by Gail Mencini
“You ask about our business?” Angelina’s face brightened into a wide smile, showing crooked front teeth. “Are you a travel writer or tour operator?”
“No, just a tourist interested in Montepulciano.”
“Why?”
Sophie lied. “I am doing research for an article on the history of the town businesses, from the start of World War II through today. I want to learn how they coped during wartime, whether ownership changed, how they survived during such a traumatic time.”
Angelina perked up. “This has been in my family since immediately after the war. During the war, this building was used by the Germans as a beer hall.”
“Do you know who owned it before the war?”
“It was under lease until the Nazis came here. The family disappeared like so many during that time. We were lucky to get the lease after the war.”
“What kind of business was it before the war started?”
“I think a beer hall, like during the war.”
Another strike. Francesca worked selling meats during most of the war. She certainly didn’t run her business out of the Germans’ beer hall.
Sophie heard cheers, wolf whistles, and the sound of a loud motorcycle from outside. She and the other patrons walked to the door to see who incited the commotion.
A bright yellow Ducati motorcycle entered the piazza. It skirted the edge with a roar and stopped in front of the imposing stone building with a turret.
Two people sat double on the motorcycle. They dismounted and removed their helmets. The driver wore a short, black skirt and a form-fitting knit shirt. The woman shook out her long, curly brown hair and carried her helmet in one hand. The stunning driver could strut down a Milan fashion runaway or Beverly Hills sidewalk and be right at home.
The man who rode behind her turned and waved at the group of young men who loitered outside the market. His eyes landed on Sophie for a second. He had close-cropped black hair, sexy stubble on his face, blue jeans, and a black T-shirt.
Both riders looked about Sophie’s age but were infinitely cooler.
The woman grabbed her companion’s hand and pulled him along with her into the building with a turret.
“What is that?” Sophie asked Angelina, pointing to the building.
“It is the Palazzo Comunale, an important government building in Montepulciano. The Nazis used the space as their base during the war in this area.”
“What is it now?”
“It is the same as before the war. The city is managed there and you can get permits and licenses.”
“Like marriage licenses,” the self-proclaimed boss of the sandwiches said. He winked at Sophie and nodded, as if letting her in on a secret about the couple who scampered into the ancient building.
Engaged or not, having that sexy Italian man look her way made Sophie wish she’d gotten up in time to put on makeup.
54
That night, Sophie and Will decided to visit a nearby tasting room with underground caves. The man at the entrance, about Sophie’s age, spoke excellent English and welcomed them inside.
The man explained this was not a winery, but a location for aging wines produced by one of the area’s Vino di Nobile Montepulciano producers. This vino must be aged, he told them, for two years from the January 1st following the harvest, with a minimum of twelve months in oak.
They walked downhill into the cave. Sophie held Will’s arm, praying the smooth stone surface would not be slick. She did not want her neighbor to fall.
They walked farther into the cavern. The humidity increased as they walked downhill, and the air became colder.
The vintages were aged in musty rooms where long rows of large wooden barrels lined the walls. Sophie and Will stopped to read the small instructional signs on the self-guided tour. The rooms spilled over, one after another, winding deeper and lower into the cavern.
They opted to follow a path that shortcut the remainder of the cave and passed into the tasting room at the end.
The greeter offered to pour them a sample, but Sophie thought food before wine would be a better option.
He suggested a trattoria nearby and directed them to follow the road that sloped down from the cave.
Will and Sophie walked a short distance and passed through an archway in the wall. This opened into a broader road—the main shopping street, according to the man in the tasting room.
Sophie kept her eyes on Will and worried about the uphill trek to return to their hotel.
Will, however, was full of energy, perhaps due to his time riding instead of walking earlier that day.
They settled into their chairs in the small trattoria, which held no more than a dozen tables. Will ordered a bottle of wine for them to share with dinner.
They started with a mixed plate of bruschetta: tomato, a dark paste of olives, and a savory one of boar, white wine, and raisins on thick slices of toasted bread.
Sophie couldn’t decide which one she liked best.
They opted to split a pasta course and ordered Pici pasta with breadcrumbs. Their waiter explained that the rolled-by-hand Pici noodle was a traditional Montepulciano food.
Once their bowls sat before them, Sophie understood what he meant when he described it as a typical rustic dish. Pici noodles looked like fat spaghetti. With a simple sauce of garlic oil and breadcrumbs, the lightly coated homemade pasta soothed their souls and quenched their appetites.
“Joe Able,” Will said, “is not a good driver. Way too jerky if you ask me. He did show me some pretty countryside, though.”
“Where did you go and what did you see?”
“Oh, we went all around. We first drove by the Temple of San Biagio, just outside of Montepulciano. The church was made with travertine, Joe said. A real pretty honey-colored building. Shaped like a cross and very famous, too.”
“Was the inside as lovely as the exterior?”
“We didn’t go inside. We sat in the Fiat, and Joe told me about it.”
He didn’t look disappointed at the touring omission.
“Where else did you go?”
“Mostly we drove in rural areas. I was 100 percent lost. It was right nice territory, though. The vineyards were all pretty, and we saw rows of cypress trees, and olive groves, too.”
