The Body in the Piazza (17 page)

“We would anyway,” Gianni said firmly.

Francesca smiled. “My husband is a little old-fashioned, but I do agree with him on this. It's the way I've always known.”

The Culvers had their questions ready once more.

“Can you walk us through from when you pick to what we're going to see?” Sally asked.

“Of course. We harvest in the fall again. Everything with the grapes and olives happens one after the other in Tuscany! It's a rush to pick the olives because the timing has to be just right.”

Gianni picked up the thread. This was obviously a passion for him, even more than the grapes, Faith realized.

“It cannot be wet and the moon has to be right. You can't stop in the middle, and we bring the olives to the mill in batches. If you store them until they are all picked, they lose their flavor. For us, the concern is the taste of our oil, the quality. It is nice to get a large yield of oil, but better to have less and make it the best. This is also why we pick by hand. The big growers use automatic rakes to shake the olives from the trees, or other machines to harvest them.”

“He treats his trees like children,” Francesca teased. “The way he prunes them, checks them for pests. I think he even sings to them. And by the way, the leaves of the olive tree do not change color or fall. It is an evergreen.”

“How much oil does each tree give you?” Sally asked.

Gianni was apparently not trusting his wife to answer and scowled at her playfully. “About one liter for each tree is a good estimate.”

Jack seemed surprised. “But that's nothing! All that work for something the size of a bottle of Coke!”

“Worth it, I'd say, if the oil we've been enjoying is your own,” Terry said.

“It is and
grazie,
” Francesca said. “The color of the oil varies with the kind of olive, and ours is the typical Tuscan green, like the first grass growing in the spring. We are permitted to label it ‘extra virgin' since it is cold-pressed, no heat or chemicals used, and has an acidity of less than one percent.”

Sally and Hattie were both scribbling away.

“Okay. You pick, bring the olives to the mill, and then what?” Sally asked.

“I will let the owners tell you, but basically after the olives are washed and any twigs separated out, they are crushed by three granite millstones,” Francesca said. “In the old days a donkey provided the power, walking round and round. The mashed-up olives, a paste, are spread on layers of round straw mats and piled up, then the press pushes the oil out. You will not see this today. But you will come back for this, too. There is nothing more delicious than fresh oil!”

Sally was insistent on the details, though. “How does it get into the bottles from these straw things?”

“The oil drips down the sides of the stack into a tank and a centrifuge spins the water out and then it is bottled. Never store your oil in anything plastic, by the way. I can't remember what they are called in English, but it will affect the flavor and also may be bad for us.”

“PVCs, polyvinyl chlorides,” Faith called from the back. “Both things are true—bad for taste and for health. What isn't true is that you have to store olive oil in the fridge. I keep mine in a cupboard, away from light and heat. I only buy E-V-O-O that's dated, and although I've never kept any this long, unopened it's fine for two or even a bit more years.”

“Faith is right,” Francesca said. “We use a dark green bottle like most growers to protect the oil from sunlight. For cooking, I keep a virgin-grade oil and I buy it in gallon tin containers. I transfer what I need into a smaller glass or ceramic one.”

“We're here!” Gianni cried, swiftly pulling in next to what looked like an oversize garage. Faith had expected something with more character, but that came when they entered the building.

Two men got up from the lawn chairs set up next to a Rube Goldbergian–looking machine where they had obviously been waiting for them. They were both young, both very good-looking, and it soon became apparent, both fluent in English.

“Welcome, American and English people! Welcome to our
frantoio
! I am Sandro, like Sandro Botticelli, except I cannot paint, and this is my partner, Maurizio, like Maurizio Pollini, except he cannot play the piano, just what do you call it, ‘Chopsticks.' I have so much English because I was one summer in Nebraska picking corn.”

With a flourish he grabbed the nearest person—it was Jack—shook hands, and then much to Jack's surprise kissed him on both cheeks.

“You must excuse him. He is alone with only me too much,” Maurizio said. “Come. This is a slow time in the
olio
business. Of course we find much to do, but compared to the fall . . .” He rubbed the side of his face, the universal hand gesture for extreme boredom. “Your visit is a blessing.”

