Why you shouldn't daytrip to Florence
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I’ve been visiting Florence for 25 years. I’m sure of that timing because my husband popped the question at Villa Vignamaggio, a villa in the hills above Greve-in-Chianti, 25 years ago this year. And it was on that trip that I first ventured into Florence. Twice.
I’ll be honest, I kinda hated it. Both times.
I know, I know, I’m in danger of having my writer-in-Italy-cred batted right out of my hand. So let me hasten to add, I blame myself, not Florence. Florence, after all, was just doing its Florence thing, if a bit more soggy and grey than the ideal. What can I say? I was in my mid-twenties, my socks were the kind that insisted on slipping down around the arch of my foot, I was a vegetarian, I didn’t care about history, and I didn’t understand the hoopla about Chianti. Too thin and acidic for my neophyte tastebuds.
I’ve been again, over the years, the most recent time this past August, after we got sprung from quarantine and wanted to check out Florence while the crowds were still pandemic-era low. i liked it better than the first time, probably better than all the other times combined, frankly, but I still didn’t love it. Yes, it was nice to saunter into the Uffizi without a reservation, the churches were pretty, and the food was fine. I’m a meat eater now, which helps. I’m also accustomed to the cuisine of central Italy, living next-door in Umbria, so I enjoy tasting what’s similar and what’s different. Even if I remained convinced that the food is just better in Umbria (except bistecca, but honestly at most places the bistecca is nothing particularly interesting, just a thick steak with an obtuse bone. If you want it revelatory you have to seek out a restaurant that carefully sources and thoughtfully prepares your steak. Otherwise, it’s hardly worth traveling for).
So months ago, when we began stalking consulate websites up and down the Boot in search of a slot to renew the kids’ passports (we’re ostensibly able to enter the US even with expired passports, and I would expect extra grace in light of the fact that all passport offices were closed before we left the United States so we couldn’t take care of this earlier, and Italy has been closed to inter-region travel for much of our sojourn here this year… still, I shuddered at the thought of hassling with a surly US border agent), I secretly hoped Rome would open up the first slots.
But Rome stayed firmly blank, no openings available. Florence did, too. And Milan. All of them, really. Finally, at the end of April, May spots opened up in Florence. We hurriedly booked two back-to-back spots for the following week, hoping hoping hoping that this meant we’d get the passports in time for our July return. Then we set about planning a weekend in Florence, to take advantage of the fact that finally travel is allowed between yellow regions. Plus, my daughter is a huge fan of Artemisia Gentillischi… we’d been lucky enough to catch the exhibit on baroque painters at the Uffizi in August, but wanted the time to check out two of Artemisia’s paintings at the Pitti Palace. Also, it’s been so long since we had a glimpse of city living, so staying in Florence just made sense.
Apartment rentals are cheap at the moment, which means that places that aren’t usually in our budget were affordable. We booked an apartment between the Piazza della Signoria and the Duomo, purely on the strength of the view pictured in the listing. I literally didn’t even read the description, I just saw the photo of a view over Keith’s shoulder and said, “Book it!”
That done, I scrapped much of Gabe’s “planned” homeschooling curriculum. We are a bit spontaneous over here, and trust in Gabe’s thirsty intellect; he’s always got several academic irons in the fire, at the moment he signed himself up for an econ course and he’s working his way through a biology curriculum he’s found. The week before our trip, I asked him to pump the brakes on all that and instead start reading Brunelleschi’s Dome. I picked it back up again myself and immediately remembered why I love this book. It’s funny that I remember it as historical fiction, when it’s not at all, it’s straight up non-fiction. But the telling of the story has lodged in my brain like, well…like a story.
We arrived in Florence with plenty of time for our appointment and the consulate was a breeze—plus the consulate worker hails from Staunton, the small town just over the mountain from our home in Charlottesville! She told us that the passports would be ready by the end of the day and would arrive to our house in Spello within ten days. TEN DAYS?!? She grinned. Ten days.
