Foodie Tuscany

It should come as no surprise that our Thanksgiving week in Tuscany was all about the food. There were truffle hunts. There were wine tastings. There were three different cooking classes. And, of course, there was Thanksgiving dinner. I’ll cover each of those foodie experiences in a separate post. (Be warned: If you are likely to grow weary of hearing about Italian cuisine, then you may just want to excuse yourself now.)

As an antipasto, here’s a foretaste of the bountiful food experiences we enjoyed in Tuscany.

Italy is all about eating with the seasons. In late November, that means white truffles, chestnuts, and zucca. (Usually translated as “pumpkin,” this isn’t quite the jack-o-lantern that’s plastered on every product at Trader Joe’s. In Italy, it’s closer to what we’d call “winter squash.” Italians call a dim-witted person il zuccone — “ol’ squash-head.”)

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This time of year is also the season of the persimmon (cachi). These plump fruits — which look like bright-orange tomatoes but have a sweet, bright bouquet — dangle from spindly little branches all over Tuscany.

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Much has been written about the Osteria Acquacheta steak house in Montepulciano — one of Rick Steves’ favorite restaurants. And, of course, I had to bring my steak-loving father-in-law here for dinner. We started things off with some delicious, handmade pastas. (Acquacheta — a place where everything is overshadowed by the steak — cranks out pastas that are far better than they have any right to be.)

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When the owner, Giulio, came by to present us with a 1.75-kilogram (four-pound) T-bone of prized Chianina beef, we could only say yes.
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After a trip through the wood-fired oven, the steak — crusty with char and sea salt — hit our table. The meal was, in every sense, tremendous. (The vegetarian in our group decided to skip this restaurant…and was glad she stayed home.)

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Another key point of Italian eating is appreciating where your food comes from. Our agriturismo offered a guided tour of their working farm, where we explored the barn, saw equipment old and new, and met the animals.

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At the end of the tour, we dug into a generous lunch of what they grow: wine, cured meats, and bread drenched in vivid-green, new-harvest olive oil. It may not rank as high cuisine, but it was one of our favorite meals of the trip.

Settling in at the Agriturismo: Cretaiole’s Cast of Characters

In 15 years of researching guidebooks for Rick Steves, I’ve checked out hundreds — or probably thousands — of accommodations. But I’ve never seen one quite like Agriturismo Cretaiole. A place has to be pretty special for me to suggest bringing my in-laws there for Thanksgiving week. And Cretaiole exceeded even our lofty expectations.

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This stone farmhouse sits like a mirage, poking up from an olive grove at the top of a ridge that overlooks the gently rolling, cypress-fringed hills just outside of Pienza. Yes, the setting is idyllic. But what really sets Cretaiole apart are the remarkable people who run it.

Two decades ago, Isabella was an upwardly mobile city slicker from Milan — just getting into her career, and already feeling burned out. During a break one winter, she escaped the rat race for a week, checking in to a rustic farmhouse B&B in the remote Tuscan hills. That’s where she met the farmer’s son, Carlo.

Isabella and Carlo fell in love. And, after a long-distance romance, they finally got hitched…and Isabella moved down to the farm. In a kind of contemporary Italian Green Acres, Isabella and the Moricciani clan clashed a bit as she found her niche in this traditional world. But it rapidly became clear: This city mouse/country mouse combination was perfect for the Italian concept of agriturismo.

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In 1985, the Italian government began providing tax breaks for struggling family farms that opened their doors to travelers. To legally qualify as an agriturismo, a place must balance its tourist activities with actual farm production. (Many Americans love the idea of an agriturismo — but when they’re plunged into all of those authentic farm smells, they realize what they really wanted was a rustic country inn.)

An ideal agriturismo, Cretaiole represents the perfect marriage of a real, hardworking farm and an accessible, well-designed travel experience. Carlo and his dad, Luciano, produce olive oil, wine, cured meats, eggs, produce, and more. Meanwhile, Isabella handles the turismo end of things, applying business savvy, a remarkable attention to detail, and a rare intuition for what her guests want before they know they want it.

