Thanksgiving in Tuscany: A Treasured Travel Memory

Eight months later, our world remains upside-down. And it’s becoming clear that nobody will (or should) be going anywhere this winter. If we ever want to “get back to normal” and travel again, it’s time to hunker down and relive favorite memories. For me, that means reminiscing about one of my favorite Thanksgivings ever…spent in beautiful Tuscany. I hope this little bit of armchair travel helps you get through another gloomy day, and reminds you of the fun that awaits us all on the other side of this pandemic.

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A few years ago at this time, I was getting ready to head to Tuscany for Thanksgiving with my wife’s family. The trip created some of the most vivid travel memories of my life: rolling hills, pretty as a painting, tufted with sprigs of vivid-green winter wheat; stony hill towns, normally jammed with tourists, instead buzzing with bundled-up Italians; amazing meals — featuring chestnuts, mushrooms, and persimmons — that redefined my sense of seasonal Italian cuisine.

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We stayed a full week at Agriturismo Cretaiole, perched on a ridge just outside of Pienza and wonderfully run by Isabella and Carlo. Isabella has a knack for understanding what her American clientele are looking for in a trip to Tuscany. So she set up three entirely different — and equally enjoyable — cooking classes: preparing a blowout feast in an Italian mama’s house; shadowing a Michelin chef in his restaurant’s kitchen; and rolling our own pasta back home at our agriturismo. (Meanwhile, Carlo’s dad, Luciano, kept us well-lubricated with nightly doses of grappa and Vin Santo.)

Montepulciano — my favorite Tuscan hill town — was quieter than usual, giving us a chance to linger over visits with  its colorful cast of craftsmen: Adamo, who’s evangelical about the local red wine; Cesare, a coppersmith who takes more joy these days in getting to know tourists than he does in creating pots and pans; and Guilio, whose steakhouse turns a chunk of beef into a work of art.

We also ventured into the autumnal countryside. Brown leaves crunching underfoot, we followed a talented dog as she sniffed out truffles. And then we had a truffle feast at a nearby restaurant. 

And, in general, we fully enjoyed being in the foodie paradise of Tuscany.

Finally, at the end of the week, we did a little “Black Friday” shopping in Tuscan hill towns, and enjoyed the first of Italy’s holiday lights.

The high point of our week was Thanksgiving dinner. When I tell people I was in Tuscany for Thanksgiving, their first question is — with a note of concern — “Did you have turkey?”

Americans love their Thanksgiving dinner. And many of us simply can’t fathom counting our blessings without an oversized portion of turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and gravy. Our agriturismo host, Isabella, understands this, so very early in the planning stages she reassured her nervous American guests: “And of course we will celebrate Thanksgiving with a special Thanksgiving meal — one with a Tuscan twist.” Well, phew!

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In typically thoughtful fashion, Isabella had arranged a fantastic feast, which happened to be at one of my favorite restaurants in the region (Ristorante Daria, in the tiny hill town of Monticchiello). Months before, Isabella had conspired with the owner/chef, Daria, over a list of traditional Thanksgiving dishes. And the gang at the restaurant had come up with a delicious mashup of American and Tuscan.

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The first two courses were the most Tuscan, but cleverly informed by “our” Thanksgiving ingredients: a delicate pumpkin soufflé, topped with creamy pecorino cheese sauce and fresh-grated truffle. And a dish of pillowy sweet potato gnocchi, gently nestled in a subtle citrus cream. Both dishes were, at once, explosively flavorful and intensely comforting. I would not mind seeing either of these on my Thanksgiving table for many years to come.

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Then it was time for the main event. The waitstaff loaded all of the turkey onto a tray and ceremonially paraded it through the restaurant, like proud hunters with their kill. Then they took it back into the kitchen and re-emerged with beautiful — and very traditional — plates of turkey, green beans, Brussels sprouts, and mashed potatoes…with, in a delicious Italian twist, a trickle of fresh-pressed olive oil.

