English

gesso logo.jpg

From our recording studio in Brooklyn, we make audio that celebrates human creativity, history and the spaces we live to learn about.

How Florence became Florence, from its signature cuisine to its central characters, all leading up to its brief stint as capital of a new country called Italy.

$11.99

charles-buchler-wOVEJEUV7pk-unsplash.jpg

Crossing Cultures

Florence Store.jpg

Florence

Florence- city selector cover.jpg

“This is the fairest picture on our planet, the most enchanting to look upon, the most satisfying to the eye and the spirit."
- Mark Twain

FLORENCE LOGO.jpg

Florence Cover.jpg

In the film Tea with Mussolini, Franco Zefirelli’s wartime tribute to his native city, a group of British grande dames known as scorpioni meet here at the English Cemetery amidst the wildflowers, and recite the poetry of Elizabeth Barrett Browning.  Now it may seem super British, but I’m here to tell you that it wasn’t always.

Bequeathed in 1827 to the Swiss Reformed Church by Grand Duke Leopold II, this site just beyond the city walls now serves as a final resting place for non-Catholics and non-Italians, most notably the Victorian poet Elizabeth Barrett Browning, who lived in Florence from 1846 until her death.  

While here, the poet found herself inspired by the Italian drive toward liberty, and became an outspoken champion for the Risorgimento, or the Unification of Italy.  Though Vittorio Emmanuele II was declared the first King of the new Italy in 1861, mere months before Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s passing, Rome obstinately remained part of the Papal States.  Meanwhile, the first Italian capital of Turin in the north was considered too vulnerable to French forces; a compromise was needed.  

Florence was declared the capital in 1865, given its central location and its status as the birthplace of the so-called Italian language, changing this area significantly from that point on.  Led by architect Giuseppe Poggi, many of the city’s ancient walls were bulldozed, clearing the way for wide boulevards which circumnavigated the city. He built expansive new squares such as Piazzale Michelangelo overlooking the city, Piazza della Liberta at the northern gate, and Piazzale Donatello, where you are currently standing. 

As always, the Renaissance finds its way into this story: down in the square, you’ll find two half-buried column capitals: these are believed to be unused from a facade Michelangelo had designed, but never completed, for the Basilica of San Lorenzo, one of the city’s oldest and largest churches.


5a Piazzale Donatello \|||// In the film Tea with Mussolini, Franco Zefirelli’s wartime tribute to his native city, a group of British grande dames known as scorpioni meet here at the English Cemetery amidst the wildflowers, and recite the poetry of Elizabeth Barrett Browning.  Now it may seem super British, but I’m here to tell you that it wasn’t always.

Bequeathed in 1827 to the Swiss Reformed Church by Grand Duke Leopold II, this site just beyond the city walls now serves as a final resting place for non-Catholics and non-Italians, most notably the Victorian poet Elizabeth Barrett Browning, who lived in Florence from 1846 until her death.  

While here, the poet found herself inspired by the Italian drive toward liberty, and became an outspoken champion for the Risorgimento, or the Unification of Italy.  Though Vittorio Emmanuele II was declared the first King of the new Italy in 1861, mere months before Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s passing, Rome obstinately remained part of the Papal States.  Meanwhile, the first Italian capital of Turin in the north was considered too vulnerable to French forces; a compromise was needed.  

Florence was declared the capital in 1865, given its central location and its status as the birthplace of the so-called Italian language, changing this area significantly from that point on.  Led by architect Giuseppe Poggi, many of the city’s ancient walls were bulldozed, clearing the way for wide boulevards which circumnavigated the city. He built expansive new squares such as Piazzale Michelangelo overlooking the city, Piazza della Liberta at the northern gate, and Piazzale Donatello, where you are currently standing. 

As always, the Renaissance finds its way into this story: down in the square, you’ll find two half-buried column capitals: these are believed to be unused from a facade Michelangelo had designed, but never completed, for the Basilica of San Lorenzo, one of the city’s oldest and largest churches.

Cimitero degli Inglesi  (att req).jpg

The "English" Cemetery

Tour Item

CemeteryInglese scored.mp3

Close your eyes for a moment.  Breathe in the smell of lemon balm and bergamot mint.  Listen to the hummingbirds, the bumble bees, and the teenagers making out in the corner.  Gone is the stench of dog urine, the honking horns, the buzz of a Vespa that nearly took you out. You’re standing in Florence’s lone communal garden, a Florentine haven that may as well not be in Florence at all.  It is the last of several public gardens here on Borgo Pinti, and by the look of the rubber track under your feet, you can tell it’s very recent in this form.

