. Where are you Michelangelo? It’s not surprising to find food treated as art here in Italy. It’s one more way the Italians have of expressing their love --- not only for one another, but also for all things beautiful. For an Italian, beautiful food is another of life’s great pleasures, something to be admired and savored like a good book, a painting or a piece of music. They don’t eat to live, they eat well to live well. It seems to me that much of this fascination (some would say obsession) with beauty derives from the incredible history of art in this place. Everywhere you go, there it is --- an amazing building, a beautiful painting, a memorable sculpture or a “giardino” which transcends any notion of a “garden” that most of us have ever had. And the majority of these beautiful works date back at least hundreds, if not thousands, of years in Italian history. At age 44, I finally saw the Sistine Chapel. I stood inside that place in silent awe for 20 minutes. Sometimes, you finally reach a place you’ve always dreamed of reaching and end up disappointed. Not so I assure you for the Sistine Chapel. We live in an era when Disney churns out a new synthetic world each year in Orlando aided by the latest supercomputers and armies of design engineers; when entire feature films are being produced by Hollywood with complete “casts” of computer-animated “people”; when much of the music we hear on the radio is actually sung and played by synthesizers. We see or hear the results and we say, “Wow, that’s amazing! How did they do that?” Go see the Sistine Chapel. You must. In the words of my Italian tutor Carlo, it’s “fondamentale.” First, you have to grasp the scale of this undertaking. The chapel is immense --- not the size of St. Peter’s Basilica next door for sure, but certainly bigger and more imposing than many cathedrals we’re familiar with in the U.S. Next, you have to take into account that all of this incredible work --- the entire ceiling of the chapel as well as the front wall depiction of the Last Judgment --- was done by one man. I’m not entirely certain, but I believe that at one time during the painting of these frescoes Michelangelo did employ some assistants. They were soon dismissed, however, as the master determined that their work was not up to snuff for this important Vatican commission. So, at the age of 33, working alone for hours on a specially erected scaffold, Michelangelo Buonarotti completed this amazing work of art over the course of four years (1508 – 1512). Twenty-two years later, at the age of 60, Michelangelo was lured back once again to paint the Last Judgment --- a seven year endeavor --- which many regard as his masterpiece. As you enter the chapel you’re immediately struck by the scale of the frescoes, and by the emotions they depict with their color, light and unimaginable detail. Looking at this --- actually looking “back” at this, from the perspective of a 21st century man --- you can’t help but wonder how this could ever have been accomplished. One man. No Disney computers and engineers, just paint and plaster and vision and personal drive. He’d never even painted before --- he was a sculptor first and foremost. The Sistine Chapel is in Rome, where the Vatican’s money and prestige eventually lured most of the great masters of the Renaissance. But Michelangelo --- like Leonardo da Vinci, Giotto, Brunelleschi, Galileo, Botticelli, Dante, Machiavelli and many others --- was a Tuscan, born in Florence where he lies buried in the church of Santa Croce. He certainly left his mark here as well --- the mammoth statue of David which sits in the Accademia, the striking painting of The Holy Family which hangs in the Uffizi Gallery. I wander over to the Santa Croce quartiere one day after Italian class. I need shoes, I need a jacket, and this neighborhood is a treasure trove of leather goods shops. Having struck out on my personal errand, I decide to salvage the detour with a walk through Piazza di Santa Croce. “Why not duck into the church,” I think, “It’s right here, and how often do I find myself strolling by the tombs of Michelangelo, Macchiavelli and Galileo?” Inside Santa Croce it’s calm and peaceful. It’s a slow time of the year in Florence to begin with, and on top of that tourism has been way down in the wake of world events. I find a quiet place to sit. I look around at the wonders on display --- frescoes by Giotto and his pupil Gaddi; Brunelleschi’s domed Capella de’ Pazzi. What is it about this place --- about Florence and the surrounding towns and cities of Tuscany? What is it that brought forth so much creative and intellectual genius? What inspired these men to such great heights? What drove them to see their vision through to fruition? Was it the church with its prestige and money? Was it the aristocracy with their prestige and money? These seem to be the common explanations. But I don’t quite buy that. The church had a vast presence throughout all of Europe, and there were rich families scattered about the continent as well. Nonetheless, the search for creative genius seemed always to lead back to Tuscany. No, I believe it’s got something to do with this place. With a landscape so painfully beautiful I sometimes think it’s not real --- just another Disney animation placed out on the horizon to entertain the tourists. But it is real. And it does push you, urge you, inspire you to do things --- creative things (like write a journal) --- that other places would not impel you to do. It’s getting late. Cyndy is scheduled to pick up the kids at school in about 25 minutes. If I hurry, I can make it there on foot and enjoy a double-benefit: a beautiful walk across the Arno on a spectacular day and a ride home in the comfort of our own car rather than public transportation (I haven’t softened to the point of becoming that much of a “man-of-the-people”). Before I leave the church, I make my way over to the tomb of Michelangelo. I’m not sure if it’s allowed, but I get close enough to put my hand on the stone of the tomb itself and I touch it, leave it there for 10 seconds or so. I guess maybe I’m hoping for something cosmic --- for some scintilla of that genius to transport itself into my being where it will wake me with a jolt tomorrow morning. I leave the church and head toward the Arno. The light has changed dramatically as late afternoon has settled in, and as I cross the river and look back at the Ponte Vecchio everything’s awash in soft yellow and burnt orange. My thoughts turn back again to Michelangelo. Who is “our Michelangelo” in the year 2001? I can’t think of a soul. Wyeth is pleasing (both father and son), but he’s no Michelangelo. Even looking back over the past 100 years, I’m hard pressed. Warhol? Come on. Picasso? A master, yes --- but it seems to me, just not in the same league. Go see the Sistine Chapel. As I make the final turn up to Istituto del Sacro Cuore to meet Cyndy and the kids, there’s another debate brewing between the two Johns --- but this time it’s between the “cynical” John and the “optimistic” John. Cynical John: “We will never see another Michelangelo. The world as we know it today just won’t foster and support that kind of creative genius. We’re too busy waiting for Bruce Willis to come out with ‘Die Hard IV.’ If Michelangelo’s strain of genius is still out there --- if we haven’t already pushed the species to extinction --- it can’t possibly flourish in today’s world. Who would pay for it?” Optimistic John: “He or she may be out there right now. It’s just that how often do all the raw elements actually come together: the natural ability, the discovery of the natural ability and the proper fostering/growth of that natural ability? That’s what made Renaissance Florence a special place --- people actively searching for that genius, nourishing it and bringing it to light for others to enjoy. He or she may be out there right now --- we just don’t know it yet.” And both Johns: “Where are you Michelangelo?” Tante cose belle i miei amici, John Impruneta, Italy
