During our courtship in Los Angeles during the early 1980s, we met almost every weekend someplace in downtown Los Angeles, Westwood, or Beverly Hills. This was because he lived and worked in Corona del Mar, south of LA, while I lived in the San Fernando Valley to the north and worked at Sunkist Growers. There were no cell phones then, no email, no texting. So, when we would meet, we would not leave the restaurant before deciding when and where we would meet again the next weekend.
Getting ready for our honeymoon required an even greater level of planning. It was my first trip to Europe (he had taken a tour right out of high school) and I was determined to have the most authentic European experience I could. Especially in the area of cuisine. I subscribed to both Gourmet and Bon Apetit magazines, so I was a burgeoning foodie even before that sobriquet was invented.
I began my research by going to the Los Angeles Public Library downtown. I was thrilled to learn that the legendary Mimi Sheraton of the New York Times had just published a series on restaurants in Italy. It was called, "Dining in Italy: Delights and Disappointments." In those days, when you found an article that you wanted to have a copy of, you had to go to the mimeograph room and request a printout. I did so, and received several pages fresh from the presses, smelling of ink. They were unattractive, with white printing on a black backgroiund. I packed them in my luggage.
I also had to buy and pack several maps. One of them showed the city center of Florence, Italy, in the heart of Tuscany. There was a restaurant called Alla Vecchia Bettola which was favorably reviewed by Sheraton. But it was in an out-of-the-way place across the Ponte Vecchio in the suburbs of Florence. We decided to take a taxi there and then walk back after dinner.
Even though the place was very busy, we weren't hurried along in our dining. I don't remember exactly what I ordered, but I do remember it being expertly seasoned to bring out, not overpower, the flavors of the meat and vegetables. The pasta was perfectly al dente. I hesitated when the waiter wanted to pour me a glass of the vin du table. After all, I had just come from Montepuiciano where I had tasted the powerful "Super-Tuscans." But I was pleasantly surprised. This Chianti was not like the sweet, insipid wines at pizza joints in the U.S. We ended the dinner with a light, refreshing dessert, a pastry that was like eating clouds.
Impulsively, I pulled out the mimeograph review from my purse and showed it to the waiter. In hesitant but fluent English, he asked if the restaurant could have it and I handed it over, even though there were several other reviews for restaurants we had not visited yet. He rushed off with it to show the proprietor.
We walked back to our hotel on the other side of the Arno River by a winding route through a park with a monument to the fallen war dead from that community. It was a delightful August evening and we felt completely safe. We were also unimpaired by the unpleasnat feeling when you overeat. It was just the right amount of food and drink to fuel a nice walk and a deep rest that night. I often remembered that evening fondly as we returned to the U.S. and took up our lives as a married couple.
Fast forward to 2004. Our daughter was beginning high school and our son was 10, high time, we thought, to introduce them to the joys of international travel. We planned a trip to London for just a couple of days and then on to Florence. I had never flown into Florence before; it seemed such a strange way to go to such an ancient city. But, as our taxi took our family from the airport to our hotel in the city, I looked over at my kids and saw their eyes shining as they looked out the taxi windows onto the Tuscan countryside and the quaint streets and buildings.
It is so wonderful traveling with children and viewing sights through their eyes. Wonderful in the original sense of inspiring wonder. My daughter seemed like a fresh-faced Juliet and my son like a young prince. He had the uncanny ability to lead us home to our hotel no matter where we roamed or how we got there. Of course, I looked forward to taking them to Alla Veccia Betola. But, would it still be open after more than 20 years? It's a valid question if you're talking about an American restaurant. But in Italy, there is no question. Yes, the restaurant was still around and busy as ever.
There were a few changes. In addition to the straw-wrapped bottles of Chianti, there was now a display of fine vintages from the surrounding countryside. But the hams and sausages were still aging in the rafters and the people were served family-style at long tables. Patrons at our table struck up conversations with our children and they experienced the interchange with people from different cultures. As our dinner came to an end, I mentioned to the waiter that once I had given them a review that had appeared in the New York Times. He looked at me curiously. "Come with me," he said. I grabbed my children's hands and followed him through the swinging door into the kitchen. And there, framed beside the door, was the mimeograph of Sheraton's review in all its white-on-black glory. I'm sure it's there still. The review from August 1983 has been digitaized and you can read it here.