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They also brought out some fantastic gravy and surprisingly traditional cranberry sauce. Daria explained that she’d asked some American friends to ship her some cranberries, which are completely unknown in Italy. (Pretend for a moment you’re an acclaimed Italian chef. And imagine your shock — and maybe disgust — upon taking your first-ever bite into a raw cranberry: sour and astringent, wrapped in a tough little shell and infused with a blood-red dye. How on earth do Americans eat this stuff? The answer: Lots and lots and lots of sugar. Even on her first try, Daria nailed it.)

Things are different for the holidays this year. And they were different that year, too. But one thing I’ve learned from that Thanksgiving in Tuscany — and other holidays that found me in  unusual places — is that, while traditions have their place, the really memorable holidays are the ones that are different. We’re all exhausted from trying to find a positive spin on these trying times. But perhaps you can forge some new traditions and make some new memories this year. It might not be sweet potato gnocchi, but one thing’s for sure: You’ll never forget it.

What are some of your favorite European memories to get through this long, dark winter?

Thanksgiving in Tuscany: Why You Should Travel for the Holidays

Trick-or-treating is over for another year, cotton cobwebs and jack-o-lanterns are out by the curb, the last few colorful leaves are tumbling out of the trees, and the clouds and rain have shrouded Seattle in gloom. At times like this, I’m glad to have some happy memories of past travels.

A few years ago at this time, I was getting ready to head to Tuscany for Thanksgiving with my wife’s family. (I wrote a series of blog posts about the agriturismo we stayed at just outside of Pienza, and the many culturally enriching activities they arranged for us.) It was, without a doubt, the most memorable Thanksgiving of my life — and a reminder of why, much as we love our traditions, it’s important to break free from them every so often and spend the holidays in a new place.

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When I tell people I was in Tuscany for Thanksgiving, their first question is — with a note of concern — “Did you have turkey?”

Americans love their Thanksgiving dinner. And many of us simply can’t fathom counting our blessings without an oversized portion of turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and gravy. Our agriturismo host, Isabella, understands this, so very early in the planning stages she reassured her nervous American guests: “And of course we will celebrate Thanksgiving with a special Thanksgiving meal — one with a Tuscan twist.” Well, phew!

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In typically thoughtful fashion, Isabella had arranged a fantastic feast, which happened to be at one of my favorite restaurants in the region (Ristorante Daria, in the tiny hill town of Monticchiello). Months before, Isabella had conspired with the owner/chef, Daria, over a list of traditional Thanksgiving dishes. And the gang at the restaurant had come up with a delicious mashup of American and Tuscan.

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The first two courses were the most Tuscan, but cleverly informed by “our” Thanksgiving ingredients: a delicate pumpkin soufflé, topped with creamy pecorino cheese sauce and fresh-grated truffle. And a dish of pillowy sweet potato gnocchi, gently nestled in a subtle citrus cream. Both dishes were, at once, explosively flavorful and intensely comforting. I would not mind seeing either of these on my Thanksgiving table for many years to come.

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Then it was time for the main event. The waitstaff loaded all of the turkey onto a tray and ceremonially paraded it through the restaurant, like proud hunters with their kill. Then they took it back into the kitchen and re-emerged with beautiful — and very traditional — plates of turkey, green beans, Brussels sprouts, and mashed potatoes…with, in a delicious Italian twist, a trickle of fresh-pressed olive oil.

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They also brought out some fantastic gravy and surprisingly traditional cranberry sauce. Daria explained that she’d asked some American friends to ship her some cranberries, which are completely unknown in Italy. (Pretend for a moment you’re an acclaimed Italian chef. And imagine your shock — and maybe disgust — upon taking your first-ever bite into a raw cranberry: an explosion of sour and astringent, wrapped in a tough little shell and infused with a blood-red dye. How on earth do Americans eat this stuff? The answer: Lots and lots and lots of sugar. Even on her first try, Daria nailed it.)

Sitting around the dinner table, watching Isabella’s family, and my family, enjoying an American-Italian hybrid dinner, was poignant. But it made me sad to think that people might pass up an idyllic week in off-season Tuscany with their families, just because of a fear that they may not get their turkey fix. Even if we’d missed out on the turkey, this week would have been totally worth it.

