Terry and Maurice

Jerry had made reservations for the group for dinner at a place they had stumbled onto years ago, Gaspare Restaurant e Rifugio, a nondescript building high in the mountains above Giano dell’Umbria. We sat at an L-shaped table arranged along two of the stone walls and were immediately served pitchers of wine.  Opposite the door was a fireplace, maybe ten feet wide, on a hearth about two feet above the floor.  There was a roaring fire but it was obscured by two round discs propped against a metal frame in the front.  Pizza stones?  After a while a cook at the counter in front of the fireplace caught my attention when he lifted a circle of dough.  He wielded tongs to grab the heated discs (large stones) and laid them flat on the hearth then eased circles of dough onto them.  Two more flat stones were placed on top of the dough circles.  Then, with a long-handled shovel, the cook lifted burning coals from the fire and arranged them on top of the stones.  After a while he lifted the top rock for a progress check, shoveled more hot coals on top, and soon the flat bread was done.  The cook lifted the top rock, grabbed the bread with one hand and tossed it onto the counter, where a waitress quickly sliced it into little squares, dumped them into a basket and served it to us immediately with thin slices of salami, prosciutto crudo and pecorino cheese.  We split the bread and made everything into tasty little sandwiches.  Jerry warned us not to overdo it because there was more to come.

Shoveling hot coals onto the bread-cooking stones

Soon some sort of spinach omelette appeared, though by the time it got to our end of the table there were only a few delicious bites left. Then came a soupy dish of excellent beans cooked with tomatoes and probably guanciale.  Soon the servers came with big platters of bruschette mixte, plenty for everyone.  Finally it was time for the primo.  I had been wondering what kind of pasta they would have and I was not disappointed: it was perfectly cooked and wonderfully homemade linguine al tartufo, with olio di oliva and chopped truffles (no doubt directly from the neighboring woods).  Some of us had seconds.  But wait–that might not have been enough primo, so a bowl of tender gnocchi came next. We managed to save room for the secondo: piles of lamb, pork and sausages that had been grilling on the fireplace since the bread was done.  To accompany the meat a bowl of salad was passed around; unfortunately the dressing was way too salty (the only misstep of the meal).  For dessert (of course there had to be dessert!) we each got a portion of tiramisu with chocolate sauce artfully swirled across it.  To finish everything off there was coffee, limoncello and grappa for those so inclined.

I excused myself before our ride down the mountain.  As I was using the facility in our restaurant, the chain safely across the door for privacy, someone tried to turn the door handle to see if the stall was occupied.  It must have been the final straw for what was probably a poor construction job in the first place, for at the first jiggle the lefthand doorframe disattached itself from the wall and fell in my direction, bringing the door, still attached via the safety chain, with it.  “Oh, no!” I yelled, catching it, as Eileen struggled to pull it back from the outside.  I finished quickly, and we propped things back into place, although there would be no more locking of that door.  Just before I left the table I had handed my camera to Maurice saying, “No need for this on a trip to the ladies’ room.” But…you never know.