I HEART TRESTINA

Our house in Tuscany is almost equidistant from two towns.  One is in Tuscany and is called Castiglion Fiorentino.  The other is in Umbria and is called Trestina.  When we descend the 800 meter, deeply rutted, dirt road from our house down to the main road, we are always faced with a dilemma.  Should we turn right or should we turn left?  If we turn right, we head for Castiglion Fiorentino, the attractive hill town in which our little borgo “Valuberti” is legally incorporated.  If we turn left, we head for Trestina, the unattractive valley town in another province, another region—and in another world. 

We have always felt a divided loyalty between these two towns, and our turns—left or right—have resulted in a sort of bifurcated Italian life.  Our bank, accountant, geometra (a surveyor/permit expediter), electrician, contractor, and municipio (town hall) are in Castiglion Fiorentino, and when we lived in Italy, our insurance agent, doctor, and veterinarian were also there.  

But our plumber, water treatment expert (we have a well), antique furniture restorer, cabinet maker, and car mechanic are located in Trestina, and when we lived here, so was our dry cleaner.  Also, and not insignificantly, our favorite bar/café was in Trestina.  It was called Bar Macondo and it was presided over by a good looking guy named Maga.  This is where we met Robbie Duff Scott, the painter (R.I.P.), who was married to Teresa St Auban de Teran, the author of A House in Umbria (which was a death trap of a palazzo, lacking floors, stair treads, and the roof in certain areas); Big Jim, the real estate tycoon; and a group of hard-partying, ex-pat Brits with whom we still socialize. 

Bar Macondo has gone through several iterations since we left Italy for Berlin ten years ago, but when it was still owned by Maga, Paolino worked behind the bar.  He was just 18.  Now 15 years after we first drove into dusty, non-descript Trestina, a provincial town with one main street and bewildering traffic congestion, Paolino (second from the left, above) has opened his own bar/café.  It’s called L’Arte del Caffe and it’s located in a repurposed athletic club building, next to the town’s soccer field.   

This might seem like a strange location for a bar/café, but soccer is a very big deal in Italy and certainly in Trestina, so it’s actually a prime piece of real estate.

Last Saturday morning, on the spur of the moment over an espresso at L’Arte del Caffe, my husband called me and asked if I wanted him to book a serata (an evening of dinner and dancing) at the bar for that night.  There were places for 35 people, and if he acted right then and there, we could get the last two spots.  The menu was to be based on seafood, including lobster.  Mind you, Trestina is in Umbria, which is land-locked, which means that either the fish was frozen, or Paolino had ordered it to be flown in.  My husband assured me it was the latter.  He said Paolino had also booked a local band—an electric bass player, a drummer, an electric keyboard player, and a singer.   I didn’t know what to expect, but I couldn’t see any reason to say no, so we booked.  Boy, am I glad we did!

When we arrived at the bar at around 8 o’clock, there were quite a few small groups of smartly turned out people like the couple above (everyone was at least 30 years younger than our demographic!) chatting over Aperol Spritzes or glasses of wine on the terrace, spilling out into the parking lot, or standing around in the bar.  They all seemed to know each other (small town life).  We knew no one.  Other than Paolino, of course, but even then only in a proprietor-customer kind of way.  Hmmm.  Was this going to be one of those strained evenings like the ones we had spent at seasonal festivals in Castiglion Fiorentino where we always felt like i stranieri (the foreigners)?  

But, wait a sec.  People weren’t looking at us funny.  In fact, when they made eye contact they smiled and said, “Buona sera.”  They were welcoming.  Maybe this was going to be more like those Campari soda late afternoons at Bar Macondo.  Maybe this was actually going to be fun!  For old times' sake, we ordered a Campari Spritz at the bar to share and headed outside to the terrace.  I struck up a conversation with a 40-something, serious-looking, tall, very thin guy with a mane of curly brown hair.  He introduced himself as the bass player.  

We talked about the band's play list for the evening, his kids, and climate changes in the valley.  He was very thoughtful, engaging, and very sweet.  Then Paolino cruised through the crowd, calling everyone to table.

It wasn’t hard to find ours.  There was a bar napkin on a two-top with the words “Inglesi x 2” scrawled in ballpoint ink.  No doubt about who would be sitting there!  Later that evening, I informed Paolino that we are not actually English, but American.  He laughed, waved his arms dismissively, and gesticulated with a toss of his head that said to me, “But you are identified here by your language, not your country of origin.”  Fair enough.  Germany is also identified by its language:  Deutschland.  

Our dining room was loud.  Extremely loud.  Ear-splitting loud.  We were ensconced between two large tables of 10-12 people each, all of whom seemed to think they were out on the soccer pitch and needed to shout to be heard downfield.  They were having a helluva good time.  Our first course arrived:  a cold composed salad of potatoes, octopus, razor clams, anchovy bruschetta, and celery.  

Paolino poured us two glasses of cold white wine (included in the €20 per person price--you read that right) and advised that we could order more wine if we liked, and that he personally preferred red, even with fish.  All righty then!  

The first course was delicious.  Then a second appetizer appeared—baked, stuffed razor clams.  Yumbo!    

The third appetizer, a bowl of mussels, was served.  Another glass of wine was poured.  A fourth appetizer, sea snails in a spicy tomato sauce, arrived.  I pushed those around my plate, but my husband said they were tasty.  Another glass of wine was poured.  I think it was at this point that I asked the table behind us if I could take their picture.  “Ma certo!”  Of course!  I showed them the result on my iPhone and the tall dude in the white linen shirt, asked for a copy.  We exchanged email addresses. Zip zip and the photo was sent.  Here it is. 

Next came the primo, the pasta course.  It’s my favorite pasta--paccheri, a large, flat-tube semolina pasta served with a rather substantial lobster claw in a light tomato sauce.  Are you kidding me?!  (Here I switched to water.)   

After a decent digestive interval, the secondo arrived.   

This consisted of two large grilled prawns plus chunks of baked sea bass, the latter sitting atop what I believe was a beet creamy-foamy thing.  Why do I think that?  Because one of the guests went into the kitchen for seconds on the beet thing and came out with the kind of whipped cream dispenser that you would use for an ice cream sundae.  Pffffft.  Out came the beet creamy-foamy stuff.  Very informal group!

At about 10 o'clock the band started to play.  Those sitting on the terrace were the first to start dancing, but soon everyone joined in, including us.  I think I danced with at least four men over the course of the evening, plus a couple of women for good measure.  There was Manuele, the big dude in the white linen shirt; Mr. Buff (above) in the tight Spider Man Lycra tee shirt; Paolino; a big bear of a man named Daniele, not pictured unfortunately; two interesting women in black; and, of course, my husband.  We didn’t get out of there until 1:30, after doing the Italian kiss kiss, thanking Paolino profusely, and promising to meet Daniele the next evening at another joint where the owner would be celebrating his birthday.  (Which we did, to Daniele's total surprise.)

What can I say?  I LOVE Trestina! This would never happen in Castiglion Fiorentino.  Trestina may not be much to look at, but the people who live there sure know how to party!  We’ll be turning left at the end of our road whenever we want to have a good time.  We're going to Trestina!

Keep it real!

Marilyn