“You rode in the car all day?”
“Of course not. We went to another little town, San Quirico d’Orcia, and had lunch there. Joe and I ate outdoors on a patio—a gorgeous scene. We had wine with lunch, but only one glass. After lunch, we rested in our chairs and looked at the view for a long while before we came back.”
“Does that mean you and Joe napped?”
He chuckled. “I don’t know about him, but I think I might have closed my eyes for a few minutes.”
No wonder he’s spunky and rested. They napped away the afternoon.
“Did you know that Etruscans settled this whole territory? And that the Medicis picked Montepulciano for a summer residence?”
“No, I didn’t know that.” Sophie tried to hide her disappointment. Joe had filled Will with interesting historical facts but didn’t do a thing to find Francesca.
“I imagine I could tag along with Joe and keep out of your way for one more day. How about it?” His eyes twinkled.
“Do you have plans for anything specific?”
“No, just wandering down the road, seeing if I remember anything. Joe said he’d meet me in the Piazza Grande at ten in the morning.”
“Oh. So you already planned it, did you?” Will looked stronger, more rested, and happy. She didn’t mind if she got stuck with more dead-end queries at the stores in Montepulciano. She could wrap up the search here tomorrow and the following day go with them.
“Oh. One more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Joe said there was a small chance that Margherita might need a bit of help from you tomorrow, like to run an errand or something. That OK with you?”
His hopeful face left her no choice. “Of course.”
As long as I don’t have to cook.
55
The next morning, Sophie and Will waited for Joe at a small outdoor table in the Piazza Grande. Their empty espresso cups sat before them. Joe’s old Fiat pulled into the piazza’s limited parking area.
Sophie walked over and thanked Joe for driving Will around, adding that she would also enjoy seeing the surrounding countryside. “Perhaps tomorrow?”
Joe nodded but didn’t address her request. The good news was that he fired up the car without a word about Sophie helping Margherita.
He started to drive, but then stopped.
“Say, Chef Sophie, Margherita could use a bit of help today. She’s giving a proposal to one of the local wineries. They’re a big producer and want to start exporting their wine to the U.S. Would you mind stopping in to see her now?”
Joe pulled away—his hand waving good-bye through the open car window—before Sophie could ask what the “help” might entail.
Sophie stopped at the few shops that were open on her way to the school. The oldest establishment started doing business in 1948. Many of the businesses in Montepulciano, she realized, began operations after World War II.
Margherita was bustling in her kitchen. A lively fire was burning. She selected a log, added it to the fire, and rearranged the logs to elongate the flame.
“Buongiorno, Sophie. I am happy to see you. Joe sent you, no?”
“Buongiorno, Margherita. Joe said you might need a little help today. Do you need me to run an errand for you?”
Margherita waved her hand. “No, no. You can help me in the kitchen. I must finish my proposal, but I also need a few bites ready for the meeting.”
Sophie gulped. Cook? She remembered her boastful, false claim to Joe. This is bad—very bad. A few bites? I hope she wants something easy, like slicing and plating cheese and washing grapes.
“I’m happy to help you, but I don’t know how you like things done. I am a little nervous because you’re a professional chef.”
“Tsk, tsk. Don’t be silly. This is easy. Slices of cheese. Simple.”
Sophie hoped her relief didn’t show on her face.
“The tomatoes are beautiful and ripe. Please use them to make bruschetta. I built a fire so it will be ready for you.”
Bruschetta? Sophie had eaten bruschetta with a tomato topping but had no clue as to the ingredients that went into it. Where does a blazing fire fit into the process?
She swallowed. If she started with the cheese plate and took her time, perhaps Margherita would take over and whip up the bruschetta herself.
“Sure. Why don’t I start with the cheese while you go do your computer work? That way if I have questions on the bruschetta, you’ll be back here to answer them. Now, if you’ll just show me which cheese you want to serve, I’ll—”
“No, no. Start with the bruschetta, so the flavors have time to marry.”
Time to fess up. “Margherita, please tell me exactly how you’d like the bruschetta prepared, step by step.”
Margherita turned and bustled through the industrial kitchen like a whirlwind, shaking her head all the while.
“You start making a dice of the tomatoes. About this big.” Margherita demonstrated by pinching her thumb and index finger. “Then you salt them.” She nodded to Sophie. “Not like you Americans would, but lots of salt. I’ll bring my computer in here, in case you have more questions.”
Sophie felt the burn of embarrassment on her face. “Thank you.”
A large bowl of Roma tomatoes sat on the island. Sophie brought the bowl to the sink. She knew to wash them before cutting. She could thank Russ for that. He had berated her once for slicing an apple at his apartment without scrubbing it first.
She carefully transferred the tomatoes into a colander in the sink and sprayed them, making sure they were all clean.
She had just finished cutting the first tomato into a dice on the butcher block when Margherita returned with a laptop under her arm.
She stood next to Sophie and looked at the massacred fruit, which resembled more mush than dice. Margherita set down her laptop and put a hand on Sophie’s arm. “You don’t know how to make bruschetta, do you?”
