The Reluctant Tuscan (14 page)

We were stuck behind such a putt-putt, chugging along at eleven kilometers an hour, as we followed the road up to Montepulciano, the biggest and highest of all the hill towns in southern Tuscany. The town sits atop a narrow ridge of volcanic rock and as you approach, the ancient fortifications seem to lean down on you in their full medieval menace. We entered the city through the Porta al Prato, driving past the three hanging balls that signify that these gates, and much of this city, were once the property of the Medicis.

We then began the search for a parking space. Whenever you plan a trip in Italy you must double the time you've allotted, because it takes the same amount of time to find a parking space as it does to travel to your destination. The problem is so acute that as soon as an Italian spots a parking space he grabs it, then leaves his car there, preferring to get around by bus and taxi for the rest of his life. On the off chance that a parking space actually does open up, chaos ensues. The situation is best illustrated by one of those flat puzzles we all played with as kids, the one where you moved the tiles around because one space was free. Whenever anyone leaves a parking space, every car in Italy moves to adjust, because, like nature, Italian drivers abhor a vacuum.

We finally found a space so ambiguously marked, we had an equal chance to get or not get a parking ticket. We walked down the Via di Gracciano as it looped through the monumental area of the old town, changing names four times. We strolled past churches and palazzi built of warm, salmon-colored stone and supported by graceful curvilinear pediments.

The street, now calling itself Via di Voltaia, widened as it gently ascended upward. It was a stunning walk, because as you strolled in shade past the tony boutiques and gourmet wine shops, you'd come to a break between the buildings and you'd be suddenly dazzled by a slice of golden-green countryside

Finally, we came to the establishment known as Signor Mazzetti's Rinomata Rameria (Copper Store of Renown). It was a small, densely cluttered shop where every square inch was occupied by something made of, or covered with, copper. Pots, pans, kettles, clocks, Jell-O molds, colanders, wine stoppers, mailboxes, doorstops, hat racks, weather vanes, and irons, back-scratchers, and letter openers, all in copper. The only things not covered in copper were the elderly Signor Mazzetti and his cat, Beppe.

He spoke passionately about
rame
, his white mane of hair bristling with excitement at the idea of copper-coating an object he had not yet thought of. Did I mention he sold a copper-coated fly swatter?

We told him we were in the market for a cooking pan, and sensing we were new to his world, he took delight in explaining the three different grades we could buy. He showed us his best, a heavy-duty, restaurant-grade pan three millimeters thick with an inside coating of quicksilver-colored tin. I grasped the long bronze handle and imagined that when full of pasta it would be the equivalent of bench-pressing one of those three-wheeled putt-putts.

He showed us the medium grade, which was two and half millimeters thick and was intended for large families. Again, it would take a large family to lift it off the stove and haul it to the table. We finally settled on the most popular one, measuring two millimeters thick. It had the graceful classic shape of an Etruscan bowl, and with its bulged-out bottom and hammer-pounded surface, Nancy liked the way it would look hanging on the kitchen wall. Signor Mazzetti was pleased with our choice, commenting that whichever one we selected, we would be getting an authentic piece of copper work that was
fatto a mano
, made by hand.

As he wrapped our pan and prepared the bill, we browsed his store for any of our other copper needs, coming frighteningly close to buying a copper-handled toilet plunger.

The copper bell above the door rang and Signora Mazzetti entered with their four-year-old grandson, Lorenzo. While Lorenzo chased Beppe around the store, she reminded Signor Mazzetti that he had promised to take his grandson for a haircut. He told her that he first wanted to show us his workshop. We suggested that if he wanted to take Lorenzo to the barbershop now, we'd go have lunch and come back afterward to see his workshop when we picked up our pan.

He asked us where we were going to eat. When we told him we had no idea, he insisted we go to a little
osteria
around the corner, because they were making one of their specialties today,
pici all'aglione,
thick spaghetti in a garlicky tomato sauce.