The rural setting and traditional-yet-cozy lodgings at Cretaiole are a find. But Isabella also orchestrates an array of special activities that provide precisely the experience her guests are seeking — always hitting the perfect balance of rustic authenticity and comfort. (Our truffle hunt was one great example.)

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Isabella embodies a bridge between her guests and her in-laws’ farms. As a relative outsider herself, she observes the same little quirks that fascinate the rest of us — and demystifies them for her guests.

Carlo is a farm boy. But, as evidence by his marriage to a brilliant businesswoman, he’s also smart and cultured. He can get dirty mucking around with the pigs, but he’s also a licensed olive oil taster — with a palate so refined, he has the papers to prove it. Still, Carlo is more at home on a tractor or trekking through the fields than in front of a group of Americans. (During our first morning’s orientation meeting, Carlo fidgeted and glanced nervously at the encroaching clouds. Finally he asked Isabella if he could be excused to go on his morning constitutional.)

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Tickled by the chorus line of cats that showed up at our doorstep each morning to beg for burned toast, I asked Carlo what their names were. “They don’t have names,” he said, slightly perplexed. “They’re farm animals.” Watching Carlo affectionately play with the feline companions he refuses to christen, I came a little closer to understanding what it really means to be a farmer.

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Luciano is the paterfamilias, who still thinks he runs the show even as he surrounds himself with strong women. He’s careful to project the image of a grizzled curmudgeon. But deep down, he’s touched by the fact that people come from all around the world to settle in for a week at the farmhouse where he grew up. When we toured his farm, he insisted on posing for pictures with his guests in front of the casks where he ages his prized Vin Santo.

Liliana, Luciano’s wife, is rarely seen and never heard. While the rest of the clan attends to business, she looks after the kids and keeps the home fires burning. As Isabella puts it, Liliana is the glue that holds the whole operation together.

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Carlotta, Isabella’s right hand, is the newest member of the bunch. But she instantly fit right in. She heroically translates for other family members, tirelessly answers questions, and decodes local customs for her curious guests. (Here, she explains that the local pecorino cheese is set on walnut leaves to age.)  Carlotta may not be related…but there’s no doubt she’s family.

And rounding out the cast of characters are the guests — many of whom are on their second, third, or sixth visit. Cretaiole, which usually requires a one-week minimum stay, attracts a rare breed of traveler who understands that slowing down can create the best kind of travel experience. In a week in Italy, you can get fleeting glimpses of Venice, Florence, and Rome. Or you can settle into an agriturismo for a week — waking up each day to a stunning view that changes with the weather, really getting to know a place and the people (and cats) who live there, and feeling so deeply rooted in the Tuscan soil that the 45-minute drive to Siena feels like a big adventure. There’s no doubt that our fellow guests made our Thanksgiving week experience even more memorable.

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If people-to-people connections are the stuff of great travels, then Cretaiole is an embarrassment of riches.

Sniffing Out Truffles with Milli

On a crisp, late-November morning, we gather on a ridge-top gravel road deep in the heart of Tuscany. On one side stretches a postcard panorama of rolling hills, pointy cypresses, and distant ridges. On the other is a thick forest, labeled with Italian signs:  “Keep out! Private truffle-hunting property!”

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We meet our guide for the morning: Paolo the truffle hunter. Paolo explains how he bought this property for a song because he had a hunch it’d be great for truffles. Now his main occupation is tending the forest and seeking out those elusive deposits.

Paolo explains that you can’t plant a truffle, and you can’t predict exactly where they’ll grow. They tend to appear near the roots of trees, under a few inches of soil and a gentle layer of fallen leaves. He works hard clearing the forest, creating an ideal habitat. Then he grinds up the season’s unsold truffles and scatters their spores. And then he waits…and hopes. White truffle season — when the pungent odor of the most precious type of truffle is released — has just begun. It’s time to harvest.

Because truffles grow entirely underground, the only way to find them is by scent. And human noses just aren’t sophisticated enough for the job. So Paolo introduces us to “la protagonista”: Milli.

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Milli is a lovable, exuberant pup with a short, thick, curly coat and laser-beam, beady eyes that are always trained on Paolo. He tells us she’s a breed called lagotto romagnolo…but she looks like a miniature golden doodle to me.

