We puttered through San Niccolò and past my friends: the Dramatic Idraulico paused in his conversation outside Rifrullo with Pavarotti to wave, Pavarotti bellowing out a snatch of Verdi’s “Libiamo”; Cristy bobbed up and down outside her shop, wearing a spray of mimosa in her hair, her arms open wide as she called out “Auguri!”; Jack the dog barked at us from inside the jewelry shop; and as we rounded the corner into the Piazza Demidoff, Old Roberto gazed suspiciously at Beppe as I waved. I felt like the Queen passing through her subjects.
In the middle of the Ponte alle Grazie, Beppe pulled over to one side and turned to me, his helmet framing his handsome face.
“Look, bella, especially for you. Happy Women’s Day!” He kissed me, pointing to the Ponte Vecchio just downriver, thrown into shadow as the sun set behind it. The cloud-streaked sky ignited above us, oranges and reds turning to mauve, purple, and rose, the river flowing like liquid amethyst below. Beppe kicked the motorino back to life, his strong back pressing against my belly as I sniffed contentedly at the mimosa pinned on my coat, the sky on fire.
* * *
—
The next Sunday evening, when Beppe failed to ring as promised, I rang Luigo. “We’re going out to have some fun, bella. Meet me by Dante in twenty minutes.”
I found Luigo standing by the dour poet and followed him down a side street, where he stopped at two tables outside an unpromising-looking bar called, appropriately, Piccolo.
“Here? Really?” I raised an eyebrow.
“Yes, really,” Luigo said, pouting. “It’s quiet now, but it’s only nine o’clock.”
He brought us two tall beers outside and thimblefuls of vodka—“Tonight you drink!” he ordered. It was cold, but Luigo had to smoke, and so we let the vodka heat us up.
Soon we were joined by Luigo’s friends. At the center of the group was a tall, skinny creature of indeterminate age with alabaster skin and scarlet lipstick, ink-black hair falling straight down the shoulders of her fuchsia taffeta ball gown, which was lobbed off at the knee. She was flanked by two beautiful boys at least twenty years younger than she. Luigo whispered that Antonella—Anto—was always accompanied by at least two young Adonises, gay icon of Florence that she was. The puffy sleeves of her dress were so exaggerated they would have been comical on anyone else, but she had such an insouciance that she looked, instead, perfectly, ironically, gorgeous.
When she made a throwaway comment—in excellent English—about the inspiration for her outfit being Alexis Carrington Colby, I knew that Antonella and I would be friends. Luigo had been quite right about Piccolo: by midnight the narrow alley was filled with bare dancing torsos and thumping music.
* * *
—
The next day the phone jangled through my hangover. I was lying inert on the sofa, making my way through a pot of tea, wishing it was attached to me by intravenous drip—the very act of lifting the pot made my head hurt. The blended perfume of mimosa, hyacinth, and narcissus on my kitchen table was making me feel nausated.
“Pronto?” I whispered.
“Tesoro,” the unmistakable husky tones of Antonella echoed through the receiver. “Carrington Colby here. Probably your head hurts.” I nodded. She went on as if she could see me. “I think you should come here and have a coffee. Then stay for lunch. La mamma is cooking her hangover cure…”
I forced myself to bathe and dress. The sun was shining and I scrabbled to find some sunglasses before I went blind walking over the river. Antonella lived with her elderly widowed mother in the piazza of Santa Croce itself, above a leather shop. I had cut through the alleyway we had spent our evening in, passing the closed Piccolo with a shudder.
Antonella, who had just turned fifty, was not a standard Florentine woman of her generation, with their penchant for navy quilted jackets and classic clothes. She worked in fashion and her own tastes ran to vintage designer pieces—she would have been at home in the wilder reaches of hipster Hackney or Brooklyn’s Bushwick. And she had unfailing style. She oozed it through her hangover today in a black polo and ski pants, a huge pair of black sunglasses obscuring half her face, and perfect red lipstick, looking like Emma Peel from The Avengers.
