EN VOYAGE TO TUSCANY
copyright Michael Safdiah 1999 all rights reserved

The trip from Nice to Pisa on the tiny airplane was unique - Just like the ones to my beloved Fire Island. Loaded to capacity with five passengers and the pilot. Cramped inside, we flew low enough for me to see Monte Carlo and the beautiful Italian Riviera, mostly over land until we had to cross over the Gulf of Livorno. Of course I immediately relaxed with the thrill of flying at such a familiar height. The lady who sat next to me spoke American, clearly an experienced traveler, she told me all about herself in the short space of time we had in the air. I was proud that she knew of The Black Sheep. I felt like a celebrity, on my very first visit to Italy.

When I arrived the first thing I noticed was the Italians themselves. The men, well I always look at men, certainly seemed so much more relaxed. Relaxed inside their bodies, relaxed with the way they allowed themselves to be revealed. They were sexual, and okay with it. I realized by comparison to where I’d left, how up-tight a people the French can be.

The rent-car I had hoped for was (of course) not there, and I spoke no Italian in order to convince anybody I had reserved it. So, welcome to Italia! The little Fiat I got (not the convertible I requested) took me in circles to even leave the airport. I swear airport roadways are designed by retired frustrated rat-maze designers. I finally decided I had left the airport, and had driven around half an hour looking for a sign to Pisa (I wanted to see the tower) There were Alto Stradas, Super Stradas, strada-stradas. I was totally lost in a strange land in a speeding car with everyone beeping horns at me in Italian. I made a lot of turns out of uncertainty, anxiety and the desire to not crash. You know, one beautiful thing about being lost in Italy, I learned, is that no matter where you end up you’ll be in a beautiful place. Eventually I noticed there was nothing but countryside, beautiful countryside. Italy is even more beautiful than France, I thought, I must be far away from Pisa, and a sign with an arrow, saying "Firenze". At last. A familiar name.

Well, then let it be Florence. Avanti! I gave up the idea of seeing the tower easily, my real love is not seeing tourist traps, but making a connection with the place I am traveling to. The chance to drive alone left me with time to reflect on the previous few weeks, and on my relationship with Bart.

Bart had returned on a flight to New York via Paris, and I was in Italy and I was on my own. No compromises.

There had been some bickering before we parted, but we always did that. We loved one another and lovers do disagree sometimes. All in all it was our first big trip anywhere together, except for the trip to Negril, which I hated, because of the Danish-owned hotel we stayed at, where the dinner meals were served at 5:30 and if you weren’t there you’d have to eat leftovers. No more Scandinavian hotels, all the guests were Euros, older, bland and just plain dull. I’ll take Americans any day. Or go native.

It is a beautiful island, Jamaica, but I don’t think I’d go back to a high class hotel there, I’d prefer to have a native cook and maid in a rented house. That would be the life. Their local wine sucks, or at least the stuff they poured for us, and as they had a kind of an embargo on imports, getting French wine, or any other imported foodstuffs, was out of the question. They wanted to maintain their payments of trade balance at the expense of the poor tourists. But back to France.

We had just visited wealthy friends - the Sterlings -- they own the Iron Horse Winery in Russian River, California -- who had a home in St. Paul de Vence, a town perched on a hilltop. It’s a picturesque spot, an ancient, "ville Perché" (perched town" so situated to protect its occupants from marauding marauders. From down below, you look almost straight up, there’s a steep high hill, sort of tree covered, and way way up, there are houses and buildings made of stone. Centuries ago you would have been dissuaded from making the trip to loot and plunder. Stones could surely and easily be thrown down on your head and kill you.

You wonder how you would ever climb there, but you manage it with effort. The streets are narrow, cobbled, hilly and willy-nilly. Each few feet one wanders unveils a new vista of the ancient world, and of the mountains in the distance. I fell in love with it. It’s easy to see why man has embraced this as a place of shelter, Their home, set into and carved out of the rock which formed the hill, was very old, tiny, with small furnishings yet it appeared modern because of the beautiful things in it.

A few hundred years ago there would have been a family of peasants huddled against the ceaseless wintry Mistral wind around a fire inside this stone shelter. instead of a modern French Riviera showpiece.

Lunch with there was a feast of Mediterranean grilled vegetables, and some light rosé wine. The meal was a dizzying array of colors, flavors, and incredible serving dishes. Why I recall that brilliantly colored china surprises me now. Deepest chrome yellows, rich blues, apricot . All of Provençe was about intensity of color, it being so deeply baked in the brilliant sunshine of the Riviera. The stairs in the old house were steep, the walls were crooked, the whole effect was one of very old magic.

