My honeymoon in 1983 was memorable. My fiancé and I decided to go to Switzerland
and Italy. I enjoyed it so much that I've been going back to both countries for 30
years.
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.
The taxi dropped us on a busy corner in a charming and very old Italian
neighborhood. We swung in the creaky door and were treated to the sight of a
bustling trattoria with hams, sausages, and Chianti bottles wrapped in straw
hanging from the rafters. We were ushered to a long table mostly filled with
locals enjoying their wine before dinner. The earnest waiters had a bit of
trouble finding menus for us; apparently most diners didn't need a menu because
they knew the restaurant's offerings by heart.
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.