AN INTIMATE DINNER FOR 350
June 17 2012
We’re having a heat wave here in Toscana. The local’s say it’s coming from Africa. Who cares? I’d like to know where it’s going next and when. It is so hot you cannot be outdoors, unless you are next to a body of water, between noon and five. And on the farm, the heat comes with a bonus: a hatch of no-see-um’s that, while not biting, busy themselves exploring every part of your anatomy and seem particularly fascinated with the landscape of the inner ear. I am not amused.
So we have come down to the village where we are now lounging on our picnic blanket under a grove of linden trees just outside the ancient wall. Fortunately, the evenings are beautiful, with fresh breezes coming from the hills, the insects gone to wherever it is they go and it is once again possible to sit outside and watch the blue of the evening sky deepen until it becomes a star-studded inky blanket.
Yesterday evening we celebrated the festa of the first moon of summer, albeit a few days early. We first attended this festa 16 years ago, but although we come here every year, this is our first return since then that coincides with this celebration. Having learned, many times, that even here in Tuscany nothing stays the same, and having witnessed in the last few years some changes that we deem not for the better, I was a bit apprehensive about going last night, preferring to be satisfied with good memories rather than hoping for repeat performances. But Joel was eager and so we went, and I’m glad we did.
It’s quite something to enter the main street of this medieval village and see a long table snaking down the center of it. Even before the 350 locals sit down the table holds the promise of all that is good about community. And it is all about community. The men have spent the day checking, fixing where necessary, and assembling the tables and chairs. The women known for their cooking talent have been in the cantinas all day prepping and cooking, and the children and teenagers will be serving and bussing the food which is brought to us on table tops fitted with four handles to form enormous trays.
For $20 you buy a ticket with a corresponding seat number and will find yourself plonked down amidst the locals, none of whom will speak English and all of whom, when you tell them how badly you speak Italian, commence to machine gun you with rapid-fire conversation through the ensuing 4 courses, during which we find ourselves alternating between understanding and speaking whole paragraphs and then completely losing it for the same amount of time, our lack of comprehension completely ignored by our dinner companions, either because they cannot image such a thing or because they presume that if they keep on talking we’ll eventually get back on the train and find the right compartment, which we eventually do. Besides, we are familiar enough, after all these years, with the rhythm and tone of the conversation to fake it during the brain-dead passages with the appropriate phrase of agreement or dissent.
And so it is that we joyfully make our way through the antipasti di crostini con fegatelli (toast with boars’ liver pate), bruschetta con fresca pommedori (bread with fresh tomatoes) salami and prosciutto. Having already agreed to sign a protest against the installation of new grain silos on a particularly beautiful stretch of countryside, we move on to the zuppa di ribolitta (vegetable and bean soup) which, like the natives, we eat with great chunks of raw onion, all the better to fire up the powers of conjugation. Next comes scottiglia (a stew of pheasant, rabbit, boar and chicken) with piselli (peas) followed by – for those who still have room – a light and lovely tiramisu without alcohol. And of course, bread, wine, and water, is in constant supply.
The food, all made fresh that day, is a miracle in itself, what really moves us is the way the whole community volunteers to work for nothing but, perhaps, the greatest recompense of all: the continuation of tradition and a way of life that is heart-warming in this age of isolation. We didn’t see one cell phone in play during the entire evening. Everyone was with everyone else in an intimate, animated way, occasionally interrupting conversation to sing along with the accordionist and guitarist as they strolled along the street.