“Permesso,” I said as I crossed the threshold, and I could see from Antonella’s smile that minding my manners was the right thing to do. I had noted the formalities in Italian culture from my very first trip with Kicca, when she greeted people she was meeting for the first time with “salve” and not “ciao.” She had told me about the correct forms of address, the difference between the formal “lei” and “tu,” how the old-fashioned way—still employed in the south—was to use the very formal “voi.” I understood all this instinctively from Iranian culture—I had always used the formal plural to address my parents out of respect.
On entering, I understood why she was wearing her sunglasses indoors—the apartment was blindingly bright. It hurt my head. “Come in, tesoro,” said Anto. “Put those back on,” she said, pointing to my sunglasses. “At least till after we have had coffee.” She busied herself in the kitchen, explaining that her mother was at the market, shopping for lunch. I watched her move about carefully preparing the mocha, explaining what she was doing over her shoulder, telling me that the coffeemaker must never be overfilled and compacted too much, that the water used should never be hot, it should be placed on a low heat, and that, above all, as soon as the machine started to splutter, it must be taken off the heat immediately. While coffee was a sacred ritual, Antonella was quick to tell me she could not and would not cook. “Luckily, la mamma takes care of that, otherwise I would be dead!”
She served coffee on a little silver tray, picking out two small wafer-thin china coffee cups and matching saucers, fetching a small silver sugar bowl with matching tiny prongs, and placing on each saucer a silver teaspoon that matched the sugar bowl. She poured hot black coffee into each cup and carried the tray to the dining table.
That’s when I learned that no matter how bohemian an Italian woman may be, there were rules she would never break. She would never serve you coffee in a big mug plonked unceremoniously on the kitchen table.
The front door clicked as I was finishing my second cup—la mamma had arrived. A small, stocky woman—typically Tuscan—she walked in already talking. She was wearing a thick gray coat in wool bouclé, a matching hat covering her short hair. I jumped up, whipping off my sunglasses, and shook her hand as Antonella introduced us. La mamma kissed me on each cheek, held me to her ample bosom, and then shed her coat and hat, hanging them up in a closet by the front door, teasing her hair in front of the mirror in the hall. With her olive skin and light brown hair, dark blue slacks and sensible shoes, which she swapped for slippers with a high wedge heel, she looked nothing like her geishalike daughter. She was homely, but the brooch on her cashmere sweater and matching gold earrings were a testament to the care she took over her appearance, even as she went into the kitchen and donned an apron, shooing us out of her way.
Antonella took me to her bedroom, which looked out over the Piazza Santa Croce. It was minimal and edgy like Antonella, with white walls and a few pieces of very good black furniture. There was a bed tucked into the corner, a desk at the other end, and a Le Corbusier black leather sofa and cube armchair against the wall. Framed in the two large casement windows was the marble façade of the basilica of Santa Croce, the fine decorative detail around the front door like ribbons of handmade lace, a mass of people milling around on its wide skirt of steps.
“Ah yes, the church,” said Antonella lightly. “Any pictures on the walls would be an insult to the Temple of Italian Glories.”
Anto had moved in with her mother after her father had passed away five years ago—“because no one likes to be alone, tesoro. Not that she needs me…” She went on to recount how, in spite of her seventy-plus years and problems with her knees, la mamma’s love for life kept her busy: visiting the market every morning, cooking for them both every day and going dancing every Sunday afternoon.
“I think she has a boyfriend,” whispered Antonella, joining me at the window. “She won’t tell me! But I have my suspicions. Look down there!”
She pointed to a small man sitting on one of the stone benches that lined the square below. He was wearing a checked shirt and flat cap, his hands folded in his lap.
“Look, he’s always down there when she’s just come home or about to leave to go somewhere,” hissed Antonella. “I think he walks her home and then rests to catch his breath…”
“Have you asked her?” I peered out the window, delighted by la mamma’s mystery man.
“Yes, but she refuses to tell me!” Anto started laughing and I joined in. I hoped there would be men clamoring to walk me home when I am in my seventies.