It was all small talk at first, these were people whose business was wine, and entertaining is a way of life for them. After the small talk we really got down to some wonderful conversation, we were all young and Americans in France, they were so gracious, and we’d visited their parents at their home in the Russian River, so we had a rare and exciting lunch, lots of good wine and laughter, and left to find our rooms for the night in Mougins, a nearby town.

We stayed at Moulin de Mougins, the beautiful three-star inn owned by one of my former maîtres, chef Roger Vergé. It is a restaurant built into an ancient mill. It must be every cooks dream (certainly mine) to have a place near a resort, with fragrant herb and flower gardens, sunlight, and famous and rich guests in a place nestled in the hills overlooking the Riviera.

After dinner the first night, he visited our table. He graciously welcomed me back, I mentioned that he had a dangerously dark tan, and made some remark about pocketbooks, which we all laughed at. He didn’t laugh as loudly as I’d have wished. It seems when food is not in my mouth, one will always find my foot there. He looked so regal, with that deep Riviera tan and his white hair, and I challenged my old mentor to cook us real Provençale food, ‘la Cuisine Grandmère", instead of "la Cuisine des Trois Etoiles" so I could show Bart what ‘old Provençe’ was like.
"you will have a table tomorrow, and I will cook for you" he said in the matter of fact way a person does when he is used to being obeyed. I was thrilled, and spent the entire day anticipating dinner. I think we even smoked a little recreational pot before dinner, a mistake now that I look back on it.

The first course was langoustes, sort of a crayfish-lobster, but in a lemon-y garlic-y dressing, with a blend of olive and walnut oils. He didn’t spare the fresh herbs, there were so many, the blend was an indescribable, and exotic combination of thyme, rosemary and lavender combined with some North African aromas. It was beyond French, I had to remind myself that this little hill town was right on the French Riviera, and a crossroads of conquering armies for centuries. It is why Provençe is what it is.

The oversized plate was decorated with shellfish of all sorts. It was a seafood still life. He was inspired by Bouillabaisse, there was also a dish of that hot aioli sauce called Rouille always served with it. His was lighter, brilliant, certainly easier to eat and colorful. I was able to taste colors. It was three-star, and all Vergé, but I was looking for "old fashioned cooking" - "Grandmère". I was certain he had directed this, but hadn’t had much of a hand in its preparation.

The baby racks of lamb which followed were loaded with herbs, (wild ones, and intense), and half a ton of roasted cloves of garlic. Of course there were roasted baby vegetables, all shapes and colors, and they had taste too! I recalled then that we have mini-vegs at home too, but they lacked taste. Oh, and a few roasted potatoes that really tasted like potatoes. Not since Equador had I tasted a real potato. Now the assault had begun. I was home, finally. Here was a master at his intense best. He had abandoned his trademark ‘lighter’ approach to please the whim of a guest, little me. Here is where hospitality and good food were married with humility.

There was an intense lamb pan juice, but it had been slightly thickened, so it was more home style. It was deep and stayed with you while you savored it, and again, you knew that garlic had been emphasized in your honor. I think there was olive oil in it to enrich it. There was a light but fruity local wine, just enough to enhance the food, and perfectly blend with it. Chef selected it, and sent it to us with his compliments.

We were eating so quickly by then we weren’t paying much attention to the details, we were a couple of pig-boys in love with the food, the day and each other. Sad, now that I think of it, but you either experience it or you intellectualize it. I ride a bit of both when I dine out. My hedonist self goes for the big experience, and later after a few bites, my reflective self comes on board. That meal I think I just told my reflective self to take the night off. I realize now that I was intended to that.

It was "Death by Garlic", and there was fragrant ice cream made with Thyme for one of the endless selections of dessert. I hate it when they do that - they kill you with so much great food, and then the cheese tray comes, then sweets, and of course cookies, and you can’t escape the assault on your liver; you don’t even want to. You just sit back in those oversized arm chairs designed to give you that feeling that you own the world, (I don’t) and you let it happen to you.

We were up late that night suffering the consequences of our overindulging, not because of the food, which was great; it’s just that we pigged out. No regrets.

I wondered if Bart had enjoyed the trip, I sure hoped so, it took years of being lovers and then separating and finally coming together as friends. The ‘friends’ part was the best. Whenever we were together after we broke up, there was a peace, a quiet which enveloped the two of us. It was always easy to spend time together, and the best part was that we didn’t need to do a damn thing. We managed to salvage that and have it as long as we knew one another.