We pretty much floated back to the car to pick up our bags (you can’t take ANYTHING into the consulate) and get to our apartment. As we climbed flight of stairs after flight of stairs, I reminded myself that these aching calves would be worth it for the VIEW. Entering the apartment, my mouth dropped at the palatial size of an apartment that cost less than the two hotel rooms we’d first considered. Three bedrooms, three bathrooms, big windows…with a nice view. But not THE VIEW. I started muttering that perhaps there’d been a bait and switch. Just then, Gabe noticed the stairwell to the roof terrace.
One more flight of stairs, but boy my feet felt light, as I pushed open the door and found myself practically face to face with the Duomo. I spun slowly, drinking in the rooftops, the towers, the sfumato hills in the distance.
Something clicked for me.
Florence is of course the jewel of the Renaissance. It’s obvious from the artwork inside museums and the tombs in churches and architectural flair on the buildings. But that’s all piecemeal. You walk down a pretty street and get a little hit of Renaissance glory and then move on until the next one. But up on that terrazza, with the view of the Duomo and the hills of Fiesole beyond, I realized that it takes feeling like you are in a Renaissance painting to feel the full force of this pivotal historical period.
By now, even people who don’t care about art have seen enough Renaissance art to know what I’m talking about—those red tiled roofs, towering spires, and misty green hills. It’s the background for the Mona Lisa, for portraits of popes a-plenty, and endless mothers and childs. It turns out, when you see the hills and towers and the Duomo together (whether on your balcony or from any high point, like from the Pitti Palace) you feel like you’re part of the painting, suddenly the Renaissance comes to life, and even back on street level, it feels like you’re moving through a storybook.
Unexpected, to say the least. What was even more unexpected was how falling sleep in Florence and waking up in Florence somehow codifies and cements this appreciation. Seeing as I had before only arrived to Florence late morning and left after dinner, I had no idea of the resonance of Florence in the morning and evening. Well, that’s not strictly true. When we came eight years ago, we stayed just outside Florence in a lovely farm, where we were able to take the train in for the day. I remember walking to the train station after dinner with an unfamiliar tickle of not wanting to leave Florence. The streets burbled with city life and the Duomo standing sentry, alone in its piazza, felt at once intimate and knowable.
So perhaps I should have guessed. But I didn’t. I do know. Which is why I want to save you all the machinations I went through to land just here—
Stay in Florence.
Sip your morning coffee before the tourists descend, surrounded only by locals greeting each other in the piazza. Enjoy your afternoon spritz on an out-of-the-way street (more time in Florence means you can more easily get away from the tourist circuit) so you can watch the guy riding his bike with his dog on a leash stopping to chat with the business man in fancy shoes and crisp suit. Munch on pizza while smiling as the cook comes out to chat with the regulars. Pass arcades full of students on your way home to sleep. Their night is just beginning as they stand with arms slung around each other, clustered around barrels set out in the street. Florence seems like a small town in the mornings and evenings. Then, it belongs to the Florentines. And you can pretend to be one.
An added benefit of staying in Florence is the pausa. Day trippers don’t get a pausa. Poverini. Instead, daytrippers cram in thing after thing to take in as much as they can in a limited window, which leaves them exhausted and footsore and too cranky to appreciate those glimpses of hills between buildings. When you stay in Florence, you have the capacity to stop, to rest, to gather your joy again to take it back to the streets.
Our first day in Florence that’s exactly what we did—we came back to the apartment for a break before dinner. I took a bath, I put my feet up, I read Brunelleschi’s Dome, and by the time we headed out for dinner, I could see again. Everything seemed new and vibrant and wonderful.
The second day we went to the Pitti Palace and Boboli Gardens after lunch and were so wiped out we couldn’t face the thought of all those steps to our apartment (the disadvantage of a place with a view is that you find yourself avoiding going home; in fact, you’ll opt to buy Advil rather than run upstairs to grab the pack you brought). So we went to nearby piazza where we’d spotted people enjoying spritzes and drinks and snacks the day before and nabbed a table. We sat there until it was time to head off for our dinner reservation, and I admit. I felt it. I was wiped. I missed that pausa, that opportunity to refresh and renter the world, ready. I stopped seeing all that was marvelous about Florence. I just wanted to lie down for a few minutes.