Holiday traditions are powerful. But keep open the option of busting out of your rut every so often. Risk not having turkey at Thanksgiving. Spend Christmas at a radish festival in Oaxaca instead of singing carols around a fir tree. Skip trick-or-treating in order to be in Slovenia the day after Halloween, when everybody in the country goes to the cemetery to decorate their family graves — in a touching celebration of generations past and present. Instead of dozing off watching another Detroit Lions blowout, drive around the French Quarter of New Orleans, handing out Thanksgiving leftovers to homeless people.

I’ve been fortunate enough to experience all of those magical holidays, and never regretted what I was “missing out on.” If holidays are fundamentally about surrounding yourself with the people you care about, you can do that anywhere. Your traditions will always be there, back home, waiting for you…next year.

If you’d like some inspiration for experiencing Europe for the holidays — or anytime off-season — here’s a recap of some of the other wonderful experiences we enjoyed during Thanksgiving week in Tuscany:

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We stayed a full week at Agriturismo Cretaiole, perched on a ridge just outside of Pienza and wonderfully run by Isabella and Carlo. Carlo’s dad, Luciano, kept us well-lubricated with nightly doses of grappa and Vin Santo.

We experienced three entirely different — and equally enjoyable — cooking classes: preparing a blowout feast in an Italian mama’s house; shadowing a Michelin chef in his restaurant’s kitchen; and rolling our own pasta back home at our agriturismo.

We explored Montepulciano — my favorite Tuscan hill town — with its colorful cast of craftsmen.

We followed a talented dog as she sniffed out truffles in a primeval forest.

And, in general, we fully enjoyed being in the foodie paradise of Tuscany.

Finally, at the end of the week, we did a little “Black Friday” shopping in Tuscan hill towns, and enjoyed the first of Italy’s holiday lights.

All in all, we found that off-season is a wonderful time to travel in Italy. It’s mild but not cold, it’s less crowded than peak season, and it’s a great time to sample seasonal specialties most tourists never taste.

While you’re digesting your turkey this year, why not do a little daydreaming for next year? A cross-cultural holiday is something worth trying for anybody. Sure, you could miss the turkey, or the Santa suits…but you might just discover something even better.

Or maybe you already have. If you’ve enjoyed holiday experiences on the road, share your favorite memories in the Comments.

Pasta-Making Night at the Agriturismo

At Agriturismo Cretaiole, Thursday night is pasta night. Guests return from a busy day of tooling around Tuscan hill towns and wineries to make pasta — specifically, the local hand-rolled noodles, called pici.

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After a lively week of group bonding, all of the guests pack into the glassed-in veranda. They squeeze behind rustic tables with a hubbub of anticipation. In front of each small group is an oversized, rough-wood board with just the right texture for rolling noodles.

In one corner of the room, our agriturismo host, Isabella, stands at a small table and addresses the group. The board in front of her is piled high with a 10-pound mountain of flour. She explains — with the seasoned confidence of someone who’s taught hundreds, maybe thousands, of travelers how to make perfect pasta — the precise procedure.

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First, she dredges out a crater in the top of her flour mountain, turning it into a volcano. Into this precarious container she cracks eight eggs. She gingerly beats the eggs with a fork, gradually sprinkling in water — a few drops at time — as she pulls in more and more flour from the lip of the crater. With each stir, the sea of eggy goo threatens to breach the fragile walls. But gradually, liquid turns to solid. And with one last vigorous stir, it becomes a mound of sticky dough.

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It’s time to knead. Isabella carefully explains the importance of keeping the “cut” — or, in more pleasant terms, the “smile” — facing you at all times. After each knead, you rotate the dough a quarter-turn, then repeat. It’s a steady rhythmic, motion — like waves crashing on a beach: Pull, push, push, rotate. Pull, push, push, rotate.