Allow me a moment to explain the various designations of eating establishments in Italy, and what the differences are between a
ristorante
, a
trattoria
, and an
osteria
. Although the lines have tended to blur over the last few years, anyplace called a
ristorante
is bound to be fancy, with white tablecloths, heavy silver, and a menu that usually takes classic Italian dishes and tortures them with a fusion of sauces until they are beyond recognition. Although they often serve excellent food (one has to be profoundly unlucky to get a bad meal in Tuscany), many think it's unnecessary to pay those prices, because great Italian cooking is simple, especially in Tuscany, where the cuisine is essentially peasant food, honest and delicious. For that reason, you may be better served by eating at either a
trattoria
or an
osteria
.

A
trattoria
is a family-style restaurant. It has checkered tablecloths, and Chianti bottles hang from the ceiling. It's the original of what the rest of the world thinks of as Italian dining. Meals are served
a la famiglia
on large platters, and not surprisingly, the ambience is noisy, smoky, and brimming with life.

An
osteria
, which actually means “tavern,” is the least expensive of the three and is primarily a place where working-men take their meals, with long wooden tables covered with butcher paper, benches without backs, and food far greater in quality and quantity than you'd ever expect to find in such humble surroundings. There is a rough conviviality that welcomes you, but as many old-timers are sad to report, white-collar workers, ladies in hats, and even yuppie scum have recently discovered the delights of
osteria
dining and bestowed upon it the highest compliment an Italian can give an eatery,
“Si mangia bene, si spenda poco.”
Here, one eats well and pays little.

We didn't have dessert at the
osteria
since Signor Mazzetti advised us to go to a certain wine shop down the street, and enjoy their famous baked ricotta cheese smothered in local honey. This proved to be one of those remarkable instances of just when you thought something couldn't get any better, it did. The
pici all'aglione
we had for lunch was hearty and superb, the sweetness of the garlic elegantly melding with the natural tartness of the tomatoes. Just like the syrupy smoothness of the honey found its perfect complement in the warm brick of baked ricotta cheese it was poured over at the wine shop he had recommended.

Like many of the
enoteche
(wine shops) in town, this one invited you to go down into their wine cellar and see the Etruscan tombs. This part of the old city had been built over a honeycombed maze of basements and underground tunnels that once connected all the palaces and cathedrals. So with the ambrosial taste of ricotta and honey still in our mouths, we descended the moldy staircase that led down to the wine cellar, examining a collection of medieval torture devices, household utensils, and chastity belts bolted to the wall. We walked down long, darkened corridors, passing rows of fat oaken vats lying on their sides, as big as four-door sedans and filled with wine aging in the cool silence. The scent of wine was so pervasive, it seemed mixed in with the very moisture sweating through the ancient brick walls.

We finally came to an expansive chapel-shaped area. It was a barren space, but when we looked closely we could make out indentations on the floor that might have been the outline of an altar. To this day no one can figure out how old this room is or what it was used for, but it's located directly under the altar of the Chiesa di Gésu above, leading to speculation that it was once an Etruscan place of worship.

We returned to Signor Mazzetti's shop to find our pan wrapped and Lorenzo sporting a new haircut. After paying and saying good-bye to Signora Mazzetti and Beppe the cat, we followed Signor Mazzetti and Lorenzo out the back door and down a flight of broken concrete stairs. We navigated the narrow medieval alleyways as Signor Mazzetti, holding Lorenzo by the hand, told us how his father had come to Montepulciano from a small village north of Perugia to set up the store in 1910.

Signor Mazzetti and his wife took over the shop after the Second World War. It prospered and they raised a fine, healthy family. But now that they were ready to retire, they didn't have anyone to leave it to. He lamented that we were living in an age when young people weren't interested in the old crafts anymore. His sons and sons-in-law had no desire to work the copper, but he was praying that he might plant a seed in Lorenzo.

