Life, on the Line by Grant Achatz (leveled readers .TXT) 📗

“Yes.”

Cheese came quickly, followed by desserts. No further mention was made of the squab, no replacement course was offered, and no deduction was made on the bill. We went back to our room.

“I’m done here,” I said to myself.

We made it to Florence after spending time in Venice and Rome to find the meal at Enoteca Pinchiorri good, better than the two meals in France, but certainly not at the level I had imagined. My culinary tour was over.

We only had two days left in Europe, and we planned to explore Florence by foot. We wandered through Piazza della Signoria on our way to the Ponte Vecchio and stopped in at a small café for an espresso. Pinned to the wall, in English, was a piece of paper that read:

BIKE TOURS OF THE TUSCAN HILLSIDES

Led by American college student.

Bikes included.

See: olive groves, winery, Italian countryside.

Cindy pointed to it and asked me if I was game. I had been so glum and self-absorbed that it was the least I could do. She grabbed one of the tear-off phone-number tabs at the bottom.

We wandered around Florence for the rest of the afternoon, taking in the sites and art. Cindy called the number that night and set up a tour for the next morning while I scanned the guidebook trying to figure out where to eat that night. We opted for a pizza.

We woke up the next morning and met a group of four other Americans at a coffee shop and waited for our guide. A van pulled up with seven bikes strapped to the top. We piled in, drove to the other side of town, and started unloading the bikes.

“The hard part of this trip is getting there,” Tom the bike guide said. “It’s all uphill. At the halfway point we’ll stop at a winery where they make their own olive oil and wine. If you get tired before that, just stop and rest. There’s only one road, so you can’t get lost. Just look for a wooden sign for the winery.” We huffed our way up the hillside, leaving two of the other four well behind us.

The winery was as magical as you might imagine. Storybook stuff. Two dogs rolled around the front lawn, light poked through a leafy canopy. The owner had leathery skin from years in the sun and spoke no English, but exuded warmth and calm. We walked the property, saw the old stone olive press still used to make the oil from the trees that lined both sides of the driveway, and tasted the unfiltered version on crusty pieces of bread. We had a few glasses of Chianti straight from the barrel to wash it down.

Mellowed by the wine and sun we climbed back on our bikes and continued our trek upward toward a towerlike ruin at the top of the hill. We arrived forty-five minutes later. “This is as far up as we’re going,” Tom said. “Take a few minutes to look around, take some pictures, and then we’re going to head back down. We can stop for lunch on the way back if you’re hungry.”

On the road up all we saw were a few homes, the winery, and trees. I didn’t remember any restaurant. We headed quickly down the hill, and fifteen minutes later we followed Tom into a small driveway just off the main road that led to what appeared to be an abandoned stone building. We hopped off the bikes and I could immediately smell grilled meats, herbs, and the strong scent of roasted garlic. Our group looked at each other skeptically as we ducked through the tiny wooden door.

“I found this place by chance,” Tom said. “I was taking a group up here last year when my chain came off and got lodged between the sprocket and the frame. So I walked up here to see if they had anything to help me fix it. I started talking to the owner and we worked out a deal to make this part of the bike tour. There she is . . .”

He stood up and greeted her loudly in rapid-fire Italian, waving his arms and kissing her on both cheeks. She bear-hugged him back. The woman appeared to be eighty years old, even though she was probably sixty. She wore a blue dress with small white flowers scattered across it and a white apron loosely tied around her rotund midsection.

A man who I assumed was her husband walked over, plunked down wineglasses and a plate of crostini with chicken liver, bean, and tomato toppings. He filled our glasses with a hefty pour of red wine.

“She usually just cooks, well, whatever!” Tom said. “Today she’s made chicken under a brick, some gnocchi, wilted greens, and fagioli al fiasco. You guys know what that is? Basically a very typical Tuscan way of cooking white beans. She’ll place them in a glass flask over a dying fire until they’re creamy. They’re pretty awesome.”

“Yes they are,” I thought. “Yes they are.”

I peeked around the corner and saw the woman bent over a makeshift grill with glowing embers beneath, pushing a plain old brick on top of our chickens. Four glass flasks filled with beans were positioned around the edges.

We ate and drank for two hours. I didn’t want to leave. Everything was more perfect, more delicious, and more inviting than any of the three-star restaurants we’d been to. Even the service was better.

At the end of the meal the woman brought out a plate of almond cookies and we dunked them in Vin Santo. “Grazie,” everyone said.

I left the restaurant in a daze, and not because of the wine.

I realized immediately that I had just had the best meal of my life.

CHAPTER 7

The meal in Tuscany was a wake-up call to what was most important in a kitchen—passion. Even though the Michelin three-stars in Europe fell short of my expectations, I felt that somewhere fine dining must meet