Now I know better.
Next time I’ll stay in Florence and will mandate the pausa. Even a short one.
All this is to say, drinking in glimpses of green hills and seeing Florence when it’s not swarming with tourists and having fresh eyes, it becomes effortless to imagine Brunelleschi and Da Vinci swapping tips on encoding scientific notes to protect them from jealous rivals.
Plus, more time in Florence means more eating in Florence, and this is all to the good. Because I was WRONG WRONG WRONG all those years ago about food in Florence. In this one weekend, we had some of our favorite meals ever. Don’t worry, I’m not leaving you in suspense, I’m about to share my tips with you. Now, these restaurants are small so you’ll need to make reservations, and you’ll need to do it over the phone as there isn’t an online option for most of them. Don’t worry, I’ve got you covered, read my post on how to make a reservation in Italian. You could probably get away with making the reservation in English, but if you’ve been studying Italian, I recommend giving it a whirl. There is nothing like the feeling of triumph of successfully making a reservation in Italian.
Andiamo!
Vini e Vecchi Sapori— Don’t be fooled by this restaurant’s location right off the Piazza della Signoria. The staff are unpretentious and super welcoming, and the food is sublime. Our highlights (but the menu changes): paccheri (a wide tube of pasta) with zucchini flowers and saffron cream sauce, pappardelle with duck sugo, pici (a Tuscan fat spaghetti) with ragu. and spaghetti with a sauce of anchovies and breadcrumbs (this daily special was my fave, it hit my “linguini and clam” spot but with more intense flavor…plus the waiter was so excited when Gabe ordered it, and when another waiter brought it, he actually said, “I heard you ordered this!’). I saw many people with the fried chicken pieces with fried flowers (artichoke were substituted when we went), which looked fabulous. Gabe adores beans and so ordered a plate of them for contorni—he asked the waiter the difference between the two kinds, one was described as beans with a detail we couldn’t catch but sounded like half the skin was on and half wasn’t, and the other dish was a long kind of green bean (which the waiter said in an aside was like what you get in Milan). Easy breezy, Gabe ordered the non-green beans. Though we saw people getting the green beans which looked pretty fantastic, almost like a pile of glossy ribbons. Once Gabe got his beans we forgot all about those mysterious green beans. I realized that what I interpreted as half-on half-off was actually half-one-color as the beans are blush at one end. They were incredibly creamy, and Gabe loved them doused with olive oil and sprinkled with pepper. He wound up ordering beans once a day after that. I’ve searched and I can’t find the name of these beans! If you know, tell me?
Il Pizzaiuolo— When Keith and I got engaged all those years ago, we asked the woman who ran Villa Vignamaggio for a restaurant recommendation in Florence. She suggested il Pizzaiuolo and it was the finest meal of that trip. It didn’t look auspicious, just a little dark osteria beyond the range of popular tourist sights. We walked in and everyone’s eyes widened. Americans! Who knew? When we sat down, they fussed around us, bringing us a sample of greens, which we understood to be their house specialty. We politely tasted the greens and pronounced them delicious, to their grins of delight. Keith then ordered the piazza with those greens, called friarielli. I couldn’t since it also came with sausage and remember I was a vegetarian. Perhaps emboldened by our acceptance of their gift, they brought over more things for us to taste, including a dish I’ve since adopted into my repertoire—slices of zucchini grilled and then marinated in olive oil and garlic slices and mint. The experience at Il Pizzaiuolo lingered for years, so we took the kids there eight years ago and were shocked at the change. It is no longer an undiscovered hole in the wall, the space had expanded and the restaurant was packed. Luckily, the pizza was, if possible, even better than I remembered it. Given that we had all these meals to plan in Florence, i made a reservation at Il Pizzaiuolo after scoping out their Facebook page enough to see that they had built out outdoor space (more on that below). What we didn’t notice before is that it’s a proper neighborhood pizzeria. The guests seemed to all know each other, kids wandered in to be brought back out by the chef with a laugh, diners called greetings across the street to people passing who would hurry over for elbow bumps and long conversations. The pizza is, in a word, astounding. Napoli style stretchy crust, but not soggy like a Napoli pizza. It is my perfect, perfect pizza. Not being a vegetarian anymore I ordered the friarielli with sausage pizza and savored every single bite. I felt bereft that I had no idea when I’d have pizza like this again, which my family mocked. But I’m literally missing it already.
