I hadn't really understood the local culture until the last night. Restaurants open late in Italy and the city comes to life after the kitschy tourist shops drawn down their iron curtains and the morning travelers fold their eyes. Even at 11 o'clock, pools of golden light illuminate from antiquated shrines dedicated to antediluvian gastronomy while outside, streets are blanketed by darkness, grey and quiet. Locals stand and sit in perfect company, reclining against bar counters with glasses of deep red wine or sinking in frothy booths, hugging egg-yolk yellow pastas.
And so is the culture of Italy. Conversation breathed in every dining experience and our dinners lasted an average of 2 1/2 hours. Waiters chatted comfortably with patrons and with neighborhood friends outside on cobblestone streets before welcoming them in, pet in tow and patiently palmed checks until the party requested for the bill. Cappuccinos, in their petite cups, tottered out, symbolizing the end of a meal.
The gastronomy is, without exception, delicious. And, as expected, homemade is always best. My favourite meal was at a Tuscan farmhouse we had rented for the night. The couple who owned the property were warm and wholesome and invited us to dine in their wine cellar, which had exposed pink bricks and dusty bottles of wine lining wooden shelves. The red wine was product of their private vineyard and the thick, glutenous spirals of pasta, sauteed artichokes and braised beef were rich, hearty chef d'oeuvres of her kitchen stove. There was a dimensionality to each of the dishes, whether from the gleaming olive oil or from the placement of fruit, that projected artisan modesty.