Like all places in Florence, however, it has a long history.  Owned by the Salviati Family, one of the City's wealthiest, it was first an experimental garden where exotic plants were raised and crossbred, including the first instance of jasmine in Italy, and a version of the zibibbo grape used for moscato.  

By the 1650s, Vincenzo Salviati had commissioned a building to be constructed next door, which would be known as the Casino Salviati.  I’ll note a small but important distinction: in English we would assume “casino” to signify a gambling house, but in Italian, you would say “casinò”; a “casino” was for a different kind of fun, a den for wealthy gentlemen, and I'll leave it at that, while the garden evolved into a more English-style, romantic garden which grew status crops like pineapple.  By 1794, the adjacent building and its garden would be handed down from the Salviati family to a Roman Prince, who would go on to marry Napoleon’s younger sister, Paolina.  

Over time, the plot was split into thirds, and by the 1960s, the section in which you’re standing was gifted to the city.  The city converted into a school, and eventually into the community garden in which you stand today, maintained by volunteers as part of a cooperative in service to special needs children and young adults.  It’s come a long way, but for my money, it is one of the most perfect places in the city.  

76 Borgo Pinti \|||// Close your eyes for a moment.  Breathe in the smell of lemon balm and bergamot mint.  Listen to the hummingbirds, the bumble bees, and the teenagers making out in the corner.  Gone is the stench of dog urine, the honking horns, the buzz of a Vespa that nearly took you out. You’re standing in Florence’s lone communal garden, a Florentine haven that may as well not be in Florence at all.  It is the last of several public gardens here on Borgo Pinti, and by the look of the rubber track under your feet, you can tell it’s very recent in this form.

Like all places in Florence, however, it has a long history.  Owned by the Salviati Family, one of the City's wealthiest, it was first an experimental garden where exotic plants were raised and crossbred, including the first instance of jasmine in Italy, and a version of the zibibbo grape used for moscato.  

By the 1650s, Vincenzo Salviati had commissioned a building to be constructed next door, which would be known as the Casino Salviati.  I’ll note a small but important distinction: in English we would assume “casino” to signify a gambling house, but in Italian, you would say “casinò”; a “casino” was for a different kind of fun, a den for wealthy gentlemen, and I'll leave it at that, while the garden evolved into a more English-style, romantic garden which grew status crops like pineapple.  By 1794, the adjacent building and its garden would be handed down from the Salviati family to a Roman Prince, who would go on to marry Napoleon’s younger sister, Paolina.  

Over time, the plot was split into thirds, and by the 1960s, the section in which you’re standing was gifted to the city.  The city converted into a school, and eventually into the community garden in which you stand today, maintained by volunteers as part of a cooperative in service to special needs children and young adults.  It’s come a long way, but for my money, it is one of the most perfect places in the city.

OrtiDipinti2 (att req).jpg

The Painted Gardens of Borgo Pinti

Orti Dipinti scored .mp3

This sleepy, leafy, regal Piazza is named after Massimo D’Azeglio, an elegantly mustachioed painter, writer, and former Prime Minister to the island of Sardinia during the mid-1800s.  Though he advocated for federalizing the separate regions of Italy, D’Azeglio believed the official Unification of the country in 1861 was premature, saying, “unfortunately we’ve made Italy, but we’re not making Italians.”  In other words, the country was unified in name only.  Even today, there are over 30 distinct dialects on the Peninsula, and standard “Italian” is synthesized from the written language that Dante, alongside Boccaccio and Petrarch, developed in their writing.  How many writers do you know who invented a language?

If you’re in front of #36, at the Villino Puccioni, you’re looking at one of modern Italy’s most underrated landmarks.  Another crucial aspect of Italian Unification was the development of its national culinary identity, which is likely a central reason why you and I came to Italy in the first place, no?   Up until the mid-1800s, French was considered the en vogue cuisine, with countless other regional recipes floating around in the hills and valleys.  At this point, a wealthy businessman named Pellegrino Artusi, originally from the delightfully named town of Forlimpopoli, found himself ever drawn to the world of gastronomy.  He traveled up and down the new nation compiling recipes before landing in this house, where at 71 years old, he wrote and self-published what he called Science in the Kitchen and the Art of Eating Well.  Released in 1891 and amended by Artusi himself fifteen times thereafter, the cookbook features nearly 800 anecdotal, often playful recipes from the New Italy.  The book soon gained popularity and circulated the globe, helping to spread Italy’s legacy as a culinary powerhouse while cementing his legacy as the father of Italian cooking.

Now, keep crossing the piazza until you get to #12 on the northeastern side of the square.

