In the very infancy of this blog, back when we had no appreciation for plating, lighting or anything else remotely aesthetic, my wife wrote about the first course of a truly memorable dinner we shared in the famous Florentine trattoria, Coco Lezzone. What she didn’t mention was that even though we were getting towards the end of our nearly month long sojourn in Italy that encompassed our wedding and honeymoon, by the time we wound up in that jewel of the Renaissance, we were feeling rather sorry for ourselves.

Two days earlier, we had arrived in Genoa after a magnificent and occasionally hair-raising drive through the rugged terrain of the lower reaches of Piemonte and Liguria, to find that the guest-house we had booked was expecting us the day before. Twenty-four hours off schedule, and with a large shipping conference dominating Genoa’s hotels for the rest of the week to complicate matters, we were unceremoniously turfed out of said accommodation the following morning. While I, who have been invited to leave much less salubrious establishments than this, met the news with a certain equanimity, without a roof under which to shelter, and quite literally no room at the inn, the combined strain of having single-handedly planned a wedding and honeymoon from New York suddenly hit my poor wife like a tidal wave, and gushing tears of frustration and exhaustion ensued. Where comforting nuzzles from Tim the hotel dog weren’t enough, a liter carafe of white wine and two dozen fried anchovies seemed to have a medicinal effect, but, as calming as that lunch was, in a fit of pique we still decided to put Genoa in our rearview mirror and hit the E80 autostrada down the coast into Tuscany.

After a magnificent drive, framed on our right by the sparkling Mediterranean and on our left by the often white, marble-rich mountains of the Ligurian Apennines, we rolled in to Florence just as the westering sun was painting the city’s monuments the luminous color of dried apricots. Spirits partially restored, and safe in the knowledge that our reservation for the night was kosher, we immediately set out to find something delicious as a salve for our emotional wounds.

Among the several traditional Tuscan comestibles we over-indulged in that evening was a rabbit roll, or involtino di coniglio, stuffed with prosciutto, boiled egg and sage. Dressed very simply with Luccan olive oil and aged balsamic vinegar, it screamed the Spartan simplicity for which Tuscan fare is best-known. In some ways, it also exemplified the ethos of our trip. I suspect some of the wedding guests may quibble, but in our opinion, both wedding and honeymoon, had a pared-down, no frills sense about them. Only a hard core of essential people attended the wedding, and there was little time for luxuriating on a honeymoon in which we banjoed our way around 10 northern Italian cities in a tiny, canary yellow motor.

On our gentle post-prandial stroll, feeling all rosy and content from food, wine and warm night air, we encountered a pair of English honeymooners who asked us in charming pidgin Italian, “por favore, it’s nostra luni da miel…!” to photograph them in front of Santa Maria del Fiore. We were then playfully accosted by a group of tipsy Sicilian students from Catania who made us sing football songs with them and insisted we all shake hands in the traditional, forearm-grasping Roman-style before they would let us depart. This memorable meal and displays of unprovoked goodwill sent us to bed marveling at how such basic pleasures can make ones mind transcend apparent troubles. An important lesson.

In truth, we are fully aware that this was just another sybaritic moment in a month of indulgence, and not worthy of anyone’s sympathy, but I was reminded of this experience and its underlying moral recently when the trepidation induced by the impending arrival of our first-born began to get the better of me. I suspect we shall be leaning heavily on these twin crutches of simple dishes and human kindness very soon.

“I eat my candy with pork and beans.
Excuse my manners if I make a scene.”
-Pork and Beans, by Weezer

I could begin this post with a rose-tinted anecdote about how, during the run-up to our wedding in Italy, as Amy and I were lingering romantically over a typically rustic Tuscan dinner one warm June evening against the background of a bucolic, rolling landscape with honey-colored buildings dotted sparingly among neat rows of vines and olives — our eyes locked together over a tablescape of starched cloth, antique silver and leaded crystal — the air, heavy with the scent of lavender and the hum of cicadas, seemed to stir momentarily, as if a gust of breeze from we knew not where had suddenly, and unintentionally, loosed itself, darkening our moods and furrowing our brows with its unwelcome interruption.

