Every Day in Tuscany (18 page)

A
NTIPASTO
P
LATTER

For a crowd or for an outdoor lunch, I rely on antipasto platters and often follow them with a pasta and dessert. The first list comes from Chef Nicola Borbui, who served these alluring antipasti to our wine-tasting party at Fonterutoli vineyards. After that, some of our additions. Both informal and lavish, the platter starts off a dinner with a festive note.

Ceci con Olio e Buccia di Limone
Chickpeas with Olive Oil and Lemon Peel

Raddicchio con Pecorino a Cubetti
Chopped Radicchio with Cubed Pecorino

Insalatina di Baccelli e Marzolino
Fava Bean Salad with Fresh Pecorino Cheese

Frittata di Asparagi
Slices of Fresh Asparagus Omelette

Bruschetta con Pesto di Rucola e Pomodorini
Bruschetta with Rucola Pesto and Cherry Tomatoes

Sformato di Parmigiano con Crema di Asparagi
Parmesan Flan with Cream of Fresh Asparagus

Tagliata di Morellini con Mozzarella di Bufala Olive e Pinoli
Sliced Artichoke with Mozzarella, Olives, and Pine Nuts

Insalata di Finocchi con Sbriciolona
Tuscan Salami with Fennel Julienne

Tortino di Carciofi
Artichoke Frittata

Other favorite additions to the platter:

roasted peppers
olives baked with lemon peel and herbs
artichoke hearts with vinaigrette
fennel slices sprinkled with fennel seeds
prosciutto and melon cubes on toothpicks
halved figs
radicchio leaves filled with farro salad
small chunks of hard cheeses
grissini
(breadsticks) wrapped in prosciutto

Gite al Mare—Little Trips to the Sea

P
ORTOFINO
, L
IGURIA

THE WORD SPOKEN MOST OFTEN IN CORTONA
these summer days is
mare
. Everyone is going to, or is just back from, the sea. Popular
trattorie
close at the height of tourist season. Why? Gone swimming. So what if tourists are looking longingly at the posted menu in the window? Sea air lures us.

Kids go to Rimini on their motorcycles, drawn by cheap package deals, all-night discos, and a beach jammed with the youth of Italy. The fortunate go to Sardegna. Many hop over to Viareggio and Forte dei Marmi for a few days, or to the beaches around Grosseto. Since Cortona is two hours from the Adriatic and two from the Tyrrhenian, we go in both directions. Although we’re seduced by the Adriatic towns, especially Senegallia, for their wide, long beaches, we often choose to spend a couple of days on the other shore. Elba is especially fun and a quick ferry ride from Livorno. A stroll around the deck, a gelato, deep draughts of sea air, and suddenly you’re driving out the ramp into Napoleon’s territory. Relaxation starts immediately—maybe it’s the Mediterranean air, the easy driving along the sea, the blooming little towns where not much is going on, the friendly people. Renting a boat lets you explore the coast and find tiny beaches where you can swim and sun alone. We stayed a week on Elba and want to go back.

On the Tyrrhenian mainland, we have spent days over the years in Capalbio, San Vincenzo, the protected Riva degli Etruschi, Talamone, dramatic Cinque Terre, and Punta Ala—all good seaside destinations. I’m a fool for beauty, however, and nothing compares with Portofino, where we are heading for a short idyll.

“We are going sailing to Corsica,” Fulvio said at dinner last Sunday. “Why don’t you take our place at Portofino for a week?” Then he and Aurora provide us with a key and a list of their favorite things to do. Fulvio’s father bought this piece of dreamy real estate many years ago, and he grew up spending summers there. He keeps a sloop in the harbor. It’s hard to budge his family, Aurora, and their son Edoardo, from there all summer. But boats are second nature to Edoardo, as they are to his father, and they like sailing to Corsica because Mediterranean winds, which seem balmy on shore, slap a boat around pretty fiercely, providing sufficient adventure for these two. Aurora sometimes visits family during these excursions.

We accept, but only for three days. We have guests arriving Thursday. On Monday morning early, we drive over, parking our car once and for all in the town garage. It’s nice to walk away from a car, knowing you won’t start it for days.

The delicious earth colors of the houses—terracotta, ochre, sand, and gold—line the harbor; crisp boats with their blue stripes and flying flags repeat in their reflections, and concentric ripples of light on water play and change at all hours of the day. I say colors and light, but underlying this inviting surface, architects Alberto and Fulvio might agree, let’s acknowledge the gift of geography—the U shape of the harbor, whose open-arms provide a delicious intimacy. When you’re strolling there, you’ve been gathered into the heart of the place.

Portofino, unlike the secretive, layered hill towns of Tuscany, gives you everything at once, one beauteous splashing wave of Mediterranean perfection.

I’m sure the Di Rosas know every soul in town and every cornice, stone, and house name. Their apartment, up three floors, occupies a small corner of a building on the harbor with windows facing two directions. “If you’ve ever seen a postcard of Portofino, you’ve seen Fulvio’s place,” Ed notices.

“We’re on a yacht. Look at these narrow teak floors. They’re like a deck. And the kitchen—so very shipshape.” The furniture is super-modern and sleek. From the bed we can hear the clangs of rigging in sailboats and watch boats nosing in for the day. One is megabucks-huge and even has a helicopter and a Smart Car on board.

If I should ever win the lottery, I’d love a grand swoop around the Mediterranean. Not on that floating mansion but in a great old wooden sloop that could tuck into tiny ports. In my first husband’s sailboat, the
Primavera
, I learned to cook in a gimbaled kitchen. The San Francisco Bay was not conducive to complicated recipes. We were constantly tacking and tossed and sometimes we ran aground. Surprisingly, the bay is not very deep, in places, and somehow our sonar was often kaput. On one New Year’s Eve sail, with several surly teenagers, we ran aground and had to wait until the tide lifted us off the mud. They were envisioning themselves at discos with dates, not out with friends of parents, high and dry with the alluring skyline of San Francisco in the distance.

