Early morning view of our vineyard from the mountain

A corner of Montisi

It was about a 45-minute drive to Montisi, where we had a 12:30 reservation for lunch at Da Roberto, the local holy grail for slow and healthy food.  Word on the street was that if Roberto didn’t like you he would kick you out of his restaurant.  We arrived in town early.  As we walked past the restaurant, Maurice spotted Roberto on his terrace and, since we wanted to stay in his good graces, immediately made friends with him. 

Roberto had worked at GM in the US for sixteen years, and Maurice told him how his father had once worked at the Baltimore GM plant on Broening Highway.  Our Italian friends Francesco and Mariaelena drove into town from Rome at noon and we had time to get reacquainted and walk together past stone houses on old streets curving around the shape of the original castle walls.

At Roberto’s place two long tables were set up along walls of mashed-together brick and stone.  The tall arched space of the old building was decorated with pictures, books, the local contrade flags and wine paraphernalia. 

When we were all settled Roberto began to instruct us:  how he got here, the value of real food, where his seasonal-only local ingredients are sourced, the evils of salt and pepper, the horror of standard plastic ricotta from the supermarket and how we should never accept pasta with cheese already on it from the kitchen.  And that was only the beginning.  Jo was reprimanded for requesting another wine glass (one strike for her), I did not ask correctly for the milk pudding (one strike for me) and Jerry pretty much kept his mouth shut for the whole meal.  We had heard rumors and nobody knew how many strikes it would take to be out of there.  We hardly dared touch the saltshakers which Roberto allowed to stay on his tables “for now.”

Roberto’s panzanella

And the food?  It was fresh, wholesome, simply prepared, devoid of spices (“poison”) and salt free.  We started with two salads: a tasty panzanella and another of spelt and three kinds of beans with celery, carrots and pecorino; Roberto had allowed a splash of wine vinegar on the first.  Next was pici pasta, made locally the day before from stone-ground wheat, sauced with his own ragout of free range organic ground beef, carrots, celery and onions (period); it definitely needed salt.  Roberto told us that if, after tasting it, we might want a little salt, he would bring out grated cheese, which he eventually did, but it was pecorino (which I do not like), so I just went with some salt when he wasn’t looking (pepper too).  Roberto hadn’t prepared a meat course, but if people wanted some and weren’t in a hurry he would grill some sausages, which Maurice, Dewey and Jerry thought was a good idea.  While the sausage grilled and the potatoes roasted, Roberto expounded on his frustrations with trying to get the sausage maker to put less salt in his otherwise excellent product.  This sounded promising.  When the sausages and potatoes arrived under a healthy twig of rosemary, I took a few bites; the slightly oversalted sausage melded with the perfectly-roasted but saltless potatoes for an exquisite mouthful.

Penny, Janice and Connie

Dessert was a choice of whole milk pudding, dark chocolate pudding or ricotta with a shot of espresso poured over it; all were honey-sweetened but not enough, and none were anything to write home about, especially the ricotta, which sadly was not only covered with coffee but also made of sheep’s milk (one coffee-free bite just to taste Roberto’s raved-over ricotta and I practically licked my pudding bowls to cover the taste—give me that plastic supermarket ricotta any day!).

Kay, Jerry, Roberto, Janice and Sandy

Wine and water were extra.  What kind of wine did we want, Roberto had asked our table.  Rosso.  What kind of rosso?  No one answered so I said something on the cheaper end would be fine.  “Entry level?” said Roberto.  Sure.  I hate to say it all tastes alike, because it doesn’t quite, but most of it is perfectly acceptable and the price differences are not worth it to me.  Our table of twelve ended up with four bottles of twelve-euro wine, and with everything included and divided up it cost 42 euros apiece (the other table upped the wine quality and paid a bit more).  Maurice thought that was reasonable for the meal.  I’m not convinced, but it was a four-hour lunch, a time for relaxed conversation and a fascinating experience.  And nobody got put out of the synagogue.

“Hmmm…how much can I charge these Americans?”