I could conclude such an anecdote in lyrical fashion thus: as the sun’s dipping parabola cast its final, limpid rays upon the radiant skin of my betrothed’s temples, she recoiled in anguish, reeling like a punch-drunk prize-fighter, at the rancid bouquet now squalling through her nostrils.

I could also proceed with a lengthy explanation of why it is that fagioli e salsiccie is the quintessential Tuscan peasant dish, having sustained generations in that part of Italy, and how it sits proudly among the best of pan-European cucina povera alongside fabada and ollo podrida.

Instead, I could just as easily explain that during said nuptials we enjoyed many of the delicious bean dishes for which Tuscany is famous and, consequently, experienced the oh-so familiar sensation of, ahem, flatulence.

These days many people are aware of the wonders of Tuscan cuisine; the saltless bread, the magnificent steaks, the peppery, fruity olive oil, the tangy Pecorino, the bread and tomato soups, as well as the widespread use of beans that has earned Tuscans the moniker “mangiafagioli” or bean-eaters. What still mystifies most people though, is if beans always give us wretched and disgusting gas, why do we continue eating them?

Before you start clicking away, tut-tutting about the sheer childishness… the puerile subject matter… they should know better, etc., you might consider the anthropological significance of the humble bean. Not only are beans among the world’s super foods, being packed with protein (containing more than twice the protein of most meats), fiber, and complex carbohydrates, the simple act of growing them fixes nitrogen to poor soils enabling land to remain fertile without requiring artificial fertilizers (meaning they are not just good for you, they are also good the Earth), but, in addition to being nutritionally complete, beans are easy to grow, and, as a result, have been (pun intended) essential to human societies since way before bread was even conceived of. Thus, the histories of the bean, the fart, and the very survival of humanity are inextricably connected.

Not that our survival this past weekend was predicated on eating beans, but as we struggled back up to our fourth floor walk-up apartment wet and cold from chilly April showers, it certainly felt that way for a few moments. The idea of the silken texture of perfectly cooked cannellini beans bathed lovingly in a tomato, garlic and bay-scented broth, and complemented by fennel or hot pepper-spiked pork sausage hung like an apparition in front of us as we stuffed our shoes with newspaper and festooned every available hanging place with damp clothes.

Sadly, we hadn’t had the foresight to soak our dried beans overnight (we only had four hours to soak them), so we tried the oft-mooted, but untested, option of using the pressure cooker to make amends. Various online sources suggested pressure-cooking them for anything between 12 and 25 minutes, neither of which we found to be nearly enough. After three abortive de-pressurizations, and a total of around 40 minutes cooking, the beans had achieved the smooth, toothsome texture we were looking for. Having browned the sausages in the pot before adding the beans, onion, garlic, bay, vegetable stock and tomato paste, all they required was an additional five minutes simmering among the beans for the dish to be ready.

Settling into our meal, we were astounded by the restorative qualities of simple pork and beans, washing the warming combo down with something red and Portuguese and in the $8 range. The following morning, we were similarly astounded by the metabolic reaction of human intestines and beans. Happily, our marriage, having begun with flatulence, and now securely founded on a mutual understanding of the universality of these kinds of things, was able to accommodate such seismic eruptions. Our day proceeded with a long walk in the park, having left our apartment, windows open, to air out.

It might be generational, or, perhaps, philosophical, but there are, on the one hand, those who enjoy and appreciate handmade things, and the art and craft they require to make, and, on the other, those who prefer their things machine-made, reliable, and standard. The ‘things’ here could be quite literally anything. My father, who, to me, is the quintessential scientist and pragmatist, believes that most, if not all, advances for the betterment of mankind have come as a result of the increased use and application of machines, technology and science. In fact, he would argue, I’m sure, that this blog is evidence of the fact that even something as Luddite as cooking can be improved through the application of technology, though regular readers – with good reason – may not agree.

My mother was cut from very different cloth however, and, though a nurse who believed sincerely in the power of modern medicine, sanitation and inoculation, she was a true amateuse of a hand-turned chair-leg, a cut-glass goblet, and, much to the detriment of my appearance during my tender years, a hand-knitted sweater.  She was also a great lover of gardening, baking bread and, despite the fact that it rarely worked, yogurt-making. I think it’s from her that I get most of my culinary instincts, as the very notion of spending three or four hours in the kitchen doing anything would horrify my dad.