When Milli was just ten days old, they began training her to find truffles. The first part is easy: You give them a taste for truffles by feeding them little bits. Before long, they can sniff them out anywhere. The hard part, Paolo explains, is to train them to stop eating truffles.

Andiamo! It’s time to hunt. Paolo and Milli lead us down a steep trail into a wooded ravine. Light twinkles through half-bare trees as we wade through a thick carpet of leaves. “What goes up, must come down,” everyone chuckles as we descend. At one point, Milli pauses and begins rummaging and scratching around in the middle of the path. Paolo diffuses everyone’s excitement by explaining that she’s found a “dog truffle” — with a similar pungent odor, but not palatable to humans. Milli enjoys this little truffle treat before continuing on her way.

Reaching the bottom of the ravine, Paolo says the magic word: “Dov’è?” (Where is it?)… and Milli is off like a shot. She scurries from tree to tree — sniffing, sniffing, sniffing — then off to the next tree. The suspense builds as twenty bundled-up Americans form a chain behind her haphazard search.

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Milli bolts off, racing through the woods after unseen truffles. Paolo runs after her. We lose sight of both of them. And then: Success! We emerge into a little clearing where Paolo stands, holding Milli back. She’s clawed through the damp earth to reveal the corner of a little gray chunk.

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Keeping one hand on Milli, Paolo uses his special skinny shovel to unearth the truffle with a surgeon’s precision.

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Holding it to his nose and inhaling deeply, he gives a “so-so” gesture. It’s not a top-quality truffle…but it’ll be profitable.

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While his audience passes around the truffle for a sniff, Paolo rewards Milli with dog biscuit after dog biscuit. He keeps saying, “Solo un’altro” (just one more) — then gives her several more treats. Could you resist?

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After just an hour or so, Milli has found two more truffles. Not a bad morning’s work.

Watching Paolo and Milli at work, it’s clear that if you enjoy wandering through the woods with your best friend at your side, there are few more rewarding careers than being a Tuscan truffle hunter.

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A Tuscan Thanksgiving

Sorry I’ve been silent on my blog these last couple of weeks. I have a good excuse: Like a lot of people, I was celebrating Thanksgiving with family. But this year, for a change of pace, we gave our thanks at a Tuscan farmhouse.

My wife and I grew up in Central Ohio. Today her family is scattered across the country: We live in Seattle, her folks are in Ohio, and her sister and her husband are in Boston. (If you consider the Great Lakes a coast, you could call our family “tricoastal.”)

We all look forward to the holidays as an excuse to head back home, share some family time, and reconnect with our hometown and old friends. But this year, we wanted to go someplace else. Where could we meet in the middle? Arizona, maybe? Snowshoeing in the Rockies? A Very Vegas Thanksgiving?

Just as we were deliberating, my inbox dinged with an email from Isabella, who runs my favorite agriturismo in Tuscany. “We have put together a spectacular Thanksgiving Week with wonderful activities to enjoy,” she wrote. I skimmed the list: wine-tasting, farm tour, truffle hunt, olive harvest, pasta-making class, day trip to Siena…wow.

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The email went on: “Late fall is a beautiful time to come to Tuscany — particularly for food! It is the time of special seasonal delicacies such as white truffles, saffron, chestnuts, and new olive oil. Days are comfortable, evenings are cool and crisp — perfect for enjoying the pleasures of the season such as thermal hot spring soaks in nature, colorful foliage, and a fire in your fireplace or in the new fire pit in the garden.”

I was sold. And, after a remarkably brief email exchange with our family, we were all in for a Tuscan Thanksgiving.

I realize another big holiday is looming, and Thanksgiving feels like old news. But join me the next several days for reports on our Tuscan Thanksgiving. What are the pros and cons of winter travel in Italy? What’s it like to spend a major holiday abroad…and what do you to on Black Friday in a place where it’s just another Friday? What’s the proper way to hand-make ravioli or tagliatelle? And how do dogs sniff out those white truffles, anyway?

Andiamo! Let’s head to Tuscany.

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(P.S. If you’ve been enjoying my Balkan reports, no worries — I still plan to blog about my fall travels to Slovenia, Romania, and Bulgaria in the New Year.)