Trattoria 4 Leoni—All I can say is—holy moly. This restaurant lies across the Arno from the popular side of Florence, which made it a delightful escapade, especially as the hordes descended. I loved wandering the neighborhood, checking out the market, window shopping at little boutiques, stopping for a coffee. Lunchtime and we strolled to Piazza della Passera for our reservation at Trattoria 4 Leoni, with no idea of the delights that awaited us. While everything was exceptional, the menu item that blew our collective mind was the Fiocchetti di pera in salsa di taleggio e asparagi. Little parcels of the most tender pasta, filled with pear and ricotta, but the pear must have been caramelized, because there were these little bursts of honeyed sweetness. And the taleggio fonduta was voluptuously creamy. Each bite, a revelation. My tortelli mugellani al sugo toscano (potato stuffed pasta with the most unctuous, delicious ragu) was soul satisfying and we all kept sneaking bites of Gabe’s tagliata di manzo. Of course he also ordered the beans. Seeing plates of fried foods go out and feeling like we missed out at Vini e Vecchi Sapori, we ordered the fritto misto as a secondi for the table, which the waiter was happy to bring us. This basket included bits of chicken, which were delicious, but our favorite was the zucchini and the eggplant. For dessert, more Vin Santo with cantucci for me (I’ll tell you why in a bit), the best tiramisu we’ve ever had for Keith, panna cotta with a refreshingly tart raspberry sauce for Siena, and kiwi sorbetto for Gabe. Not only did we love the food, we loved the atmosphere. Waiters were kind, the place was packed with locals carrying parcels and bundles of flowers, and we loved the view to the piazza, which busted with life. There was a constant line at the bar across the street, including a bachelor party, as evidenced by the writing on the the young mens' t-shirts.
As with the other restaurants, I’m not sure if this outdoor seating is usual. Some restaurants outdoor dining had a bit of an ad hoc vibe, Trattoria 4 Leoni’s big umbrellas and standardized planters and tables makes me think that you can expect outdoor dining here, even in non-pandemic times.
I should back up to say that current regulations in Italy require that restaurants can be open only outdoors. I didn’t remember Il Pizzaiuolo having outdoor space in the past, but I suspect that Florence has done what cities across Italy have done—granted sidewalk and road space to restaurants so they can begin their economic recovery.
There was one restaurant I won’t name that tried to seat us indoors, behind a sheet (presumably so that the police wouldn’t notice). We considered leaving until the restaurant found us seating outside. While I can sympathize with the struggles of the Italian restaurant industry this last year, it left a sour taste when we asked specifically “are we allowed to dine inside?” to the hostess who assured us it was fine. It wasn’t fine. We’re quite sure. Also, though we were the only ones seated there when we arrived, we noticed that soon that indoor dining area was full. I can’t imagine how stressful it would have been to eat indoors, cheek-to-jowl with strangers. Yes, we ate indoors in Venice in December, but we made sure to get to those restaurants right when they opened so we’d be sure to be far away from other people, and were able to sit by windows or doors. I’m also not recommending this restaurant because the service was frenetic (halfway through Keith and Gabe’s meals, we had to flag someone down to get the rest of our food, even though they’d noticed we were lacking ten minutes before) and anyway, the food was fine but nothing to write home about (or put in a blog post). Also, I noticed fettuccini alfredo on the menu. With chicken. I’m still scratching my head about. Fettucini alfredo is unabashedly an American dish, and i’ve literally never ever seen chicken with pasta on a menu in Italy. I’m not saying it bad, but it is absolutely not Italian.