Pasta-rollers, like all machines, were invented for three main reasons: (1) to produce more quickly what used to take a long time (2) as a uniform-quality product, and (3) so that the resulting free time could be spent either more enjoyably or industriously. The assumption behind it seems to be that it makes it easier to make something that is typically quite tricky, and that the making of it by hand was a laborious pain in the ass. Those who have used a pasta roller, whether the hand-crank variety or the KitchenAid attachment, know, as we do, that it is a fabulous invention and enables even the busiest gastronome to home-make great fresh pasta in a relatively short time. They might also have found that it is actually fun to use because it combines the joy of mixing a dough by hand with the ease and convenience of not having to roll it out and cut it yourself.

Taking this notion of fun to its logical extreme this past weekend, I decided to devote my entire Sunday to doing the whole thing – the mixing, the rolling and the cutting – by hand. In spite of the recipe book’s warning that it was a painstaking exercise, I had little idea of what I was getting into. I now have a profound appreciation both for labor-saving machines, and the unique taste, texture and satisfaction derived from hand-rolled pasta.

But it is more than that. I learned something about myself on Sunday. In some ways, it was a revelation. I had always thought that I appreciated handmade things, particularly food and wine, with the all patience, care and skills that their creation implies, but I had never actually tested myself to see if I could enjoy hand-making something that required real patience and physical effort.  And, while there certainly were moments in which I did not enjoy being patient or the physical effort, on the whole, I really did find the process to be incredibly rewarding – relaxing almost. Not only did I (eventually, and with several abortive attempts) make some absolutely first-class pasta, but I learned a new technique and was, in the end, able to enjoy the fruits of my labor in a way I never have before.

Pici Keen

Famous for the lavish displays of wealth and the beautiful arts of the Renaissance found in Florence, Siena, Lucca and Pisa, Tuscans are, by contrast, rather austere in their culinary inclinations with their love of simple grilled meats, stewed beans and saltless bread. Such austerity requires the freshest and best ingredients in order to be delicious, and, fortuitously, Tuscany offers these up in great bounty. Similarly, it often requires great effort and technique.

So it is with Pici (also known as pinci — hand-rolled, eggless Tuscan thick spaghetti — perhaps the best example of this cucina povera (poor man’s cuisine) — utilizing only 00 flour, water, green Tuscan olive oil and a lot of time and effort. Indeed, it is my belief that what the poor, historically, lacked in wealth they more than make up for in patience, and disposable time. Originating from the Val d’Orcia region (the area between Montalcino and Montepulciano), pici are usually eaten with a rich meat sauce, often containing porcini mushrooms, but any hearty meat or game ragu would be a good choice.

The duck ragu recipe below is typical of the region of Arezzo which is the area where we got married in June 2007, and making it engendered all those kinds of warm feelings one gets from a house filled with delicious smells and the wonderful memories of the time of our lives.

Learning a new skill, and in this case, a new recipe, is a matter of managing to overcome self-doubt. Before you attempt making pici, I would highly recommend you try making a regular long pasta with an egg dough, so that you understand how it should feel and look. It will also allow you to develop a sense about the right elasticity of a good dough which will be useful even though Pici dough is a very different creature altogether.

If you follow the exact instructions below, you’ll probably find that your dough feels too dry and too heavy. Do not be afraid to add more water and more oil as you see fit because eggless doughs can easily become brittle when allowed to be too dry. However, do not abandon hope. I urge you to stick with the basis of the recipe (allowing for various seasonal, regional, altitudinal and indoor-outdoor climactic conditions) and overcome your fears of impending culinary disaster, as they will not materialize. If it feels too dry, add more water. Too wet, add flour until it feels right. One word of caution, though: be sparing in any additions of liquid or lipids because at the hand-rolling stage you will be adding extra olive oil to reduce friction and facilitate the rolling process, and you don’t want to find at that stage that you have to start all over again.

