Wonderful Friends and Fabulous Food

Standing on the large patio overlooking a deep valley golden with fields, green with vines, silver with olive groves, dotted with red roofs in little clusters, we peeered hopefully through the glass doors into Osteria dell' Ignorante. A pretty woman opened the doors with a smile that boded well for lunch.
"Aperto>" I asked.
" Oh, si, si!" she answered, and graciously ushered us into a cheerful stone-walled room shelved with wine bottles and decorated with rustic farm instruments.
"Stefano!" she called. From the kitchen entered a handsome man, bald and bearded. smiling in welcome.
I explained in my halting Italian that we had been travelling all day, had had no lunch, were to meet the owners of the house we were renting, not a hundred meters down the road, in two hours.
In perfect English Stefamo said, "It is good that you are speaking Italian! I can always help out when you cannot find a word, but here in the ristorante you can practice your Italian. What will you eat, or shall I choose for you?"
Following our instincts, we left the decision to him. Following his, he brought us papperadelle with pigeon that was to die for. As there were no other customers, Stefano and Daiana drew up chairs and poured wine as we ate. Stefano explained - alternating English and Italian - that the name of the restaurant indicated that the food served was Tuscan and rustic, not, he said, "that an ignorant engineer from Firenze thinks he can run a Tuscan country ristorante!"
When I expressed concern that we might need to hurry our lunch in order not to keep our landlords waiting, Stefano said, "They will understand that you are enjoying a late lunch. Not something to be hurried. I will telephone them. " I gave him the number. He spoke rapidly - but politely - into the phone, and it was done.
When we departed, I asked the location of a bodega, in the unlikely event that we would be hungry again that evening. Explaining that it was already too late in the day, Stefano led me to a glass case, a still life work of art in itself. He sliced prosciutto from an enormous leg, added mortadella and pecorino, and two ripe pears. He included a bottle of his superb wine as a gift.
Over the weeks that followed, they fed us magnificently. Antipasti as beautiful to look at as to eat, steak with shaved truffles, filets sprinkled with rock salt and squeezed lemons, tiny purple artichokes sauteed in olive oil. When I was miserably sick with a cold, they made nourishing soups - my particular favorite, spinach and ricotta. Tiny gnocchi with bacon and mushrooms. Dolces of figs and apples wrapped in pastry, or chocolate gateau in cream.
One night a Dixieland band performed at the ristorante - a young woman in long pink eyelashes, a dress of blue sequins and a pink feather boa sang in perfect English - Mack the Knife, other period pieces - she really belted them out. The trombonist who did the Louis Armstrong schtick was fabulous, had the Satchmo gravelly voice down perfectly. When we complmented him, he looked blank at the name Louis Armstrong and said only that he did not speak Englsih. We pictured him listening and memorizing with no idea what any of it meant. They were terrific. Another night we had the Firenze Blue Grass band, who called themselves The New Grass Band, and they were phenomenal - banjo, mandoline, guitar, and bass. The banjo player was their teacher - taught them all in fingering class. Wonderful nights.
But the real privilege came when Stefano took us to visit his friend Alessandro, about halfway down the road to Sticciano.. Alessandro makes wine, and olive oil, only for his family and friends. He was doing something in the olive grove as we approached, so over the fence, handed Stefano the gate opener. We parked in his piazza, and looked about. On one side was a long low buiilding, possibly once a stable or barn, that lookedlike the business end of things; on the other, a pleasant house with severall entrances and flower gardens.
Alessandro, a big, ruggedly handsome man, greeted us and took us to the long building. We began at the fattore - big stone-walled rooms housing huge vats like metal boxes. Then into a smaller room with a beautiful earthenware vat from which he drew two glasses of wine and, in a courtly manner, presented them to us. We swirled the glasses gently, breathed the nose, sipped ritually, held the wine in our mouths, tasting before swallowing, and smiled at him in delight. Alessandro might not be in the business of selling wine, but he was certainly supplying Stefano - we recognized immediately that pure, wonderful taste of a wine that would never, even after a gala night, wake you with a headache in the morning.
We left the building, teetered down a slippery slope, and entered a cave. We continued our descent, down a short tunnel, and emerged in a room that literally appeared to be carved out of stone. Here, he explained, was his vat made of chestnut wood. He spoke slowly and clearly, obviously intent on making us understand; I strained to do so, and to reply in ways that would make it clear that I did. He told us that chestnut, unlike most woods, does not impose a flavor of its on on the wine, but enhances the flavor of the grape.. His new wine was in the vat, he told us - the stone cave keeps a constant temperature of 40 degrees. He was warm and gracious, and seemed to enjoy us. Stefano told us later that he had never seen Alessandro try to speak directly to guests Stefano has brought: usually he just spoke to Stefano and let him translate. That pleased us as much as the fascinating tour of a home winery - that and the fact that Stefano was proud of us.

Our secret - take the time to make Italian friends - you will have wonderful experiences and lifelong memories..