But back to happier times…
You know from reading my post on dining out in Italy that I make it a point to always order the antipasti misti everywhere we go. Florence, included. Now, I can be a bit snobby when it comes to salumi, living over the mountain from Norcia, but the delicate and nuanced flavor of the prosciutto, salami, and cappocolo left me astounded. These restaurants have excellent suppliers, clearly. I could tell these animals were humanely treated and experts used careful methods of curing to coax out the best possible flavors. Slam dunk and home run, or whatever the soccer equivalent is. Corner kick goal?
As for breakfast, what fun! Each morning, Keith and I woke up before the kids and headed out to find a pasticceria, pausing our ramble to have a coffee together. The thing no one tells you about family travel in a pandemic is that it’s hard to get any alone time. With restaurants closed and a curfew in place, date nights have faded into a distant memory. Instead, we’ve come to enjoy date mornings. A walk if bars are closed, or sitting together over coffee when that’s possible.
So we were happy to let the kids wake up slowly while we picked up provisions—olive and oregano focaccia, buttery cookie pockets filled with ricotta and orange peel, knots of croissant dough around almond paste, crisp pastry squares with lemon or chocolate filling, plus juices and strawberries (small forest ones and regular cultivated ones) from the corner fruittivendolo. Then we’d bring it all up the roof and relax over our colazione. We feasted on the variety as we gestured to Santa Maria del Fiore, Gabe and I remembering details about what we’d learned from Brunelleschi’s Dome. For instance, did you know that when they began work on the Duomo, they had no idea how they’d actually finish it? Fascinating.
As you may be able to tell by now, I’ve reevaluated my opinion on Tuscan food. I stand by my words on steak, you have ignore the restaurants with signs touting their specials of a kilo of steak and a bottle of Chianti for €50,00 and instead to seek out an exceptional place (my favorite is actually outside of Florence) to have bistecca that’s worthy of the name. But some things are just better in Tuscany. Beans are one. Holy moly, I cannot get over them. Umbria is pretty known for legumes, but the intense creaminess, the redolent flavor of those Tuscan beans…wow. Better than potatoes. And THAT is saying something.
The other item that is just better in Tuscany is passito. Passito is wine made from grapes dried on straw mats. In Tuscany, that’s known as Vin Santo. in Umbria, the most lauded variety is Sagrantino passito. Perhaps because in Tuscany they use primarily white grapes for the making of their passito, perhaps because they just do it differently, all I know is it’s just better than Sagrantino passito. I’m readying myself for a lot of pushback from Umbrians here, but honestly, I can’t imagine there to be two opinions on the subject. Vin Santo is more layered, more complex, it has notes of flowers and almonds and toast that marry exquisitely with cantucci (what we in the states call biscotti, but biscotti just means “cookie”, what goes with passito is called cantucci in Tuscany and tozzetti in Umbria). I ordered Vin Santo and cantucci three times in three days. It’s the perfect dessert, though I did enjoy bites of everyone’s tiramisu, panna cotta, sorbets, and the rest.
L'Officina Profumo-Farmaceutica di Santa Maria Novella
As for wine, I did taste some pretty nice Tuscan wines. But honestly I like my wine big, juicy, bold, and tannic with flavor notes of leather and smoke and the forest floor, so I just prefer my Umbrian reds. But at least I understand now what the fuss is about. Kind of.
You see, that’s a lot of eating you’ll need to accomplish on a visit to Florence. Far too much for a day trip. Stay longer so you can have the pleasure of strolling away from a restaurant, sure of another astounding dining experience for your next meal.
Besides the food, you’ll want to see Florence by dawn and by dusk. You’ll want all the opportunities you can to see her in her finery. You’ll want to see idiosyncratic parts of the city beyond the major sights, like L'Officina Profumo-Farmaceutica di Santa Maria Novella, which has been operating as an apothecary and pharmacy since 1220 and smells fantastic.
You’ll want to get to know Florence, not just the tourists scrambling over her streets, guide books fixed in hands with a desperate expression of trying to see it all in one day. I wonder if this is true to cities in general—that a day trip is overwhelming and taxing and you need time to acclimate your rhythm to that of the city.
In any case, I now know that some of Florence’s gifts lie in plain sight, and some unfurl slowly. If you want to experience the city in all its Renaissance glory, you have to stay, be patient, and keep your eyes and your spirit ready.