Also, do give yourself plenty of time. An otherwise lazy Sunday afternoon is perfect for this, as not only does the pasta make a perfect Sunday night dinner, but, more importantly, it gives you time to rest as you go along. Making enough pici for four people can be a tiring business, even if there are two of you on the job. One final proviso, do not treat pici like regular fresh pasta — i.e. sprinkle it liberally with flour and allow to set-up and dry for a while prior to cooking. I refer to my earlier comments when I say that pici can dry out and become brittle very quickly, so when you make them, plan to eat them within, at most, a couple of hours. This might appear like a disadvantage but it’s not because once cooked they are probably more robust than regular pastas and even reheat remarkably well.

So, please try making this dish. The sauce is easy and indescribably good (I know everyone says that about their food, but, really, this is very special), and the pasta is a great reward for some hard graft both corporeally and in that it offers a real sense of achievement. By the time you’re done, you’ll have sore shoulders but will have mastered the rolling technique perfectly. As a result, pasta-making will have transcended the bland uniformity of the machine-age and become what all good food should be: absolutely unique and deeply personal.

Such was my mood then upon reading the latest issue of the magazine that is quickly overtaking Rachel Ray as WANFs bête noire. You see, the January edition of Bon Appetit focuses on what is calls “the new trend” of everything a cheval, or mounted by an egg, as it were, and quite apart from having spent a good part of our 2007-2008 oeuvre (pun intended) posting recipes and photos of various foods dressed in this way, we, quite pathetically perhaps, like to think of ourselves as in the comparative culinary vanguard and hate to be thought of as simply following a BA trend. So, before we go on, I would like to state, in no uncertain terms, that we not only made the subject of this post dish in October (towards the end of our self-indulgent egg sluttishness), but that our posting this now is influenced in no way by the food magazine zeitgeist.

With that off my chest, allow me to introduce to you one of the most wonderful ways of cooking eggs – uova in ragú, or eggs in a Bolognese sauce. Not to be confused with the well-known Tex-Mex breakfast staple of eggs in hell, this is essentially a Bolognese sauce version of the Tuscan classic Uova e Spinaci Cotti alla Fiorentina which we posted during aforementioned egg-focused period. And, not only does it allow one to indulge a fetish for eggs and meat, but the visual contrast on your plate of the white and yellow of the egg against a reddish-brown background of ragú is one to please children of all ages, even those in their 30s.

Less research than we typically do suggests that this is not an authentic Bolognese dish, and in fact, our inspiration came from a menu item - Uova al Pomodoro (eggs baked in a marina sauce) - at a small local trattoria called Apertivo. Nevertheless, we feel that it should definitely sit among the greats in the canon of Emilia-Romagna cuisine, utilising as it does the king of sauces, the ragú.

The main key to success, then, in this stupidly simple dish, apart from some (forgive the pun) good eggs, is clearly the quality of your ragú, so we strongly encourage you to read at least some of the marathon post that is A Tale of Two Sauces: It’s A Traditional Ragú Bolognese Deathmatch from last year to get a sense of the time, effort and joy involved in creating this wonderful thing. Then, once made (and you will have plenty leftover), simply add sauce to a large saucepan, heat until simmering, and crack in as many eggs as you like (two per person seems about right). Then, either cover with pan lid and reduce heat to medium-low, or slap the whole thing into a 350F (180C) oven and bake until eggs are firm, about fifteen minutes. It can be served over pasta (think pappardelle or tagliatelle) or simply as a main course with some bread and salad on the side. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t be upset if I was served this for breakfast either.

I feel kinda cheesy. I admit it, I feel cool about using a butcher. I understand this is lame and that butchers have been around for ages, but, truthfully, in the recent year, we’ve really gotten to know our neighborhood butchers. Growing up in the ‘burbs, meat was only bought pre-cut and pre-packaged. Yes, every once in awhile you’d see the grocery store’s butcher come out from behind those weird black, plastic doors with the small square window. You’d wonder what rock he/she crawled out from because, more often than not (now I mean NO disrespect) those grocery store workers who came out from the back had a few less teeth than me and looked as though “meth” could’ve been their middle name.