Tears welled up in Sophie’s eyes. “I’m sorry. The only thing I know how to cook is macaroni and cheese from a b-box.” Her hand flew to her mouth, and she stifled a sob.
Margherita drew Sophie to her in a hug. “Shh. It’s OK. We’ll manage.”
“I’m sorry I let you down.”
“It’s fine.”
“Can I help you with the proposal, while you cook? Is that possible?”
Margherita nodded, her lips pressed together. “It is the only way the appetizers will get prepared.”
Margherita quickly logged in, showed Sophie the proposal, and described the changes to be made.
“I can fix this,” Sophie said.
Margherita raised an eyebrow.
“I do know how to prepare proposals. That’s not a lie.”
They both laughed. The tension broke.
Margherita became a calm but fast bruschetta-making machine. She smiled and hummed and explained the reason behind everything she did. To Sophie’s surprise, it wasn’t even that complicated.
First, cut an “X” in the base of the Roma tomatoes.
Dip them in boiling water for 30 seconds.
Pull them up with a slotted spoon and submerge the tomatoes into a dish of ice water.
Peel off the skins.
Cut the tomatoes lengthwise into halves, then again into long quarters. With a paring knife, remove the seeds and membranes.
Slice the quarters into thin strips and then cut them crosswise into little pieces.
Place the tomato dice into a colander in the sink, heavily salt the tomatoes, and gently stir them.
Let the tomatoes drain.
Sophie worked on the laptop. She looked up when Margherita walked by to wash her knives. The cheese was sliced and plated beside a platter of purple-fleshed figs, halved and drizzled with honey.
Sophie completed the proposal and Margherita went to print it. She directed Sophie to the back courtyard to collect basil.
Together they washed, dried, and cut the basil into a chiffonade. Margherita had to show Sophie how to create the thin strips, of course.
Margherita dumped the drained tomatoes and basil together into a glass bowl and added olive oil.
Sophie had thought Margherita had an overly generous hand with the salt until she saw what happened with the olive oil. The chef poured what seemed like a small pitcher of oil over the tomato mixture.
Margherita winked at Sophie. “Now we leave it to marry. I will go to change. You can toast the bread.”
I can definitely run a toaster. “Of course.” Sophie looked around. “Where is the toaster?”
Margherita laughed and clapped her hands. She pulled Sophie to the fireplace and motioned to the fire, calmed now into embers and low flames. “Here. This is what you use.”
Margherita pulled out a long-handled wire basket that opened like a book. She demonstrated how it slid into support posts and rotated 180 degrees to roast both sides.
Margherita explained that immediately after toasting both surfaces, one side of the bread should be rubbed with the cut side of a garlic clove. Toast the next batch, rub with garlic, and repeat.
“You will add the tomatoes to the bread only when the guests arrive.” For the first time today, Margherita looked nervous. “Can you do this? No lies.”
Sophie looked at her and grinned. “It’s like s’mores. This I can do. Go get ready.”
Like s’mores? Not hardly.
56
Within the first minute of trying to balance the wire basket on the supports, Sophie realized she needed to hold the handle in place, as it wouldn’t rest by itself on the bracket.
Sweat beads formed on her forehead.
Halfway through toasting the thick slices of bread, four at a time, quickly rubbing the cut garlic ov
er the hot slices, and rushing to toast the next batch, she was a disaster. Sweat drenched her blue cotton T-shirt and soot streaked it with black.
Strands of hair stuck in wet clumps to her brow and the side of her face.
The odor of garlic on her fingers could ward off vampires.
“Ciao, Margherita,” a woman’s voice sounded from the entry.
Sophie prayed Margherita would appear to usher her business prospects into the dining area that doubled as a conference room.
Sophie listened for the sound of Margherita’s footsteps.
The last batch of toast was almost done to crunchy perfection. The trickiest part of the whole process involved dislodging the handle from the support. Sophie wiggled it loose, lifted it up, and ...
“Ciao,” a man said from behind Sophie.
Sophie straightened up and tried to turn toward the man, but the basket threw off her balance. It slipped out of her hand and, with the toasts still trapped inside the wire container, landed in the fireplace embers.
“Oh, no,” Sophie said. The toasts were ruined.
“It’s my fault.” The man grabbed a towel from the counter and, using it as a potholder, helped her raise the basket out of the fire.
“I suggest you dump those in the trash before Margherita gets here.” The woman who had entered with the man walked into the kitchen and wrinkled her nose.
Sophie wanted to say something witty, or apologetic, or anything, but she couldn’t.
Not because she was mortified by dumping the last batch of bread into the embers, though she was.
And not because she looked sweatier and dirtier than if she’d been working in the field on a ranch under the hot summer sun, though she did.
No, Sophie was tongue-tied.
The striking Italian couple she saw running into the town hall, perhaps to get a marriage license? The very same duo stood in front of her.
“Don’t worry,” the man said. “Isabella and I promise to eat only a few of the bruschetta, so we won’t run short.” He smiled at Sophie.
He slid the garbage can beside her and urged Sophie to drop the ruined pieces inside.
“See? Your secret is safe with us. I’m Niccolò, by the way, and this is Isabella.”