In the Mediterranean, who would not fancy leaping off the boat early in the morning, gathering produce and fresh fish at a market, and producing simple, elegant dinners on deck, with guttering candles, white linen, a bowl of figs, and libations of Ligurian white wines?

W
E LEARN RIGHT
away to jump on and off buses. Driving can be tedious because of slow traffic snaking into the peninsula of Portofino. On the harbor, we talk to a boat captain who embodies the expression “old salt”: frizzy white beard, pink cheeks, and navy beret. His small launch looks basic but seaworthy, so we hire him to take us over to Camogli, a port town around the promontory. He seats us in front and begins to talk nonstop about the history of the area. With the outboard noise and the wind against him, we can’t understand anything. Now and then Ed calls out
“Si!”
or
“Buono!”
He slows at a cove and offers a swim, but it’s windy. “Fulvio and Edoardo would have been in the water in an instant,” Ed says.

Camogli! Heart-stopping! Approaching by water, we see the whole sweep of the vibrantly colored town, anchored by a castle and harbor full of small fishing boats. The town curves along the shore, with buildings rising five or six stories high. Doubtless, many women have looked out to sea from the windows, waiting for their husbands to come in with the catch. The name may mean
ca’ moglie
, house of wives.

We say good-bye to our captain and take off to explore. Built on narrow terraces, the town backs right up to a mountain. Many steep staircases lead from one level to the next. Toni and Shotsy, our friends from California, love Camogli. Why are they not up there on a third-floor balcony, writing in their notebooks and pouring glasses of fresh orange juice? If only they’d spot us and wave, call us to come right up—but instead, a woman brushes a little dog and smokes.

We visit the Maritime Museum, poring over all the ship models, and drop into a couple of churches. Mainly, we just stroll, photographing the bougainvillea and doorways and vistas. After lunch—big platter of fried fish and squid—we hop on the train and make our way back to Portofino, via a bus connection. A plus of Italian travel is the chance to jump spontaneously on trains. We’re back in time for a rest, me with Fulvio’s art books, Ed with a Pavese poem he’s translating, and the peaceful sound of voices and boats below.

The next day we take the bus to lively Santa Margherita, wander the town, almost buy an antique fragment of a marble hand for my collection, think better, and settle for lunch in a small restaurant. Since we’re late and the only customers, the owner lingers by the table. She perks up when we say where we live. “Better, Tuscany,” she exclaims, when Ed says how fabulous Santa Margherita is.

“We love it here,” I say. “Maybe we should move here.”

“The Ligurians,” she assures us, “have no manners. I’m from Tuscany and there they have manners.” A life story ensues and lunch lasts longer than we planned. You really can’t be in a hurry in Italy.

Santa Margherita has an old-movie glamour. Mellow painted facades with tromp l’oeil windows and fanciful decorations, the grand harbor lined with palms, the transparent light—will Marcello Mastroianni pull up in an Alfa convertible and offer us a lift back to Portofino?

D
ESPITE THE GLITZY
reputations of both, Portofino, like Capri, is for hikers. Old donkey paths wind around the hillsides. If you take the footpath to San Fruttuoso, as we did on a trip years ago, you’re rewarded with eye-popping views and a swim in a blue, blue cove.

Although the restaurants of Portofino do not achieve high marks in the best guidebooks, we find the seafood utterly scrumptious. Aurora told us that some of Liguria’s best
focaccia
comes out of the town bakery. We buy slabs for breakfast. Every restaurant serves the pungent Genovese pesto with a twist—diced potatoes cook along with the pasta. If there is a celestial paradise, I expect to be served the baked shrimp from Portofino at every meal.

Dining harborside with lights shimmering in the water and boats rising and falling on their kaleidoscopic reflections—a moment of perfection. Not even marred by the burly man who leans over to Ed and says in a heavily accented English, “You Americans make ugly wars.” His eyes are black as fishing holes in ice. I look at his wife, who resembles a wasp. She lowers her eyes. She must know she lives with someone crude. Although we could mention a war his country visited on the world, although we want to tump his chair backward into the harbor and see his dome head sink, we say nothing. This enrages Mr. Burly Man and he speaks loudly to his wife in German.

The waiter overhears his snarly voice and as the lumpy couple leaves—weaving a bit—he brings over several glasses of prosecco and sits down to discuss with us some of his prime prejudices. When we tell him that we are friends of the Di Rosas, he brings out his brother and we stay until no one is left. From a window above, piano music wafts down and the notes seem timed to the lifting, falling motion of the water.

On our last morning, we climb up to Castello Brown, a stunning garden and castle/house where
Enchanted April
was filmed. And enchant, it does. Bees are mining the orange trees and everywhere I look the view is blue, blue, blue. The position defies description: The house is a pivot around which the sea turns. It’s empty this morning and wandering the rooms, I easily can construct a fantasy life.

D
RIVING HOME
, I want to turn down many tempting roads. Italy is an immortal playground. Does any country come close to its sustained, heady concoction of joys—serene landscape
and
magnificent art
and
layered history
and
savory cuisine
and
glorious music
and
welcoming people? So many
ands
. All in an elongated peninsula slashed down the middle with mountains, packed and stacked with dialects, great cooks, the Renaissance, hill towns, evocative cinema, ruins, castles, mosaics, villas, church bells, beaches, on and on. Just as we think we won’t find anywhere to eat on this back road, a small osteria appears.