Each family huddles around their communal wad, taking turns. Isabella circulates through the room, gently correcting our awkward technique. “Done?” someone asks her. She sticks an accusing finger deep into the center of the seemingly finished ball of dough, and withdraws a sticky fingertip. “Not done yet,” she says. “Keep going.”

Finally, the dough is ready, and it’s time to make the pasta. Pici (pronounced “pee-chee”) are peasant noodles. Pici are hand-rolled — not neatly extruded from a metal tube. But it’s deceptively tricky to master.

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Here’s the technique: Cut off a hunk of dough, hold it in your left hand, and roll it with your right.  Continually massage the dough with the heel of your hand against the cutting board, always gently tugging on the dough clump to tease out a strand. It’s harder than it sounds. Too little pressure, and you get thick, inedible ropes. Too much pressure, and it breaks into bits. But if you do it right, you get pasta shaped like a four-foot-long earthworm. This is where those special boards come in: They offer just enough texture to provide friction for rolling the pici, but not so much that it sticks.

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Families take turns rolling their pici, offering each other tips and encouragement. Some people go fast. Others go slow. Some pick up the technique immediately, churning out long strands of perfectly uniform noodle. Others can’t quite get the hang of it, and spend most of their time pinching together broken strands…while nervously eyeing Isabella across the room, hoping she doesn’t notice.

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I take a break to head outside, where I find Isabella’s husband Carlo at the grill. His roaring fire has died down, and he’s repositioning his glowing coals. Carlo gently nestles his pork sausage and ribs onto the hissing grill.

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In the little garden shed nearby, Isabella has brought a 20-gallon pot of water to a rolling boil. To season the noodles, Isabella pours three generous handfuls of coarse salt into the water. It tastes as salty as soup. Then she drops in the handfuls of pici, which squirm around the bubbles like miniature eels.

In just five minutes — when the water starts to foam up — it’s done. Isabella tosses the pici with some meat ragù she’s been simmering all day long, then takes the giant, overflowing, stainless-steel bowl back to the veranda.

At Cretaiole, pasta night is also potluck night. Each guest brings down a salad, side dish, or dessert they’ve prepared in their apartment. Some use it as an opportunity to try out recipes they’ve picked up at cooking classes this week: a radicchio salad with pecorino and fennel, or a lightly sweetened, simple ricortta. Others import favorites from back home — my mother-in-law’s apple crisp (made with Tuscan apples) is a hit.

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Settling in to a delicious (and hard-earned) dinner, the Cretaiole guests chatter and drink and eat and laugh. Old Man Luciano shows up, clutching bottles of Vin Santo and grappa that he’ll be sharing later in the evening. Once-strangers, now-friends animatedly discuss all they’ve experienced this week. That great art museum in Siena. That stunning scenery from the drive to Monticchiello. Adorable Milli, our canine companion who sniffed out truffles during our hike through a wooded valley. People swap the Italian words they’ve learned and the Italian gestures they’ve mastered.

Digging into my pici, I screw my index finger deep into my cheek, then wave my hand alongside my head: Delizioso! The noodles we made are firm but tender. Each noodle clings to just the right amount of flavorful ragù, exactly as it was designed to do. As time stands still around this convivial dinner table — so far from home, yet so familiar — it’s clear why here in Tuscany, the traditional ways are still the very best ways.

Off-Season Italy

For my work, I tend to be in Europe for a few weeks each in spring and fall: April and May, then September and October, year after year. Our Tuscan Thanksgiving gave me the chance to be in Italy off-season. And it was a delight.

Traveling off-season — like traveling at any time — has its pros and cons. The weather is unpredictable: Two weeks before Thanksgiving, highs were in the 60s. But just as we arrived, the forecast plunged 20 or 30 degrees, forcing us into ski caps, long underwear, and wool socks. But at least it was mostly sunny, aside from a couple of rainy afternoons (and a few snowflakes and hail pellets). Our agriturismo came complete with a fireplace and an unlimited supply of firewood…and the resident cats enjoyed keeping an eye on the woodpile.

