On My Way to Lunch in Castellina in Chianti. Pasta and Authenticity.

February 1993.

Today is un giorno festivo according to the bus timetable, which simply means it’s Sunday, a holiday, a holy day, as opposed to all the other working days of the week. I’ve arrived in Castellina in Chianti, a small village 15 kilometres from Siena, after a slow but pleasant bus trip through rolling Tuscan hills dotted with small historic settlements with names that resonate more loudly than they should: Ficareto, Colombaio, Quercegrossa, Croce Fiorentina, San Leonino. I mentally translate every printed word that flashes by: names of villages and rivers, traffic directions and road signs, as figs and doves, large oak trees and Florentine crosses, saints, wells and fountains overload my thinking. This habit is mentally exhausting. Last night’s drift of snow left no visible sign in these hills, but it’s still cold and bleak. I’m wearing a thick brown coat- one that I purchased from the bi – weekly market near the medieval wall just outside the centro storico in Siena. It’s my bag lady coat, coarse and graceless, but warm. I feel like an outsider, an imposter, and terribly lonely: this coat doesn’t help. I’ll blame the coat for my sense of estrangement, given that all the Senese look so elegant in their long, fur trimmed woolen coats, not unlike those well- behaved citizens in a medieval Ambrogio Lorenzetti fresco. Not to mention the local taste for expensive, narrow, fine leather or reptile skin shoes, elegant and totally impractical, which don’t fit my broad Australian feet. The stall holders at the Sunday market in Castellina in Chianti are now packing up: I’ve arrived too late to pick up a little antique hand worked pillow case or vintage ceramic plate. The village looks deserted and uninviting. I’m not sure why I came, or where to go, not having done much research before making this lone journey. A church bell chimes in the distance signalling that it’s already past one pm, a reminder to the secular that it’s time to eat. Distant church bells can be comforting or dispiriting, arousing a sense of belonging or sadness. Today’s bells ring melancholy. A sense of cognitive dissonance overcomes me: it seems that the more I learn this language and bathe in the familiarity of Italian sounds, the less certain I feel about my place here. The empty streets loudly announce that everyone else is already seated at a table, either in a family home or warm restaurant, coats now hanging on pegs by the front door, primo piatto about to be served, a bottle of Chianti Classico proffered, as loud and excitable conversation fills the room. The choice on the menu won’t be novel or foreign: Italians are far more comfortable with regional food, or even more precisely, the food of their paese, the local village or district, food that is cooked simply and according to tradition. That’s what is so appealing about Italian food. At times, I’ll admit, Italian regional cuisine can become stubbornly insular and unbending too. Campanilismo, a word derived from campanile, the village church bell, suggests a rigid adherence to one’s local food, method of cooking, ingredients, dialect and ways of doing things: it’s about local pride. The bell tolls for many reasons.

I’m feeling anxious now and walk more desperately. The town is much smaller than I anticipated. If I’m not seated at a table by 1.15, I may miss out on lunch altogether. I’m looking for a small restaurant or trattoria, one that isn’t too well patronised by noisy extended families in elegant clothes, having attended, or pretending to have attended, church. Pretending to attend church is an art form in Italy, a performance that I greatly admire. You don your Sunday best, make a brief appearance at the church with the family, double or triple kiss your friends at the front steps, enter and sit down for a bit, pop out the front for a smoke (male), or chat loudly with your friends in the mid to rear rows (female), while ignoring most of the action at the front altar. The reverberating monotone of the priest echoing around the walls, ‘Santo, Santo, Santo il Signore Dio dell’universo. I cieli e la terra sono pieni della tua gloria’, produces a ready response from the front two rows of pews. High pitched, croaky voices pray in unison, the pious and the permed: small boned and ancient women kneel, rosaried and devout, as they prepare for their future in paradiso.

I peer through the window of a small and very plain looking trattoria and see a tangle of bright yellow pasta lying on a wooden bench, liberally dusted with flour. A plump middle aged woman in a plastic cap adds more to the pile- pasta freshly rolled and cut for today’s lunch. The menu board says Tagliatelle al Burro e Salvia. ( tagliatelle with butter and sage). I don’t read any further, I don’t need to know what’s on offer for the piatto secondo. I walk straight in.

