There is no Tuscan sun today, and as a result it is chilly. My dreams lately have been of wandering these foreign cities at night, and I had my first hallucination in a long time. I woke up in the middle of the night and thought I was sleeping in the middle of the piazza in Siena.
We park and walk into the city. There seem to be more Italians in the morning, but by lunch, the Americans start to appear. Still, there are less here than in Firenze, less in Firenze than in Venice, but ultimately there were way less in France than anywhere. Random thought, there are more places that sell wine than cold soda in Europe. It's like if instead of coolers of soda at Best Buy, Blockbuster, etc, imagine wine.
We snack at Nanini for breakfast. Italians aren't afraid to cut in front of you, and if you don't claim your servers attention right away, expect them to politely ignore you for a while. We will miss the flaky croissants and fresh cappuccino, and how with every bite it is a shower of flaky crumbs on our fingers and countertops. Why does Starbucks food have to suck so bad?
There are children running and playing in the piazza, cartwheels, tag. We climb to the top of the Tower Manglia. No fat people in here. The stairway is so narrow you have to squeeze into the corner to let people pass by. Tom is getting a little vertigo at the top. The Tuscan hills are hidden by heavy overcast. Siena is remarkably sienna from up top.
Our ears pop as we drive up the hills on our way to Dievole, our first Italian winery. There is a sign that says Siena with a line through it on the way out, end of Siena. We make our way through swirly curvy hills with their neon yellow grape leaves and dead T-vines. It is like California highway 1 but with different scenery, olive trees everywhere. Every curve is a new photo opportunity, an inspiration to paint or write. I now long to go to Piedmont, Amalfi, Sicily, anywhere but big city Italy, I guess next time.
Dievole chiuso for the season. Tom tempted to try olives off the tree, but not today. Dead olives look like raisins all over the ground of the parking lot. Windy paths through New England style trees open up to wine hills covered in olives and yellow vines, then spill down into narrow small towns. You think you've hit a dead end, but the road keeps going, getting narrower. With crazy Italians driving fast we have to push up against the olive overhangs to move out of the way. We ascend an unpaved mountain backroad, private property, and get dumped into vineyard grounds, into the vines. Silly Garmin, where are you taking us??
Grotta della Rana chuiso, I am getting disappointed, but Tom just loves the drive. More mountains and towns on the way to Brolio. All the sudden the Garmin dies, and we must make our own choices. Considering the Garmin was last pointing down a scary vertical dirt path, we decide to follow signs instead. We find Enoteca Brolio, which looks closed, but isn't. The lady points us up the hill to the Osteria for lunch, and we arrive to a super fancy restaurant.
First, Brolio Chianti Classico. Tom smells fruit from the air as it is poured, even with his cold. It is just pure fruit, light, balanced, and dry. There is a slight earth and oak, but it is pretty straight forward and great with food. Tom tastes more earth than I am, but it might be the difference in our food.
Tom is eating zuppa ribollita, a thick stew made out of bread mush which he says is really good. I am having pici noodles, which are thick and al dente. It's like gourmet beef-a-roni, but what is that unique meat. I'm afraid to ask as I spot something that looks like a tongue, or is it a bird wing. Turns out it was a mix of chicken, rabbit, liver, beef, and pork, no wonder I couldn't guess.
The waiter is very serious about the presentation of the wine bottles, he lines them up in the order we need to try them. He insists the Super Tuscan must be drunk last and with the Florentine steak, which we are eyeing in the kitchen window, red fleshy goodness. We were the only ones in the restaurant, but now a lone old man joins. Is he pouring fizzing water into his wine? Sacrilege!! A group of Americans, including a monstrously fat woman, saunter in and badly mispronounce "buon giorno". Who are these characters?
Castello di Brolio Chianti Classico 2003 smells so dark and rich, blackberry raisin or black currant and fig. It is an explosion of straight forward dark fruit with an acidic finish. Casalferro Super Tuscan 20003 has legs that coat the glass, stick to it and dye it. It is rich, like syrup or molasses, like a blueberry pie or sticky jam. It smells similar to the others, but drier, more pepper and spice, more lingering. The Merlot must be what gives it the blueberry pepper. It is surprising that the Super Tuscan and second Chianti are so similar, but night and day compared to first Chianti.
The waiter brings out a plate of potatoes, eggplant, and peppers that will remain untouched in an effort to consume our expensive steak. He brings out a butcher block and cuts the steak for us onto our plates, it must weigh 5 lbs. It is the Mt Everest of steaks, and even with cutting the fat off, we fail to finish it. The wines compliment the meaty goodness. I finally realize "hectagram" (as in 5 euro per hg) is a tenth of a kilogram and realize we are going to be in for an expensive bill. 60 euros for the steak, but our bellies are full of meat and our lips stained with dark rich wine and we couldn't care less. It was worth every cent.
I run back in the restaurant realizing I forgot to tip. The waiter says it isn't necessary, but I do anyway. It has been confusing in Italy. Some places expect it, others don't, others include it. We drive up to the Castello and we try and buzz ourselves into the weird castle gates. We press many buttons before an old man on a tractor comes out and asks for 10 euro. It's beautiful inside, castle walls, thick vines and more LOTR trees making a cold canopy over the pathway. Are those orange tomatoes on the trees (persimmons)?
We open up a mystery camera case on the way out and find tourist pamphlets. So unintuitive the whole experience. We are trapped again by the gate and must ring the bell to get out. Tom says that even the castle bathrooms have motion sensor lights and water.
We try and search out Badia A Coltibuono, and drive through Gaiole in Chianti. There are no signs on the shops, and they all look alike. We keep following signs that lead us into the mountains. Just about when we are going to turn around, we find Badia. It says it is closed, but then a nice lady pokes her head out of the window and says "buon sera". We can only taste one of the wines, as she says at this time a year, they only get one visitor a day. She tells us about how Super Tuscans are made from the vineyards best grapes.
We chance getting to a gourmet shop in Radda that closes a 7 pm. We drive higher and higher up as the sun sets and the lights start to sparkle in the valley below. Radda is like a small Sam Gimignano. Everything is closed, including our gourmet shop, Casa Porciatto which is downstairs in an underground nook. We have been told it is common for shops to make up their own hours in the off season.
We decide to walk to Arte Vino, a wine shop we saw on the way in. We try Grosseto red and Pruneto Chianti Classico. They are both good and cheap, but we must start to limit our bottles. The owner starts setting out snacks for the local regulars who are filtering in. Such a fancy gourmet shop, but the regulars look pretty blue collar and rough around the edges. Tom samples a mystery red paste as I munch on delicious bread covered in salty oil. He starts to cry, apparently the red sauce is just chilies and oil, no tomato. "This is the hottest thing I've ever had". We try and find gelato to counteract the hotness, but fail.
Nighttime makes the drive back even harder. The Brunello at our hotel bar is not as good as Enoteca Italia, even after we waited "10 minutes for color and taste to change". It's good, but not mind-blowing. We unfold an enormous map of Tuscan to figure out our route tomorrow. We'd like to get to Montalcino by 9, yikes!! Then Montelpulciano, then Orvieto.
We go to Enoteca Italia one last time, run in and run out to get the sacred Brunello. We finish up the night at our hotel, no need for dinner after that steak. Tom helps clean up by eating leftover snacks, frozen pecorino, frozen salami... someone put the refrigerator temperature too low. I put out our loot on the floor, lots of yumminess to take home. A Jacuzzi bath plus Vernaccia is the best sleeping pill ever.