Antonella and I laid the table for lunch, and la mamma brought out a single iris in a tall, slim glass jar. It was a pale powdery lilac with large petals folded down like tongues. She said, translated by her daughter, that she had spotted the first of the Florentine irises flowering by the side of the basilica. “Giaggiolo,” she enunciated the Tuscan name, explaining how the fleur-de-lis symbol of the city etched on all the municipal marques—even on traffic barriers and manhole covers—was in fact a giaggiolo. “They grow wild around here, the scent is lovely.” She offered it to me to sniff. “In April and May the city is covered…”
Our first course was a dense, hearty soup. I watched Antonella pour oil on top of hers and copied her, mixing it in. It was made with chunks of rough-cut vegetables, green leaves, cannellini beans, and a texture I couldn’t place.
“Bread!” cried out la mamma triumphantly.
Antonella told me she had bet her I wouldn’t be able to guess. “This is ribollita, a typical Tuscan dish.
“You see, cara,” Antonella elaborated. “You know Tuscan cuisine is what we call la cucina povera? It’s kind of peasant cuisine, about using all the produce you have, not wasting anything. It is very earthy, not fancy at all…”
La mamma cut in with an indignant shrug as Antonella translated quickly. “When the produce is as good as ours, there is no need to cover the taste with sauces and cream and butter. Like the French…” She sniffed her disapproval.
La mamma explained to me that ribollita was made overnight for the flavors to settle. “The longer you leave it, the more delicious it is!” It was one of several Tuscan dishes devised to use the local bread that turned rock hard after a day or two as I knew from even the small loaf that the baker put aside for me.
“No preservatives, cara,” said Anto. “Like us Tuscan women, you see. No Botox, not like the Romans! Just natural goodness!” She and la mamma laughed lustily.
Each bite of ribollita restored me, it was practically like medicine. I took la mamma’s warning not to eat too much, as we still had a pasta dish coming up.
“While the pasta cooks, we should try these.” La mamma placed a basket of perfect pink radishes on the table, the first radishes of the season, she said, and a superior crop. We ate them with no embellishment and in reverential silence—just the sounds of us crunching. They were so peppery, my eyes almost watered. La mamma was right, these did deserve to be a course all their own.
La mamma brought out the pasta dish. Long strands of spaghetti bejeweled by a scattering of bright green peas, Parmesan melting in, accompanied by a green salad and a side of chickpeas. Another reverential hush fell over the table. After second helpings when we had finished it all off, la mamma looked at me with a twinkle. “Are you married?”
“No, mamma!” Anto answered for me. “La Kamin is single like me…” She pronounced Kamin as Hhamin, in the Florentine way that aspirates hard c’s into h’s. I puffed with pride at being transposed into Florentine.
“Allora, non vi preoccupate,” said la mamma, and launched into a story of a friend who had recently celebrated her eightieth birthday. Her dance partner, a widower, had called around in the morning and offered himself as a gift—“a day of love before we are too old to remember”—and she had accepted. “It was the best sex she ever had,” said la mamma matter-of-factly. “So don’t worry, everything has its season. Even if you are as old as me!” She laughed with gusto, nudging Antonella, who gave her a long look.
Antonella said wryly, “At least, cara, we have something to look forward to.”
I walked home reflecting on la mamma’s words. There was no reason to fret over Beppe. More sex was always around the corner—and it could be the best sex of your life. As I traced my way home through back streets grown familiar, I saw wisteria tumbling over balconies and walls, and, cutting through the green patch of the Piazza Demidoff, I passed a profusion of lilac bushes that had suddenly sprung up out of a corner, their sweet smell dispersing the usual stink of dog pee. The four-petaled flowers were so pretty I plucked a few and carried them home, clamped to my nose. As I left the green I saw a long stem of pale lavender giaggiolo straight as a sword, surrounded by bladelike leaves. Spring was coming. I was sure la mamma was right, everything had its season.