Crossing one of the perpetually gridlocked streets that led out of the city, we approached a padlocked garage. He opened it, and we entered a cramped, dark workshop smelling of sulfur. He turned on the bare hanging bulb to illuminate a world of drill presses, workbenches, kilns, stacks of copper ingots, and boxes of every imaginable size of fitting, hinge, and rivet. But the star of this constellation was the anvil. Dark, silver-gray, and battle scarred in its invincibility, it sat on a concrete pedestal and even though it was only about the size of a sewing machine, it occupied the center of Signor Mazzetti's workshop with the permanence of a mountain range.

He sat Lorenzo at a workbench with a battered piece of copper and smiled as the child gleefully pounded on it with a small hammer. Then Signor Mazzetti selected a flat copper disk about the size of a DVD and took it to his anvil. He began using various taps and dies to engrave the copper as he asked us about ourselves. We told him how we had come to Tuscany to try to make a new life together and about the problems we had run into along the way. As we told our story, people started wandering in.

First it was Francesco, who owned the glass-blowing workshop next door. The two men, obviously old friends, commiserated over how the rising price of natural gas for their furnaces was bound to drive them both out of business. Then two Senegalese men popped in, wondering if we wanted to buy any colorful woven baskets.

Next to arrive was Lancelloto, Signor Mazzetti's best friend. A bottle of ruby-red Vino Nobile di Montepulciano appeared, and it all turned convivial. As Lorenzo hammered on his little piece of copper and Nancy bargained with the Senegalese, Lancellotto performed the story of how his father had helped Signor Mazzetti's father bring this very anvil across Lake Trasimeno in a small rowboat. A storm came up, and the men had had to struggle mightily to keep the anvil from winding up at the bottom of the lake with them under it.

A busload of Chinese tourists appeared and, thinking they had stumbled onto to some kind of crafts fair, began taking pictures. They handed Nancy and me their cameras and posed by the anvil with Signor Mazzetti.

Finally, we told everyone that it was getting late and we had a long drive back to Cambione. But before we left, we watched Signore Mazzetti use a metal cutter to trim the copper disc into the shape of a heart. After cutting it in half and polishing the rough edges, he handed Nancy and me the two pieces. When we held the two halves together, we could see that our two names were linked together by a chain of engraved hearts. We thanked him profusely, and after a round of handshakes and hugs, we left with our new pan, two woven baskets, and a copper heart.

 

 

Things happen
in Italy that happen no where else on earth. A magical friendliness is spread all over the place like pixie dust. Sure, the salesman in America who greets you when you walk into Circuit City is as affable as a sheepdog, but isn't that well-practiced camaraderie all part of their corporate policy? In Italy, especially in the small family-run shops, they don't just go for friendly, they actually seek to engage you as a person.

And this can take so many forms, like the local shoemaker who examines your heels and tells you that you don't need new ones yet. Just walk around on your old ones for
quaranta giorni
(forty days), and then come back. Or your favorite
fruttivendolo
who stops you from selecting the shiny red apples and steers you to the ugly brown pugs that wind up tasting more delicious than any apple you've ever eaten. When you tell him that you want four, he puts five in your bag because four is an unlucky number in Italy, while thirteen is not.

Delighted that our windshield wasn't plastered with parking tickets, we drove back to Cambione with the setting sun splashing riotous shades of reds and golds in our eyes. I looked at my half of the copper heart and realized that, when I wasn't having an “I Hate Italy Day,” this place had actually started to tug on my heartstrings.

Nancy downshifted to pass a three-wheeled putt-putt and I slid in a CD of Italian love songs.

S
ummer was here. Streams and creeks roared with snow-melt from the Alps rushing down to the Mediterranean. Every night there were
sagras
and
festas
; concerts in churches and castles. Every day
l'estate
got a little hotter. In a month the winds would go into a kick-stall, causing the trees and the cornstalks to stand as motionless as if they were in a vacuum.

We were also in a vacuum. Every morning, we met Avvocatessa Bonetti at the Comune archives to continue clawing our way through a dingy basement full of file cabinets and cardboard boxes. Some of the documents were ancient, written in a form of Italian that's no longer spoken, and forcing us to enlist the services of a professor of linguistics at the university in Pisa to translate them into the modern vernacular.