35 Piazza Massimo D'Azeglio \|||// This sleepy, leafy, regal Piazza is named after Massimo D’Azeglio, an elegantly mustachioed painter, writer, and former Prime Minister to the island of Sardinia during the mid-1800s.  Though he advocated for federalizing the separate regions of Italy, D’Azeglio believed the official Unification of the country in 1861 was premature, saying, “unfortunately we’ve made Italy, but we’re not making Italians.”  In other words, the country was unified in name only.  Even today, there are over 30 distinct dialects on the Peninsula, and standard “Italian” is synthesized from the written language that Dante, alongside Boccaccio and Petrarch, developed in their writing.  How many writers do you know who invented a language?

If you’re in front of #36, at the Villino Puccioni, you’re looking at one of modern Italy’s most underrated landmarks.  Another crucial aspect of Italian Unification was the development of its national culinary identity, which is likely a central reason why you and I came to Italy in the first place, no?   Up until the mid-1800s, French was considered the en vogue cuisine, with countless other regional recipes floating around in the hills and valleys.  At this point, a wealthy businessman named Pellegrino Artusi, originally from the delightfully named town of Forlimpopoli, found himself ever drawn to the world of gastronomy.  He traveled up and down the new nation compiling recipes before landing in this house, where at 71 years old, he wrote and self-published what he called Science in the Kitchen and the Art of Eating Well.  Released in 1891 and amended by Artusi himself fifteen times thereafter, the cookbook features nearly 800 anecdotal, often playful recipes from the New Italy.  The book soon gained popularity and circulated the globe, helping to spread Italy’s legacy as a culinary powerhouse while cementing his legacy as the father of Italian cooking.

Now, keep crossing the piazza until you get to #12 on the northeastern side of the square.

Artusi.jpg

Pellegrino Artusi and the Invention of Italy

1 PuccioniScored.mp3

Despite the dog park and basketball court and wealthy old ladies you see now, this was long farmland amidst a working class neighborhood, at least until Florence’s brief reign as capital of Italy reconfigured the city center.   As part of a gentrification campaign known as the Risanamento, or renewal, the old market and Jewish ghetto were bulldozed to make way for today’s Piazza della Repubblica. In turn, wealthy families, including several prominent Jews, set up shop here, just outside the city walls.
	
In the case of Florence’s Jewish population, you may notice two gold bricks embedded in the sidewalk.  These are known as pietre d’inciampo, or stumbling stones.  Located throughout Europe, these mark the final residence of those who lost their lives to the Holocaust.  Their name ironizes, for better or worse, a common joke amongst German anti-Semites: after having tripped over a stone protruding from the sidewalk, he or she would joke that it was because a Jew was buried there.  

Florence is one of Europe’s oldest, and one of Italy’s largest, Jewish communities, dating at least to the 1100s, if not to Roman times. There were around 3,000 Jewish Florentines prior to World War II, a number that was halved, and remains halved, to this day.  Now, if you see a copper-green dome lurking in the distance, follow that southwest onto Via Farini for a bit more on the Jewish history of Florence.

12 Piazza Massimo D'Azeglio \|||// Despite the dog park and basketball court and wealthy old ladies you see now, this was long farmland amidst a working class neighborhood, at least until Florence’s brief reign as capital of Italy reconfigured the city center.   As part of a gentrification campaign known as the Risanamento, or renewal, the old market and Jewish ghetto were bulldozed to make way for today’s Piazza della Repubblica. In turn, wealthy families, including several prominent Jews, set up shop here, just outside the city walls.
	
In the case of Florence’s Jewish population, you may notice two gold bricks embedded in the sidewalk.  These are known as pietre d’inciampo, or stumbling stones.  Located throughout Europe, these mark the final residence of those who lost their lives to the Holocaust.  Their name ironizes, for better or worse, a common joke amongst German anti-Semites: after having tripped over a stone protruding from the sidewalk, he or she would joke that it was because a Jew was buried there.  

Florence is one of Europe’s oldest, and one of Italy’s largest, Jewish communities, dating at least to the 1100s, if not to Roman times. There were around 3,000 Jewish Florentines prior to World War II, a number that was halved, and remains halved, to this day.  Now, if you see a copper-green dome lurking in the distance, follow that southwest onto Via Farini for a bit more on the Jewish history of Florence.

Dazeglio.jpg

Piazza d'Azeglio and the New Florence

2 DAzeglioScored.mp3

The Jews have faced a long, complicated history in Florence, given the role the Medici Family had in protecting us.  Again, though there are accounts of Jews in Florence dating to the 1100s, it was only after Jewish merchants loaned money to the Pope in 1428 that we were allowed to formally establish a community here.  And despite subsequent attempts to expel Jews from the city by certain fanatical clergymen like Girolamo Savonarola, Jewish wealth helped ensure that the community continued to grow (though the Grand Duke of Florence did establish certain anti-semitic laws, including the establishment of the Ghetto in 1571).