After our first attempt at making homemade sausage, I realized how invaluable a butcher is. We live in a country where many people don’t know what kind of animal their meat comes from. Hold up an eggplant to a 10-year old and good chance they may not even know what the hell it is. It’s sad that the neighborhood butcher is starting to become a thing of the past. Hell, I live in Brooklyn, NY, one of the most multicultural places on earth and, in my hood alone we only have a few butchers left. I’m talking about the neighborhood butcher, not that gourmet food store up the street. You know the place – the guy/gal behind the counter has butchers hands and fingers, you know his/her name and he/she knows your name, they don’t switch employees as quickly as McDonald’s and they can easily ask you if you want “the regular”. Word is that the decline in these gems is because young people aren’t interested in carrying on the family trade. Maybe with this economic downward spiral Americans will be more willing to work with their hands again and see the beauty how happy meat/poultry can make people.

Jonny and I have wanted to try and make a dish that we ate in Florence, Italy at the awesome Coco Lezzone since the last time we recreated their Pappa al Pomodoro. It was one of those meals from start to finish that will forever stay etched in my mind. Saveur did a cover story on their Herb-Stuffed Pork Loin in their April, 2006 issue. We tweaked the recipe just a bit (lavender wasn’t a part of the original recipe) and, thanks to our awesome butcher, the dish turned out phenomenally. We’re going to do a version of this for Christmas Day dinner because it’s pretty inexpensive and extremely delicious. I highly recommend you go give your butcher a big hug tomorrow.

COCO LEZZONE’S HERB AND LAVENDER-STUFFED PORK LOIN RIB ROAST – Serves 6

Ingredients:

• 1 6-rib center-cut pork loin roast (about 4-5 lbs)
• 6 cloves of garlic, peeled and ground to a paste
• 2 tablespoons of chopped rosemary
• 3 tablespoons of chopped sage
• 2 tablespoons of thyme
• 1 tablespoon dried lavender
• 2 tablespoons + 1/4 (or so) cup olive oil
• salt and pepper

What to do:

1. Preheat over to 475 degrees. In a small bowl, add together the garlic, all the herbs and lavender with a pinch of salt and pepper and 2 tablespoons olive oil. Use a fork to make sure it’s all incorporated together.
2. Push the handle of a long wooden spoon through the center of one end of the pork roast allowing it to poke through the other end’s center. Do this again, moving the handle back and forth and in a circular motion to allow the hole to get bigger. It will end up being about 3/4 of an inch wide.
3. Reserve about 3/4 of a tablespoon of the herb mixture to be use in a moment. Using your fingers, push some of the herb/garlic mixture into the center hole starting on one side and the finishing on the other. Put roast in a roasting pan.
4. Pour about 1/4 cup or so of olive oil over the roast. Rub it in a bit. Using the reserved herb mixture, rub all around the top and sides of the rib roast. Season generously with salt and pepper and roast the pork in the oven until golden brown – about 25 to 30 minutes. Reduce the oven to 350 degrees and continue to roast for an hour longer or until the internal temperature is 160 degrees.
5. Allow pork to rest about 10 minutes and then carve into individual chops. Serve with the pan drippings (which are DEEE-LISH, by the way!).

Here are a few of my favorite pictures from our 3 weeks in Italy last summer. Maybe it’s the pick-me-up you need to? Oh, and I need to give a huge “shout out” to my blog-o-sphere friend Sarah from The Real Potato who has been kind enough to answer some of my annoying WordPress questions when we were having some difficulties getting our new URL up and running… THANK YOU! Also, below the pics I have answered an older Meme I was tagged for by the awesome and lovely Nuria at Spanish Recipes.

***MEME – Some Answers from Amy (Jonny’s Not Gonna Play This Time)**

Time to play now:

What were you doing 10 years ago?

I was drinking cheap beer and wine 6 days a week and getting sad that I was graduating college soon and being forced into “the real world”. I opted instead to skip that for a few years in exchange for 2 years playing in the snow in Breckenridge, Colorado.

What were you doing 1 year ago?
I was a stressed out, grumpy graduate student – finishing my thesis, working 3 days a week for free (internship) and planning my Tuscan wedding from a small apartment in Brooklyn. I wouldn’t have been doing meme tags, let’s just say that. I barely saw my husband!!