October 2019.

When the eggs are plentiful and spring vegetables and herbs announce their readiness to be picked before bolting to heaven, I think back to that simple meal in Castellina in Chianti. It was elegant yet comforting, it’s success arising from restraint. Freshly made egg pasta is a joy to make and consume soon after. It requires only 2 ingredients: eggs and flour, along with a bit of kneading, resting, rolling and cutting and that’s all. No salt, no oil, no sourdough starter, no colours, no heavy artisan type flours, no chia seeds and no fuss. The sauce should gently coat the strands. Ideally, you want the fresh eggs to sing, their golden yolks colouring the mixture. At this time of the year, fresh pasta is almost saffron in colour, the eggs are so good. In the case of Tagliatelle with Butter and Sage, the sauce comes from lightly browned butter in which you crisp a few sage leaves. You could add a grating of nutmeg. It is served with grated parmigiano. Authenticity, although a fraught concept, requires you to stick, as much as possible, to the traditions of a country’s cuisine, if you have the ingredients on hand to do so. Once you start fiddling with a recipe, expect the results to speak a different language. Restrained is a good word to describe the elegance of Italian food. I hear those bells ringing. Time to make fresh pasta.

20 thoughts on “On My Way to Lunch in Castellina in Chianti. Pasta and Authenticity.”

  1. This is a most beautiful and evocative piece of writing. I felt as though I was there , walking through the streets of Siena with you, and taking in the sound of bells and the atmosphere of an Italian town on a Sunday…quiet and for the family.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. I hope that it might have been a suitable little snippet to send you back to Italy Rosalie, since you missed your trip this year to that lovely village with friends. This memory is imprinted loudly – no photos remain- and it is a reminder that often when travelling alone, sensory experiences are much more vivid. xx

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  2. When I began a mundane weekly work load awhile ago I had no idea I was going to walk along the wintry streets of Castellina with you ere my lunch bell rang . . . I have loved the rather sombre meander and the lesson here and now . . . you take me to ‘other’ places and I cherish that . . . thank you . . .

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Your posts are always beautiful and inspiring. In this one, you perfectly captured the feeling one has in a strange place, not knowing how your day will continue.

    best… mae at maefood.blogspot.com

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thanks Mexi. I wrote it from memory as my journals and photos from that time were burnt in the bushfire of 2009, which destroyed everything. My memory of that month spent in Siena is very vivid, probably because I was alone.
      Pasta making is is fun, but only if you’re in the mood for a mess.

      Liked by 1 person

  4. This time, revisiting, you weren’t alone… I was right there with you. Evocative.
    I’m a fan of franken-recipes often by necessity of what I have to hand but I’m learning there’s something as well to following a recipe to a T for primo results.

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    1. I think that story followed on from last week’s anchovy post. I got stuck in 1993 for a while.
      I love a bit of crazy creativity in the kitchen, but the pasta rave was nit so much a recipe, as a reminder to stay true to the essential nature of a food. Sometimes less is more.
      Thanks Dale.

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  5. I loved that 1993 story so much. We used to live near to a Catholic church and i loved the sound of the midday bell calling the faithfull – and the hungry. I used to imagine myself in an Italian Piazza in one of Bagni di Lucca’s photos. I am now desperate to make egg pasta! Do you roll by hand, Francesca, or use a hand cranked pasta machine? I am now imagining myself as the gloriously flouncing Sophia Lauren – Grazie Mille, Francesca! Ciao 🤓

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    1. I think that’s a fabulous fantasy to accompany some pasta making, Sophia Lauren hand cranking the pasta machine. You’ll need some music too. Opera, a bit of Verdi or Puccini?
      Yes, I use a hand cranked machine. I’m hopeless at rolling out stiff dough. I put it through the biggest opening three times, befire taking it down to the second last one. Then I cut some lasagne shapes. Then cut some tagliatelle, and dry the scraps for soup. 3 big eggs and 300g of flour will make a lot of pasta. Use tipo 00, of you have it, or plain flour if you don’t. Do you have a machine Jan?

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