undistinguished steps in the main piazza one enters the most exquisite bakery, a hole in the wall. There are always queues for the different loaves, rolls and cakes, but I often go in merely to absorb the aromas and visions. Sometimes I return from Greve with a wedge of fresh pecorino wrapped in wax-lined paper as beautifully as my laundry, to share with the others at dinner. A stuffed wild boar grins wickedly at the entrance of Falorni, considered one of the best butchers in Tuscany. German tourists clump around the racks of postcards; I move past them in the direction of the bus stop, clutching my parcel of laundry with the indifference of a local.
Up till the point Gianfranco decides to institute staff meals before instead of after service â a short-lived experiment â we eat together. The table is set in one of the rarely used end dining rooms until it becomes warm enough outside. We arrive in dribs and drabs, depending on any remaining customers. Gianfranco sits at the head, where his place is marked by a giant beer glass, from which he drinks his equal measures of wine and mineral water. We eat different things, although Cinzia tends to dine on whatever little delicacy Gianfranco has prepared. I slip effortlessly back into the soothing habit of eating the same thing nearly every night â an enormous salad to accompany the bread I love. It saves me thinking.
Occasionally, when he is at his most exuberant and magnanimous, Gianfranco suggests whipping up something for us all, and I eat one of Gianfrancoâs specials. These are always exquisite, taking the form of his version of beef carpaccio, or pizza dough stretched thin onto a baking tray and then strewn with rosemary, garlic and coarse salt before being cooked quickly, or pasta with eggplant sauce. Or sometimes it is a steak tartare, for which he bends earnestly over the chopping board with his big knife breaking down a piece of the leanest meat into fine mince.
His mood dictates the mood of the table. At his most cheerful, he sweeps us all up into the beam of his humour with witty stories, jokes and comments about customers. But his ill temper sharpens the air with tension, which discourages conversation and hastens the meal to a joyless finish. The main reason why he decides to try out the notion of eating before service â I loathe it from the very beginning, finding that the meal and the two glasses of wine slow me down and dull me at a time when I most want to feel light, alert and empty â is because our late-night meals often tip over into the early hours of the morning, and generally we all drink too much. Grappa somehow finds its way onto our table amongst the debris of napery and breadcrumbs, and the smoking begins in earnest.
One night after service, I come across Vera on the landing that separates the stairs leading down to the restaurant and up to our bedrooms. She has a jacket slung over her arm and holds her handbag. Calmly she tells me about the phone call from the hospital bearing the news that her husband has died. Her daughter is coming to collect her. Gianfranco later describes how she crumpled against him when the phone call came; now she just seems like her sweet and practical self. We all understand that she is to be absent for several days only.
When ten days have passed, Cinzia reluctantly installed in front of the dishwasher, Veraâs daughter rings to say that she will no longer be available to work for us. About six weeks later, she and her daughter return to collect her possessions â and this is the last we see of Vera.
Salsa alla norma
(Aubergine sauce)
Wash and cube one large aubergine. Fry cubes in deep olive oil until golden all over, then drain on absorbent paper. Add to the final ten minutes of simmering basic tomato sauce and check seasoning. Tear fresh basil leaves into sauce and serve with pasta, passing freshly grated Parmesan separately.
We are now in June, with summer gloriously in train,
Up till the point Gianfranco decides to institute staff meals before instead of after service â a short-lived experiment â we eat together. The table is set in one of the rarely used end dining rooms until it becomes warm enough outside. We arrive in dribs and drabs, depending on any remaining customers. Gianfranco sits at the head, where his place is marked by a giant beer glass, from which he drinks his equal measures of wine and mineral water. We eat different things, although Cinzia tends to dine on whatever little delicacy Gianfranco has prepared. I slip effortlessly back into the soothing habit of eating the same thing nearly every night â an enormous salad to accompany the bread I love. It saves me thinking.
Occasionally, when he is at his most exuberant and magnanimous, Gianfranco suggests whipping up something for us all, and I eat one of Gianfrancoâs specials. These are always exquisite, taking the form of his version of beef carpaccio, or pizza dough stretched thin onto a baking tray and then strewn with rosemary, garlic and coarse salt before being cooked quickly, or pasta with eggplant sauce. Or sometimes it is a steak tartare, for which he bends earnestly over the chopping board with his big knife breaking down a piece of the leanest meat into fine mince.
His mood dictates the mood of the table. At his most cheerful, he sweeps us all up into the beam of his humour with witty stories, jokes and comments about customers. But his ill temper sharpens the air with tension, which discourages conversation and hastens the meal to a joyless finish. The main reason why he decides to try out the notion of eating before service â I loathe it from the very beginning, finding that the meal and the two glasses of wine slow me down and dull me at a time when I most want to feel light, alert and empty â is because our late-night meals often tip over into the early hours of the morning, and generally we all drink too much. Grappa somehow finds its way onto our table amongst the debris of napery and breadcrumbs, and the smoking begins in earnest.
One night after service, I come across Vera on the landing that separates the stairs leading down to the restaurant and up to our bedrooms. She has a jacket slung over her arm and holds her handbag. Calmly she tells me about the phone call from the hospital bearing the news that her husband has died. Her daughter is coming to collect her. Gianfranco later describes how she crumpled against him when the phone call came; now she just seems like her sweet and practical self. We all understand that she is to be absent for several days only.
When ten days have passed, Cinzia reluctantly installed in front of the dishwasher, Veraâs daughter rings to say that she will no longer be available to work for us. About six weeks later, she and her daughter return to collect her possessions â and this is the last we see of Vera.
Salsa alla norma
(Aubergine sauce)
Wash and cube one large aubergine. Fry cubes in deep olive oil until golden all over, then drain on absorbent paper. Add to the final ten minutes of simmering basic tomato sauce and check seasoning. Tear fresh basil leaves into sauce and serve with pasta, passing freshly grated Parmesan separately.
We are now in June, with summer gloriously in train,
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