Travel

Andrea Perini’s pork-laden Gastronomia Perini shop at Mercato Centrale in Florence.

Get in muh bellay – Tripadvisor.com has served me incredibly well on this trip. It was there that I learned of Tuscany Bike Tours (see Day 4’s post) as well as Taste Florence, a four-hour gastronomic celebration of Florence’s finest food and wine that I signed up for today. Early in the morning I made my way to San Lorenzo Church to meet a group of four other uncaffeinated, salivating masticators led by the delightful Antoinette Mazzaglia.

Our first stop was Antica Pasticceria Sieni for spicy panpepato, which can be best described as a dense, peppered fruitcake with nuts (an apropos description of me, come to think of it). I was jonesing for some espresso, but I heeded Antoinette’s directions for the tour: fuck not with your palate.

This guy specializes in the cow parts nobody else sells–penis (top center), testicles (bottom right), tongue (bottom left) and brains (top right), among others.

We then made our way to Mercato Centrale, an indoor market of vendors similar to the Essex Street Market on the Lower East Side. Antoinette introduced us to her produce guy (apparently forming relationships is especially important so you don’t get bruised, wilted schwag), her favorite pasta maker, and Andrea Perini of Gastronomia Perini, where we would spend the next hour sampling meat, cheese, balsalmic vinegar and wine. The tongue-tingling highlight was an aged pecorino cheese paired with a mustard fig jelly.

School’s in session: Antoinette introduces the meat and cheeses at Gastronomia Perini.

Time for wine. Wading our way through the merchant-lined streets of an outdoor market, we dove into Casa del Vino, owned by Bruno and Gianni Migliorini. Big Bad Bruno facilitated my first experience with a super tuscan, an IGT of superior quality. It was splendid.

Look at those legs! The only super tuscan with which I had an intimate relationship.

After leaving Bruno’s lair, we stumbled upon a small workshop near the Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore where sculptors make copies of the statues occupying the niches of the cathedral. They were on break, so we didn’t get to see them in action.

The sculptors.

The sculptors’ workshop.

We completed our tour with a four-course gelato tasting at Perche’ no!, ranked #2 on Tauk’s top 10 ice cream places in the world. The line-up:

1. Rose and almond
2. Pistachio and chocolate
3. Ricotta and coffee crunch
4. Fig and chocolate sorbets with strawberry mouse

The rose gelato is how I imagine the kiss of my husband to be on our wedding day.

The gals at Perche’ no! have perfected the art of gelato-making. How in the hotel do they stay so thin?

At the end of the tour, Antoinette gave me restaurant recommendations as well as invitation to the opening of her photography exhibit that evening. And she pointed pointed my in the direction of Chiaroscuro for–finally–a jolt of espresso. With plans for the night locked and loaded, I quickly visited the duomo museum to see the Ghiberti’s original panels of the Baptistry doors, pined for an adorable Balenciaga vest, and ventured across the river to Piazzale Michelangelo.

The view of Florence from Piazzale Michelangelo.

For dinner, Antoinette recommended Beppa Fioraia, just a few blocks from for Piazzale Michelangelo, and I had the best meal of my entire vacation there. I didn’t note exactly what I ordered (I’m adding it to the ever-growing list of reasons to go back), but it included a ricotta and spinach-stuffed pasta with a pistachio cream sauce and a cheese-covered pork dish.

All Cylinders Firing – After a full night’s rest, I was ready to get my zoom zoom on. Keith and Andy—the hilarious Scottish/Irish duo from Tuscany Bike Tours—picked me up in the morning, and we drove out to the countryside for a bike ride through Chianti.

We started with a tour of the Castello di Poppiano vineyard, followed by a wine and olive oil tasting. Having been sufficiently lubed, we hopped on our bikes and began a 13-mile trek on a sparkling late-September afternoon. It’s harvest time for the Chianti vineyards, so we had the special treat of watching men out in the fields picking grapes and passing by tractors hauling fruity booty back to the wineries. Lunch, more wine, a ginormous hill, and a peaceful drive back to Florence followed.