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We took drizzle as an excuse to visit the hot springs in Bagno Vignoni, an ancient spa town a half-hour’s drive from our agritirusmo. Having a huge, steamy pool of spring-fed thermal waters almost to ourselves, and being able to book massages on the fly, made us feel pretty smart for coming here off-season.

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The days are short in the winter…deceptively short. Despite its sunny reputation, Tuscany is at the same latitude as Toronto. Nightfall drew the shades on our sightseeing around 4:30 — leaving us with several dark hours to kill, scenery-free, before dinner. (The limited daylight also made getting over jet lag a bear, in both directions.) But at least the setting sun cast evocative, long shadows over the winter landscape.

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Because we were there so far off-season, a few things were unexpectedly closed. For example, my favorite gelateria in Pienza was closed (I checked…three times). But in most cases, it was easy to avoid disappointment by calling ahead.

All in all, late November was a wonderful time to be in Tuscany. The most pleasant surprise was the vivid colors. We enjoyed the final, fleeting yellows and oranges of autumn leaves. Spindly branches hung heavy with bright-orange persimmons. And because winter crops had gone in a few weeks prior, several of the rolling hillsides were fuzzy with the vibrant green of winter wheat. Most days, we enjoyed blue skies (albeit briefly). We found that, from a landscape-scenery perspective, late November was much better than a previous trip in early October (after the harvest, and when trees and lawns had been singed by the hot summer sun).

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The lack of crowds was another huge plus. Being able to park anywhere, go anywhere, and show up at any restaurant without consideration for crowds, it’s easy to get spoiled. It was nice to be in popular places — like Il Campo in Siena — and have them basically to ourselves. Enjoying the empty cobbles, I had flashbacks of being in these same place during the peak spring months — parking my car at distant satellite lots and hiking into town, only to find my first through fifth choices for dinner completely booked up.

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Late November is also a festive time to be in Tuscany. Holiday decorations were not yet in full swing, but throughout we week we saw people putting up garlands and lights — further dressing up already gorgeous towns like Pienza and Montalcino. Each town set up a Christmas tree on the main square. The most impressive was Montepulciano, which hosts a weekend Christmas market starting in mid-November. That town’s already adorable main square was filled with lights, stalls, and a Christmas tree.

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Italy is obsessed with seasonal foods. You might think that would leave few options in winter, but dining in the late autumn was a pleasure. Chestnuts worked their way into many dishes, and fennel salads were everywhere.

Winter is also the season for the precious white truffle — which is both delicious and fun to find. In the summer, truffle hunts are popular…but pointless. Tuscany’s worst-kept secret is that truffle hunters usually have to pre-hide a truffle for the dog to “find,” so as not to disappoint tourists. But November is legitimately truffle season, and our dog found four — including one surprise truffle in a park where we weren’t even looking.

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All in all, assuming you pack layers, plan to bundle up, and call ahead to steer clear of unexpected closures, there’s no reason not to visit Italy off-season. You may even find you prefer it.

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The Craftsmen of Montepulciano

Every traveler has their favorite Tuscan hill town. Mine’s Montepulciano. For one thing, it’s fun to say: Mon-tay-pool-chee-AH-noh. And it’s simply charming. Steep, twisty, cobbled lanes clamber up through an ancient, stony cityscape draped over a ridge. But the main reason I love Montepulciano are the people who pass the years here as their families have for generations. Here, like nowhere else, I feel connected to the heritage of a real, living town.

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Montepulciano’s main square occupies a postage stamp of rare flat land at the very pinnacle of town — the misnamed Piazza Grande. Facing the square are the proud tower of the town hall, some fine Renaissance mansions, a lion-topped fountain clutching a shield of Medici pills, and the jarring naked-brick facade of the town’s Duomo, which locals have never had the money to dress up properly.

From the main square, a pedestrian lane snakes down through town. Strolling just a hundred yards along this main drag, I drop in on three different craftsmen — each one with a fierce passion for doing just one thing, and doing it better than anyone.

