Tuscany

Casagrande

Chef Claudio picked us up at 9:30 am. That gave me ample time to have breakfast and get to the farmacia to buy my orange cheaters and get back to the Casagrande lobby in time for the pick-up. Breakfast always took place in the covered courtyard of the hotel. It’s a great space. Flagstones under pillared arches, the hedged garden in view. Draped vines cascade from the terrace above. It’s cool in the sunken space, a marked contrast to the heat that each day would bring.

A mother and daughter waited with us, the daughter illustrated by a tattoo for each trip she’d taken. The van darted in and picked us up, winding about the country roads, climbing the Tuscan landscape until we came upon Claudio’s place, where we’d had our welcome meal. But this time we saw it in the light of day. Typically Tuscan, whitewashed and clay-shingled, it set atop the hill, overseeing the neat tiers of olive trees below it. The surrounding grounds looked arid, in spite of how green the landscape appeared. Ditches were non-existent, the occasional clay half pipe leading to grated manholes here and there. We spilled out into a comfortable heat, directed by his wife to a low-lying structure opposite the house. A small, yet varied garden lay at the base of the stair that led to where we’d spend the next few days preparing our own meals. Rows of herbs flavoured the air. From the ground, from varied potted plants. Beyond that lay a long, rectangular swimming pool surrounded by tables.

We descended into the pleasant coolness of a cellar, but it’s not a cellar. A kitchen filled most of the lower building, the unseen bits storage. Not there wasn’t enough storage in the main room. The left wall boasted shelves from floor to ceiling. The rest of the room was sinks and islands and stovetops. There was only one oven, surprisingly small in the expansive space. I was fascinated by it. I was fascinated by how many knives there were, some long, some small, some narrow, some quite wide. One or two as heavy as a mallet.

“I am not going to teach you to cook,” Claudio told us that first day. “Anyone can cook. That’s just following a recipe. I’m going to teach you technique.” And so he did.

We began with a custard, eggplant parmesan, and ravioli stuffed with ricotta. He taught us how to debone and season a chicken. He explained how white wine was better for a sauce. White wine cooks to a golden glow. Add butter and a dusting of flour. Red wine invariably browns.

It was a great experience. We were reticent at first, eager not to appear foolish or display a lack of skill. But familiarity loosens one up. We were all learning, after all, regardless whether some were more experienced than others. One must begin somewhere. Lunch as per our efforts.

We spent the afternoon strolling about Figline, browsing the shops and street vendors until we were picked up for supper, an odd supper at that: wine and cheese tasting. It was more informative than I might have imagined. You hear about perfect pairing, but you have no idea unless you’ve experienced it. We had four wines displayed on the table. An assortment of cheese was brought and we tried each with each wine in turn. Cow cheese, goat cheese, sheep cheese. This variety and that. Some wines fell flat with this type, but the cheese burst forth again with a sip of another. I nibbled. I should have gobbled. I was still starved upon completion, so Claudio brought me a pasta carbonara and desert. Coffee was invariably espresso. Always rich. Always perfectly flavourful, with a proper bitterness that did not overwhelm.

The next morning, I did not have coffee at the hotel, preferring to wait to have Claudio’s perfect coffee. We cooked wild boar, biscotti, a type of flatbread pasta, gnocchi, and a soufflé. Does that sound like a lot of food? It was. We never ate supper until 8 or 9 pm after a five-course lunch. Mind you, we never ate lunch until about 1 pm, either.

I took a swim in the hotel pool before the afternoon excursion to Arezzo. The pool was open to the garden, very cold, but very comfortable once in. Soft conversation echoed off the tile fresco.
It took the better part of an hour to get to Arezzo, where we were met by Stephanie, our guide, outside the Duomo, a Tuscan Gothic Cathedral. She was an Art History prof from Florence U, eager to relate the history and significance of all we saw, beginning with the statue set right outside the Duomo, a statue that said, “You are a conquered city, and I, the Medici of Florence, am your master. Behold me, and be afraid.”

Arezzo

We toured cathedral, treated to a lecture on its stained glass and portrait of Mary Magdalene, we toured the public park Il Prato, with its massive statue, commissioned by Mussolini. We made our way to the Piazza Francesca where “Life is Beautiful” was filmed, where we discovered that Arezzo is a steep city built on a steep hill, and like in Figline, where people still congregated in the market and square, as they have for hundreds of years. Here, too, a mediaeval festival was in progress, or was; it was being dismantled as we rounded the square. More churches followed, one very old, almost Roman, sparse and unadorned except for its painted panels at its entrance and alter, the crypt below the altar, exposed to the nave; the next not so old. The tour culminated in the Basilica Piero della Francesca, a famed Franciscan cathedral, known for its frescos.

Steep Azezzo

We had dinner at the Tattoria il Cantuccio, at the base of the very steep decline that led to it. Bev bought an antique on the way down, a small leather disk box, probably the only thing in the shop we could afford and carry.

We returned in time to catch the end of Figline’s festival. Claudio met us there. We experience fireworks closer than I’ve ever seen, or will again. They were fired off no more than thirty feet from us. The Catherine wheels and flares and floral bursts. The smoke enveloped us, swirled about us, the ash from the spent fireworks falling amid us, landing on us, if not burning us or our clothing. We smelled of sulphur, we reeked of it. We had to shower before bed. We lay our clothes out to air overnight. It didn’t help that much. They still smelled like a spent match the next day.

We had our final cooking class with Claudio the next day: lasagna, peppered beef, focaccia bread, and a something I requested, steak stuffed with prosciutto and sage (delightful, by the way).

San Gimignano

Our afternoon was spent on a driving tour of the Chianti Classico country, San Gimignano and Monteoliveto, visiting a winery while there. We spent time in the piazza before touring the vineyard where we bought a couple bottles. More wine was drank, more food eaten. More trinkets bought.
Bev went straight to bed upon returning. I had to walk the meal off. I walked around the Piazza Figlini a couple times, surprised to see so many people still out at that hour, their children with them, no matter their ages.

Time for bed. We had to repack and make our way to the train station the next day.

Cooking compete, we were on our way to Rome.