A Legacy Project

When I asked what was good, she pinched my shirt between her thumb and forefinger, pulling me to my feet, and led me to the little kitchen. She went down the list. Today we have the ribollita, pasta fagioli, pappa di pomodoro; for second, there is vitello roast, rabbit roast, pork ribs, the famous Fiorentino (on intervals we would hear the cook hammering the thick steak back there). Except for the steak, there they all were, in giant metal roasters. The skinny guy wearing the white apron and little white chef’s hat turned from his work and smiled. 

This was Mario’s in Florence. We had stopped at a wine shop in the mercato centrale and asked the proprietor to recommend a good place to eat. He told us Mario was good, but we might have to share a table.

We had to share a table, sitting on small bench seats. We drank red wine from a carafe in bistro glasses. The steaming dishes were set down on standard trattoria carta paglia placemats. That day Mario’s acquired “best ever” status, best ribollita ever, by far; best oven-roasted rabbit ever, by far. 

Best ever also, Teresa. When I asked how they did their rabbit I got another shirt pinch and another trip to the kitchen. I’ve approximated their rabbit, but never quite made it Mario.

After that, every trip to Florence had to include lunch at Mario. And we started to say, “Shall we go see Teresa?” She was there, wearing her apron and little white hat, and she always remembered and welcomed us.

Then came life. And for a few years we didn’t get to Florence. And then came Covid. And a few more years. Finally, one year we brought a friend to Italy with us, which meant a night in Florence and lunch at Mario’s. It was and always would be a highlight.

Teresa wasn’t there.

Everything was the same: the carta paglia placemats, carafe of wine, ribollita, coniglio. It was all still good, still best ever. But it all felt different. The soul had gone elsewhere.