The tour expanded the Rossis' information, and there was no question about enjoying the mode of delivery. Faith hadn't laughed so much in years, let alone on the trip. The two men were definitely what the Italians call
personaggi
.

“We use hemp for the mats,” Maurizio said. “And I try to keep Sandro from smoking them. We do not weave them ourselves. We would like our mothers to do this, but they are modern women and have important jobs. Mine is a lawyer, which she says she chose as soon as I was born because she had the feeling I would need her services sooner or later. My papa is an accountant. Botticelli's namesake over there has two high-powered parents; journalists in Milano.”

“Enough,” Sandro said. “It's time for them to judge whether our oil is as appetizing as we are.”

They had set up the tasting outdoors under a large oak on a picnic table covered with a checked cloth. Chairs had been scrounged from the house, which Faith saw was an old farmhouse farther down the road.

“It is like a wine tasting. But better,” Sandro instructed once they were seated. “I will give you a taste in these glasses. Smell first. Inhale deeply. Three or four times. Closing your eyes is good. Then a tiny sip, swish it around your mouth. Swallow, or spit it out on the grass if you must, but then wait, drink some water, and try the other two. You are going from last year's harvest, the newest, to oldest. See which you like best. Then we will have some wine and you will be our best friends forever, isn't that what you say?”

Faith already was beginning to think of these two charming men as her BFFs, and after she tasted the oil they were producing, she knew they would also be her suppliers for small quantities to use in special dishes. She'd order some oil now and some in the fall.

The afternoon was stretching out lazily. Everyone was happy and relaxed. Even Olivia was smiling and asking Sandro questions about being on the farm in Nebraska, possibly so she could laugh at his answers, which were very funny and involved many puns.

“But although there was much food that I was not sad to leave—many, many sweet green, orange, and red gelatins they called salads with canned fruit and cheese trapped in the middle that looked like ricotta but tasted like overcooked gnocchi and all the other salads, the ones that had lettuce, were smothered with sweet mayonnaise dressings, also orange—they liked that color, those happy smiling peoples. I cried to leave their steaks. Cover your ears, Rossis, but even Chianina beef doesn't come close to what I had in Nebraska.”

“Tonight is the night for
Bistecca alla Fiorentina,
so they can decide for themselves,” Francesca said. “I thought we would be tired from today, so we will grill. Sandro, Maurizio, come join us. We will eat at nine, but come early.”

“You are all so nice. Of course we will come. We can do
bruschetta
on the grill, too. We will bring the oil, and garlic from our garden,” Maurizio said.

The final stop of the day, at a vineyard, was a marked contrast to the two previous ones.

A long drive lined with well-tended cypresses led to the
castello
that was the grower's home. Gianni turned in front of it and parked in a lot near the equally impressive old buildings that housed the winery and tasting room. The gardens were overflowing with specimen blooms, and when someone came out to greet them, it was a guide, not the owners themselves. It didn't matter. The guide, whose name was Mia, was well informed, and even though the scale was so much larger, she conveyed the deep appreciation all involved had for their craft and product as she gave them the tour, an appreciation apparent at the other winery and the olive mill, too. As she spoke she passed out sheets explaining how wines are classified—the meaning behind those letters following all the names; DOCG, Designation of Controlled Origin Guaranteed, being the highest. The Culvers were in heaven. Handouts!

This was where Francesca had said they would purchase some vin santo to go with the biscotti they had made earlier for tonight's
dolce
. And since she was sure this process would be completely new to most of the students, when they emerged into the sunlight, she asked Mia to speak to them about it.

“At our
cantina
we are making Vin Santo di Montepulciano DOC from white grapes,” Mia explained. “Seventy percent of the grapes must be the Grechetto, Trebbiano, and Malvasia varieties. The other thirty percent can be local varieties, and we have some we use that give our wine a very special taste. Unlike the processes for other wines, vin santo is made from dried grapes. We spread them out on straw mats after the regular harvest in a warm room, which causes the moisture to evaporate and the sugar to become very concentrated. The amount of time we leave them is important, but it is many weeks. Some people add yeast afterward to speed fermentation. Instead, we take some of last year's vin santo saved for the purpose to add to ours. Then it goes into oak barrels where it ages, for us, at least four years. Methods vary. Some places hang the bunches of grape to dry, but basically it is the same process—a wine made from the raisin. Some use a different wood for the barrels. Originally all the barrels were made of chestnut.”