My first stop is the Cantina Contucci, where I’m greeted with fanfare by Adamo. Spraying me with rapid-fire Italian, Adamo explains that he’s been making wine here since he was in short pants. He officially retired 20 years ago, he says, but they still let him come to work every day.

This town is famous for its robust Vino Nobile di Montepulciano wine. The grapes are grown in the surrounding hillsides, but it’s here, in a deep warren of cellars, that they become Vino Nobile. Underfoot, endless tidy rows of wine casks silently age beneath dramatic Gothic vaults.

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Walking among the truck-sized barrels, Adamo’s animated chatter crescendos. When it comes to his wine, he’s not just enthusiastic — he’s evangelical. Each cask is an old friend. My Italian is rusty, but Adamo’s exuberance is a universal language. For emphasis, he periodically reaches out and excitedly grips my arm.

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Fixing me with an intense but caring gaze, Adamo explains that a good wine has three essential qualities. He points to his eyes, his nose, and his mouth: color, bouquet, and taste. Finally, Adamo pops a cork and pours a sample in my glass. He won’t let me leave until he’s certain that I fully appreciate his life’s work.

I step from Adamo’s dank cellars into the crisp winter air. Wandering just a few steps downhill, I’m drawn in by the clang of metal against metal, like the ringing of an out-of-tune bell. Peeking into a cluttered time-warp of a workshop, I see a hardworking coppersmith named Cesare, hunched over an anvil—an actual anvil, like from the Roadrunner cartoons.

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Cesare invites me in to see his finely detailed, hammered-copper pots. Like Adamo, he needs no English to convey his devotion to his craft. He lets me peek into the adjacent museum of his works, and shows me a photograph of the huge weathervane he created to adorn the rooftop of Siena’s cathedral.

Excited to demonstrate the heat-conducing properties of his favorite medium, Cesare instructs me to crouch down so he can place a copper bell over my head. He shushes me and taps the bell with a little hammer, creating a rich, harmonious tone. I can actually feel the sound waves radiating all around me, warming up the top of my head.

Flattered by my interest, Cesare declares that he will make me a gift. He pulls out a set of tools that he inherited from his father, who inherited them from his father, and so on, dating back to 1857.  He lays a copper circle onto his anvil, and methodically arranges his antique hammers. Then he lovingly dents the disc with floral patterns, my wife’s initials, and our wedding date. He refuses payment. Instead, he shows me a scrapbook crammed with photos and postcards from his past visitors. While he has a shop around the corner (Rameria Mazzetti), it’s clear that Cesare is not in this for the money. It’s all about his love for the craft.

A few steps farther down the same street, I step into a lively restaurant: Osteria dell’Acquacheta. It’s dinnertime, and it’s packed. The handwritten menu is a sure sign that this place revels in what’s fresh today. But one thing that’s always on the menu is steak.

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Giulio appears. He’s a tall, balding, lanky artist of a butcher with a pencil sticking out of his gray ponytail. Just as his neighbors have devoted their lives to one thing, Giulio’s calling is grilling the perfect steak.

Giulio makes his rounds through the crowded restaurant. He pulls up a chair at each table and talks the customers through their options. When a steak is ordered, Giulio walks up the seven steps at the back of the restaurant to his busy open kitchen. There, a giant slab of beef rests on a butcher block. First, Giulio gently saws his way through the soft flesh. Then he hacks the clinging sinews with a giant cleaver. He slaps the five-pound T-bone on a sheet of paper, descends the stairs, and shows it to the customer. They nod in approval.

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Back up the stairs, the steak goes on the grill, pushed deep into a wood-fired oven: five minutes on one side, five minutes on the other, then sprinkled with coarse salt. When Giulio delivers the still-bleeding streak to his customers, they dig in — their eyes much bigger than their fast-filling stomachs. It’s a meal any steak-lover will never forget.

Whether it’s steak, copper, or wine, there’s something so inspiring about people who are completely devoted to their life’s work. In Montepulciano, you meet people who can’t stop working just because they’re retired. People for whom appreciation is better payment than money. People who find their niche in life and fill it with gusto.