I stopped by Rivoire on Piazza della Signoria for their famously indulgent hot chocolate (it’s as good if not better than L.A. Burdick’s in Cambridge, MA) and proceeded to work it off by running up the 463 steps to the top of Santa Maria del Fiore Cathedral’s dome, catching an up-close look at Vasari and Zuccari’s impressive frescos of The Last Judgement on the way up.

Break for apertivo (see Day 2’s post), followed by gelato at Grom (their pistachio, chocolate, and fig flavors were all very good, and you can taste them yourself at their New York store, which opened in May, 2007, at 2165 Broadway near 76th).

Piccolo Cafe seemed to be a cozy, welcoming spot, so I started my evening there. It was relatively active (i.e. consistently 15 or more patrons), and I met a group of three Italians boys and their two gal pals. They introduced me to limoncello—a lemon-based Italian aperitif—and the interesting hair fashions of Florence. I introduced them to my sixth appendage.

Chianti Kisses,
SMH

We’re Walking, We’re Walking… – Being light in my loafers did not spare me from sore feet after three walking tours on Tuesday. The tours, though, were fantastic and included a walk through the city center providing the historical context of the art, architecture, and culture of the city; a tour of the Uffizio, the gallery of the art collected by the Medici family, who largely shaped the Renaissance with one hand and the political landscape with the other; and a tour of the Academia where Michelangelo’s David now stands (a marble copy stands in the Piazza della Signoria).

A few quick highlights:

Michelangelo’s David: Don’t fuck with the Republic (originally intended for the duomo, David was placed in the Piazza della Signoria by Florentine supporters of the Republic when the Medici family was kicked out of town; they’ll be gone for the next three decades).

Benvenuto Cellini’s Perseus holding the head of Medusa: Don’t fuck with the Medicis (commissioned by the Medici family after their return to power in Florence).

Baccio Bandinelli’s Hercules and Cacus: Again, don’t fuck with the Medicis (perhaps “Punish Fuck” is more appropriate).

I’ve been running on fumes, so after popping over to Gelateria Carrozze for gelato–the smoothest thing to touch my lips in far too long–I turned in early.

Slickery Kisses,
SMH

Mission Accomplished – With only a half-day left in Milan, a chap has to prioritize. It’s time to shop. After a quick pit stop to see the flamboyant, spire-laden Duomo di Milano—Europe’s fourth largest church—and grab gelato at Odeon Gelateria across the piazza (I’ve committed myself to tasting, when possible, all of the gelaterias noted in my guide book—Rick Steves’ Italy 2008—but I found this one simply so-so), I rolled to Il Salvagente, a discount daddy.

As soon as my fingers started cracking back the hangers, I began to perspire lightly and the pitterpat of my heart rose to a gallop. Euphoria crept through my veins during what was to be a three-hour marathon. The booty: a Black jacket (125 euro) and gray plaid wool pants with a streak of burgundy (35 euro). I’m betting eight Hong Kong dollars that Jeremy will dislike the patch on the coat’s arm (I’m ambivalent), but I hope all will agree that the pants are cute and flatteringly hug my nether region.

My flirtations with the merchandise lasted much longer than anticipated, and I made my train to Florence train with just minutes to spare. It was about 9:00 PM when I arrived, and the echo of my footsteps along the quiet, narrow streets of Florence was an eerie welcome. Time to find some company.

My first stop was Piccolo Cafe, where the beautiful bartender Marita introduced me to Nastro Azzurro, an Italian beer. And that was the only introduction; there were only five people there. Next up, the ever so cleverly named Yag Bar. When I entered the foyer, the bouncer blocked me from entering and suggested with a cold stare that I was in the wrong place. I gestured toward the door, but he instructed me to wait for the outside set of doors to close before entering (banks here have a similar double-door entry system, only with telephone booth-sized bullet-proof chambers). What paradise lay behind the doors? Two patrons and music videos playing on the large screen projection system. The volume was excessively loud, ostensibly to fill the empty space. I knew it was time to bolt when Whitesnake’s 1984 “Love Ain’t No Stranger” came on. I considered going to Crisco bar, but I figured that my first day in Florence shouldn’t be so messy. Back to Piccolo.