Five snacks you enjoy

1. Hummus and pita chips
2. french fries (I can’t enjoy them as much as I’d LOVE to)
3. Butter Snaps (Pretzels)
4. Bites of Leftovers
5. Anything dipped in cream cheese or peanut butter

5 Things you would do if you were a millionaire

1. Buy an apartment in my neighborhood in Brooklyn where’s we’ve been living for 4 years but will never be able to afford.
2. Buy a place in Barcelona, Madrid, Rome, Bologna, Paris and London. (I think I need more money already!)
3. Buy a leg of Jamon Iberico for my kitchen in each apartment.
4. Travel and not worry about having to take off work – wait, I won’t have to work! YAY!
5. Volunteer in all different capacities all over the world.

5 bad habits

1. I bite my nails.
2. I don’t have any nails left (and never have) so I bit skin (please don’t stop reading my food blog b/c you know this… PLEASE!!!)
3. I throw my clothes on the floor still and then pick them all up and put them away on the weekend. My husband hates this.
4. I lick bowls and plates clean – sometimes even when no one is looking in certain restaurants.
5. I burp, loudly. This is something I’ve been very proud of since being a little girl but now I only save them for special people. ***should I be ashamed? am I loosing readers?

5 things you like doing

1. Anything outdoors – I love to hike, bike and especially do anything at the beach.
2. COOKING, EATING, DRINKING, DRINKING… duh.
3. Helping others – Which I’m finally doing for a living.
4. Exploring – I could be traveling to anohter country, another state or just another neighborhood in Brooklyn. I’ve always been very curious.
5. Seeing live music – I used to follow bands up until recently. NO I was not a groupie.

5 things I would never wear again

1. Lee Press-On nails. Oh, wait, I just wore them for my wedding, but NEVER again.
2. Acid-Washed anything.
3. Bangs/Fringe cut by my mother – looks like she cut it with a knife and a fork and this lasted till I was 11!
4. A training bra. If you met me, you’d know why this is impossible.
5. Iridescent Lipstick. (**Can you tell I’m a child of the 80′s?)

5 favorite toys

1. My Le Cruset that was too expensive for me to purchase myself – it was a wedding gift.
2. My food processor, Kitchen Aid bad-ass mixer w/ pasta attachment.
3. This blog. Ok, that doesn’t count… my i-pod.
4. My camera (same, Nuria!)
5. My frequent flier miles – I need to travel again soon!

That was actually quite fun!! THANKS NURIA FOR ASKING ME TO PLAY!

Now that the recipe has been tested, I offer it to you. Bring the flavors of Florence and Coco Lezzone into your home (damn, that sounded like an info-mercial…kill me!). ***Notice that my recreation looks a bit chunkier than the Coco Lezzone one. Personally, I think part of that has to do with the fact that my leeks were not FINELY chopped. If you can use a chopper to really finely chop your leeks, I recommend it.

PAPPA AL POMODORO ALA COCO LEZZONE (Tuscan Tomato and Bread Soup the Coco Lezzone Way)

Ingredients (Serves 2-3 for a good hearty portion):

• 4 1/2 cups (or two 28oz. cans) of pureed plum tomatoes (San Marzano are best)
  • **buy the Whole/Peeled canned tomatoes in thick puree and puree it in a food processor yourself. Not necessary, but this helps you adjust the texture of your puree.
• 1-2 cloves of garlic, finely chopped
• 1 leek, finely chopped (the finer the better) – only the light green and white parts
• 1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil
• 1 1/2 cup of beef broth (or a mixture of half beef broth/half chicken broth)
• 10 slices of day-old, dense bread (sliced in 1/2” to 3/4” slices) – I used a Portuguese “baguette”
  • **Traditionally, this dish is made with Tuscan salt-less bread. My guess is, no one will find this bread in their local shop considering once you leave Tuscany you can barely get this bread.
  • **Also, you can put your slices in the oven to create that “day old” feel if you didn’t give it a day to get more stale. Just heat your oven to like 275 and heat your slices up for about 15 minutes.
• Salt and Pepper
• Chiffonade of fresh basil

