Lost Magic

There are two things I remember about my first visit to Tuscany.

The first is the peacocks.

I have encountered peacocks in various corners of the world: India, Morocco, and somewhat inexplicably, the middle of Berkshire. But in Tuscany, I never once saw them. I only heard them. At four in the morning. A piercing, high-pitched screech that cut straight through the dark and the silence.

The first night, I launched myself out of bed, heart hammering, absolutely certain someone was being murdered in the grounds.

The following morning we asked the locals about it. They looked at us with the particular calm of people who have answered this question many times before.

Oh, the pavone, they said. The peacock. You get used to it.

Gentle reader, I never did. What I did get, from that trip onwards, was a religious commitment to packing earplugs (and an eye mask) whenever I travel. Some lessons you only need to learn once.

The second thing I remember is a dinner.

We asked around the village for somewhere to eat and were directed to a local osteria down the road. No reservations, we were told. Just go.

It was a short drive, and as we followed the directions, doubt crept in. This couldn't be right. What we were looking at appeared to be someone's house. A small stone building set within a vineyard, chickens roaming the yard, laundry drying on the line. We parked under a tree and went to find someone to ask for directions.

It turned out we were exactly where we were supposed to be.

A man of about forty-five appeared and welcomed us inside. The room was small opening onto a semi-visible kitchen at the back. Most tables were already occupied. We were seated promptly, and when we asked for a menu, the man, Massimo, informed us that there were no menus. He recited the dishes of the day from memory.

We bring everything, he said, in a thick, Italian accent. You eat.

I mentioned I was vegetarian. No problem, he said, without missing a beat.

We asked about wine. I looked around for a list of some kind. Instead, Massimo returned with a ceramic pitcher of red.

From our vineyard, he said.

He spent the rest of the evening doing what, it became clear, was his primary role in the establishment. Making his rounds. Stopping at each table, helping himself to a little wine from whatever pitcher was closest, tearing off a piece of bread, talking to his guests with the ease of a man entirely at home in the world. His wife and mother, we learned, were the chefs. His daughter, occasionally assisted by his wife, did the serving. Massimo provided what I can only describe as atmosphere.

The food was extraordinary. Simple, honest, exquisite in the way that only food made by people who have been cooking the same recipes for generations can be. It was here that I had pappa al pomodoro for the first time, thick, humble, Tuscan bread and tomato soup that was so more-ish and fell completely, permanently in love with it.

That visit was more than twenty years ago.

A few years back, we were in Tuscany again and made a detour to find the osteria. It wasn't hard to find. It had grown: some of the vineyard had been cleared, the building had been expanded. What was once a 10 table dining room was now bigger and could easily seat 60-70 guests,  printed menus, a wine list, a manager, multiple waiters moving efficiently between tables.

The food was fine. Nothing more.

The magic was gone. I'm not sure you can scale magic. I'm not sure you're supposed to try.

I don’t think too much about the second visit. The first one I intend to romanticise for the rest of my life, completely without apology.