It’s a Monday night, so I wasn’t expecting much, but by the time I returned I found Piccolo’s scene percolating. I met Dan, an art history grad student from the US, and we shot it for an hour over drinks. He introduced me to apertivo, the 8:00-ish buffet that small bars offer with their drinks that can be an altogether satisfactory substitution for dinner (think happy hour on steroids), and I introduced him to Campari, the bitter Italian aperitif that holds an interesting footnote in the defense of the First Amendment’s guarantee of free speech (see Hustler Magazine v. Larry Flynt).

Rags and fags found. Mission accomplished.

Champagne Kisses,
SMH

In Search of the Demon Seed – I feel chronically underdressed in Milan, and I love it. The sartorial flair of the Milanese makes people-watching an endlessly entertaining pastime. But with appreciation comes want; thankfully, there are scores and scores of fabulous stores with provocative window displays to stroke your desires.

You can go from zero to skid marks on your credit cards in no time flat. And the price lists that appear with all window displays help you calculate how much damage you’re going to do. I have, however, mixed feelings about these window display lists. Prices detract from the fantasy these displays were created to provoke by putting a number to it, which for most of us is a limit. On the other hand, they put a number to it, so you don’t end up wasting your time or that of the clerks.

I arrived fairly early in the morning, so after dropping my bags off at the albergo, I went on a leisurely stroll on the way to the tour company I was going to hire. One thing caught my eye—couples often don’t hold hands; they lock a single finger when walking together. It’s cutely romantic, like keeping a locket with your lover’s picture it in—something I intend to do when I lasso my husband. I’ve adored miniatures ever since Yale University Art Gallery’s Love and Loss exhibit in 2000, curated by Robin Jaffee Frank. But that’s the subject for another post; keep your peepers peeled.

So it turns out the tour company is closed or out of business. No worries, Plan B was to head to the Monumental Cemetery to see the acres of sculptures adorning graves, tombs, and mausoleums of the city’s famous and well-deserving men and their heavenly escorts. It was wonderfully peaceful, and exactly the slow, quiet start I needed after only an hour of sleep.

I then popped over to Sforza Castle to see Big Gay Mike’s unfinished Rondanini Pietà, and while resting by the fountain outside I met Sonya. Her camera was swiped in Rome, so I took a few shots of her outside the castle to document her visit.

After all that walking I was so hungry I could’ve eaten a pig’s leg. Lucky me, the market across the street had pig panini. I’ve had a love affair with the swine of late (I had the boys over for bacon chocolate chip cookies, and during a recent visit to New Haven Rev. Gage shared some bacon-infused bourbon—recipes for both available upon request), so I had to pull the trigger. Casa Mono on Irving Place, one of Mario Batali’s restaurants, serves the same thing, but they keep the pig’s leg covered when it’s not being sliced. You know, because Americans enjoy a pussified eating experience.

While munching on my panini I enjoyed an impromptu concert from the Love Bus, a VW bus converted into mobile concert station. It was almost like hanging out in Union square, only cleaner with fewer disaffected hipsters and skateboarders.

I rolled back to the hotel to get my sparkle on for an evening checking out the scene. I eyed two gay bars on my way to the hotel, and there were two parties I wanted to hit, so it should have been titillating evening. Not so much. The first place was dead quiet, and its only remarkable characteristic was the stench of smoke oozing out the door. I didn’t even grace it with my presence. Afterline, next to the train station, had been closed for some time, so the boys at the have-to-be-buzzed-into X Club next door told me. I didn’t know what services they offered at the X Club, and I didn’t ask.

Next up, Nuova Idea, the polka and disco party. Ok, given the novel concept it could have been interesting, but that evening’s events were replaced with a milonga. Nobody was there. At this point, I wasn’t too disappointed; these were all smaller venues I wanted to check out before going to main event–Pape Satan, the sweaty A-list party on Sundays. Alas, the venue had changed, and I had no idea where it was. Curses to the Virgin Mary ensued.

The night was a bust, and I had nothing to show for walking around Milan until 2 AM. Whatever, at least I burned off that pig panini.

International Supastah – I’m making it a goal to get on TV in every country I visit. Next up: Italy. This time, however, I hope it doesn’t result in people calling for my imprisonment. FYI, don’t preside over a Muslim wedding while in India.