Earlier they had passed through a room filled with the enormous barrels lying on their sides with bright red rims and polished steel hoops. Very impressive.

“Please follow me to the tasting room and I think today it would be nice to sample some vin santo even though the Rossis have said you will have some later. Although ours is the traditional amber, you will notice a slight difference in each color, and in sweetness. I will be interested to hear which one you prefer.”

She led the way out into the bright sunlight and across another flower-filled courtyard to a building that was a shop and tasting room. Faith wondered how she managed in the elegant high heels she was wearing, but she must have been used to navigating the cobblestones and never even teetered.

“Mia, tell them the story of how the wine got its name,” Gianni said. “Tom here is a priest. Not like ours. A Protestant one, but I'm sure he will want to know.”

“I do want to know,” Tom said. “And I may have already heard at least one story, but please tell us yours.”

“First the official version, then the apocryphal, which is much more interesting,” she said, her face lighting up.

Mia really was darling, Faith thought, her hair a tumble of dark curls and face dominated by golden brown eyes. With her heels, stylish short skirt, and a Gucci scarf gracefully tied around her neck, she exemplified what the Italians call
la bella figura,
a hard-to-define philosophy that means the whole way one presents oneself, especially in public. Not just how one looks but one's attitude and behavior, a striving for perfection, with no apparent sweat.

“ ‘Vin santo,' which means ‘holy wine,' takes the name from being used for mass,” Mia said. “That's the official story, but many of us believe another is the true one. In the fourteenth century a Franciscan friar from Siena began to use the wine that was left over after mass to soothe the pain of those suffering from the plague. It was a miracle! They were cured! The sweet wine began to be used for many kinds of sickness, and we still think of vin santo as having medicinal properties.”

“Definitely more believable,” Tom agreed. “And it's the story I've heard before.”

Since Roderick was looking longingly at the table with the glasses and bottles, Faith thought she'd do her good deed for the day and steer the conversation that way.

“Is all your vin santo sweet? I've heard some kinds are more like a dry sherry.”

Mia nodded and, much to Roderick's obvious delight, started to open the bottles and pour samples.

“I should let you decide for yourselves, but yes, we only make a dessert wine. Now, please enjoy. And we do ship to the United States and United Kingdom,” she added.

Everyone appeared to like the wine. As they sipped, Luke added to their vin santo lore by reciting the phrase “a holy wine for a hell of a day,” which he said he'd often heard people say.

“Another kind of medicine for another kind of illness,” Terry observed. “I've had days like that. I think I'll order a case!”

“Although until today I've never heard about the wine being for a bad day as such, in Italy we also call vin santo,
vini da meditazioni
—‘a wine to meditate with,' ” Mia added.

After consulting with Tom, Faith decided they should order some, too.

“And not just to help you think about your sermons,” she said. “This has a very different flavor from others I've tried. You taste the raisins, of course, but it also has a nutty flavor and isn't cloyingly sweet.”

It was an ebullient group that piled into the van, to head back to Cucina della Rossi. The brilliant late afternoon sun lit up the landscape like klieg lights from a Hollywood film set.

Gianni turned the radio on as they plunged into the valley, or at least that's what it felt like to Faith. After what was obviously an announcement of football scores, greeted with groans from the driver and causing an alarming sudden swerve, the station started broadcasting a series of American and British oldies. A number of people were humming along, and when the familiar opening of Don McLean's “American Pie” came over the airwaves, Terry Russo shouted, “I love this song!” and started singing. Her enthusiasm was contagious, and she had a great voice. Soon the whole group was joining in on the chorus, although Constance did say loudly at the start that the song made no sense whatsoever and she could never understand why it was so popular.