Kate and I drove across the Appennines yesterday. It was a long drive across the middle section of Italy from Chianti to the Adriactic coast (to Fano and Sennegalia). We took two long diversions: more outlet shopping at “The Mall” then a break for lunch and then actually buying (Yoji Y and Alex McQueen for me—nothing my size at La Perla); and a visit to Piero della Francesco’s Madonna del Parto.
We stopped also for the beef blessing festival in Greve before leaving Chianti. We both claimed to be done with meat after our seven courses of beef at Dario Cecchini’s restaurant, but split a porchetta sandwich for breakfast. I’m still too bloated to talk about it. We took a day of water and salad and designer clothing.
Oh, there was a road side tartufi stand. Porcini, whatever they call chanterelles here, and summer truffles are in. So are the green black walnuts used for making nocino. We pulled into a ramshackled building stuck impossibly in the hairpin bend of a road on the side of a shear pink rock face. There was the blast of the fresh porcini. The old man behind the counter waved me over and opened the hinged top of a dark brown wooden box a little bigger than a shoe box. Blackish bumpy knots the size of a baby’s fist were inside—and the dizzying smell—like fuck in a box. We bought a small jar of truffle spread and carved our way through the dry pink stone of the Appennines.
I’ll tell you about Sennegalia and beef later. My room has air conditioning!