Ribollita
SERVES 4–6
12 oz. dried cannellini beans (if using canned beans, use a 14-oz. can of beans, and keep the water)
Best-quality extra-virgin olive oil
1 clove garlic, smashed with a knife blade
1 stem fresh rosemary
Sea salt and black pepper, to taste
2 onions, finely chopped
3 stalks celery, diced
2 carrots, diced
1 potato, peeled and finely chopped
1 14-oz. can chopped Italian tomatoes
1 savoy cabbage
4 handfuls bietola (Italian chard—you can also use spring greens)
4 handfuls cavolo nero (Italian kale)
Stale sourdough bread (half a loaf)
Dried red chili flakes, to taste
Dried thyme, to taste
This soup takes a little preparation but is worth the effort.
Soak the dried cannellini beans in a large bowl of water, preferably for 24 hours but at least overnight. Once the beans have soaked, heat a good glug of olive oil in a large, deep pan, then add the clove of garlic and stem of fresh rosemary. Cook for a minute or so (do not let the garlic burn), then add the beans. Then add 8½ cups of water—a lot of water is needed. Bring to a boil and then cover and let simmer over a medium-high heat for an hour. Once the beans are cooked, season with salt and pepper—not before. If using canned beans you don’t have to cook for so long or in so much water.
Remove the stem of rosemary and half the beans and reserve to one side. Keep the rest of the beans in their water—this will be the stock for your soup—and blend until smooth with a handheld blender. If using canned beans, add the bean water here.
In a separate deep pan, add a glug of olive oil, then add the onions, celery, and carrots, and sauté until golden to make a sofrito. Add the potato to the sofrito, stirring as they all cook. Take the can of tomatoes and mash them into a pulp with a fork, then add to the sofrito and potato cubes. As this mixture simmers, remove the stalk from the savoy cabbage and finely chop the leaves into a julienne—long, thin slices. Remove the stalks from the bietola leaves and chop into large pieces. Do the same with the cavolo nero leaves. Add all the different leaves to the sofrito, tomato, and potato mixture, stirring together over the heat. Add the bean broth, cover, and bring to a boil. Once it is boiling, remove the cover and simmer for another 45 minutes, stirring frequently.
Fill the bottom of a large casserole/Dutch oven with chunks of the sourdough bread. Pour half the soup over the bread. Add another layer of bread and then pour on the rest of the soup. Let it cool until it is tepid, then cover with plastic wrap and leave in the fridge for at least 2 hours. If you can leave it overnight, don’t use the plastic wrap. When you take it out, the bread will have absorbed the soup. Return to the pan and the heat, bringing to a boil, then season with salt, black pepper, some dried red chili flakes, and thyme leaves. Serve, pouring on a slick of olive oil once the soup is in the bowl.
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Spaghetti with peas alla Fiorentina
SERVES 4
1 large white onion
Best-quality extra-virgin olive oil
2 cloves garlic
2 lbs. peas (in shells)
A small handful fresh parsley
Sea salt and black pepper to taste
Pancetta (2 oz. cut into fine pieces)
Spaghetti (3–4 oz. per person)
Finely slice the onion. Heat a good glug of olive oil in a pan, add the onion and one smashed clove of garlic and cook till transparent. Shell the peas and put them into the pan with the onion. Add the remaining peeled and smashed clove of garlic, and some sprigs of parsley; season with sea salt and a little black pepper. Let it simmer, but before the peas are completely cooked and the water all gone (roughly 10–15 minutes but keep an eye on it), add the pancetta.
At the same time, heat a large pasta pot filled with water and add a generous pinch of salt when the water is boiling. Add the spaghetti and, once cooked (al dente), drain, saving some of the pasta water to add to the peas. Add the spaghetti and a cup of the pasta water to the peas and mix it all together till the pasta is covered with the sauce. Serve.
4
APRIL
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Fare l’amore
or HOW TO TAKE A LOVER
PRODUCE IN SEASON · artichokes
SCENT OF THE CITY · orange and lemon blossom
ITALIAN MOMENT · kissing in Siena’s campo
ITALIAN WORD OF THE MONTH · baciami
I had just walked into an exhibition in a scruffy part of Santa Croce and was making my way around the artworks, when my phone pinged:
Bella Figura Page 8