What to do:

1. Drain the insides of your whole, peeled tomatoes. Sometimes the juice that is in there (and the seeds) are just unnecessary when making a nice, thick sauce or soup. Puree the tomatoes along with the thick puree they came in.
2. Add your olive oil to your pot and sautee your garlic for a minute and a half over medium heat.
3. Lower your heat a bit (to about medium-low) and add your finely chopped leek . Do not let your leeks brown, you just want them to get soft. This could take 10-15 minutes.
4. Add your pureed tomatoes and the broth and let simmer (adjust heat to allow simmer) for 20 minutes.
5. After 20 minutes, add your ‘stale’ bread slices to the puree, make sure each piece is completely submerged (fold in).
6. Turn off the heat and cover your soup. Let sit for another 10-15 minutes.
7. After it has rested, stir for a few moments with a wire whisk. All your bread should actually have ‘dissolved’ into the soup creating a thick, porridge-like look.
8. Add a pinch of salt and pepper, whisk again. Serve with Mozzarella Croutons (melt some sliced mozzerella on some extra slices of your bread with a bit of olive oil, pepper and basil).

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• Pigs Must Dream of Ending Up Here

When we were in Florence this past July we had one of the most memorable meals of our life. The simplicity of the dishes, the gruff, “don’t ask too many questions cause everything is good here” service and the down-home ambiance (mama in the corner, the owner is the host, the server and one of the head cooks and happy Florentines laughing, talking, eating and drinking), we left completely fulfilled. The restaurant is Coco Lezzone and even though we don’t live in Florence (and not many people even read this little blog!), I’m still secretly wanting to keep this restaurant all to myself. Truth is, the restaurant is well known with Florentines and is also recommended in a number of travel guides. So why was Florence hopping with (too many!) tourists that warm, lovely Friday evening in July, but there were barely any diners at Coco Lezzone? I’m still puzzled by this and the only thing I can come up with is that tourists can be scared of empty restaurants (especially in a foreign country). Not to mention the owner/host/server/chef Gianluca Paoli leans against the door with his ‘no-bullshit’ attitude and probably won’t smile or encourage people to come in and dine at his restaurant. It’s as if he’s saying in every language, “My food is amazing. I know it, everyone who lives in Florence knows it. I don’t give a F**K if you come or not. It’s your loss if you walk away.” Maybe it’s my east-coast/NYC attitude (not into sugarcoating or being perky or anyone who is perky – see my Rachel Ray/Sandra Lee comments in past posts), maybe it’s how I like to travel (off the beaten path and far, far away from anyone wearing a fannypack and/or those hideously ugly ‘comfy’ shoes they only seem to wear when they go on vacation), but Coco Lezzone had my name written all over it.

I was almost a little nervous walking in. There was about 3 tables taken and everyone was a local. The lights were on super bright and even though I wasn’t wearing my hot pink fanny pack (I decided to leave that at the B&B), I felt very, very American (maybe just very, very non-Italian). The menu made it difficult to order – there was a note saying that “many things on the menu are not guaranteed to be available”, but there was no mention of which items. Gianluca had another note written largely at the bottom of the menu saying things like (this is off the top of my head, mind you): WE DO NOT SERVE COFFEE! DO NOT ASK FOR COFFEE! WE DO NOT TAKE CREDIT CARDS SO THAT MEANS NO CREDIT CARDS! Of course when Gianluca came to take our order, the first thing Jonny and I requested weren’t available – I really wish I knew the cycle of seasonal ingredients availability… but this is why I love the Italians/Europeans…they will wait nine long months just to savor the taste of artichokes for two to three months a year. I settled on starting with the Pappa al Pomodoro (Bread and Tomato Soup) and having the Roasted Pork Loin Stuffed with Herbs for my main. I just got a shiver through my body thinking about that meal. I’m about to try the recipe for the Pappa al Pomodoro I took a picture of from the wall of Coco Lezzone to see if it even measures up! I’ll update this post tomorrow morning to let you know how it went! If it was a close comparison I’ll post the recipe too. WISH ME LUCK!

CHECK OUT THE END RESULT HERE

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