By the time of Unification, Jews were finally granted Italian citizenship, and though the Risanamento bulldozed two synagogues within the former ghetto, they would establish a new community here in what were the outskirts of the city, centered on this massive synagogue, started in 1874 and completed in 1882.  

The pale travertine, pink pomato stone, and oxidized green copper of the synagogue happens to reflect the polychrome marble seen on most of Florence’s main churches, which in some cases predate the tricolore of the Italian flag by centuries.  And though the synagogue is the only one of these structures built post-unification, it feels anything but Italian.  In fact, upon entering the complex, it feels as if you were transported back to Spain, the original home of so many Jews who had originally fled here, surrounded as you are by lush plants and Moorish architectural details.
  
The synagogue was nearly lost during the war: the Nazis desecrated the sacred space by using it as a storehouse for munitions, and wired it to blow as they were retreating.  Not unlike the case of Ponte Vecchio, their plot was foiled by random caregiver, and they only managed to detonate one bomb at the entryway, leaving minimal damage to the structure itself and leaving us with one of precious few testaments of an important and underappreciated chapter in the history of the city.

6 Via Luigi Carlo Farini \|||// The Jews have faced a long, complicated history in Florence, given the role the Medici Family had in protecting us.  Again, though there are accounts of Jews in Florence dating to the 1100s, it was only after Jewish merchants loaned money to the Pope in 1428 that we were allowed to formally establish a community here.  And despite subsequent attempts to expel Jews from the city by certain fanatical clergymen like Girolamo Savonarola, Jewish wealth helped ensure that the community continued to grow (though the Grand Duke of Florence did establish certain anti-semitic laws, including the establishment of the Ghetto in 1571).

By the time of Unification, Jews were finally granted Italian citizenship, and though the Risanamento bulldozed two synagogues within the former ghetto, they would establish a new community here in what were the outskirts of the city, centered on this massive synagogue, started in 1874 and completed in 1882.  

The pale travertine, pink pomato stone, and oxidized green copper of the synagogue happens to reflect the polychrome marble seen on most of Florence’s main churches, which in some cases predate the tricolore of the Italian flag by centuries.  And though the synagogue is the only one of these structures built post-unification, it feels anything but Italian.  In fact, upon entering the complex, it feels as if you were transported back to Spain, the original home of so many Jews who had originally fled here, surrounded as you are by lush plants and Moorish architectural details.
  
The synagogue was nearly lost during the war: the Nazis desecrated the sacred space by using it as a storehouse for munitions, and wired it to blow as they were retreating.  Not unlike the case of Ponte Vecchio, their plot was foiled by random caregiver, and they only managed to detonate one bomb at the entryway, leaving minimal damage to the structure itself and leaving us with one of precious few testaments of an important and underappreciated chapter in the history of the city.

Synagogue.jpg

The Great Synagogue of Florence

3 SynagogueScored.mp3

We’re now at the Mercato di Sant’Ambrogio which, along with Mercato Centrale and a shuttered location across the river, is one of three markets built in the 1870s in the wake of the gentrification of the Risanamento.  This, I’ll add, was a period when the old markets were deemed unsanitary and bulldozed to result in a purportedly cleaner, safer Italy. Given that we’re outside of the old city walls, it stands to reason that this location is smaller and less crowded, making it and its neighboring restaurants a far better bet, generally speaking, than those in the center.  This is the neighborhood, though, where I’ve lived the longest, where I would typically do my shopping, dining, and binge-drinking, so I may be biased.

Either way, I want to share a few words on dining in Florence: For breakfast, keep it simple: a cappuccino and a cornetto (or croissant) at the bar will do; note that many places in the center will charge you to sit down.  And strangely, some Italians think you’ll explode if you drink frothy milk after lunch.  Whatever. Drink any coffee you like, just don’t spend more than a euro fifty on it.

For the big meals, remember that for all the city’s wealth, the common Florentine was extremely poor, and the notable dishes reflect this: other than the cheap cuts of cow guts, the classic peasant food was soup made from stale bread, which you’ll see sold at the market in the form of ribollita or pappa al pomodoro.  I like to think of these as deconstructed precursors for pasta; though there is some evidence that the prehistoric Etruscans did eat a sort of noodle-crepe hybrid, what we consider pasta is relatively modern, likely coming from Arabic countries up through Sicily.  Just as it sounds, ribollita means reboiled, produced from leftover vegetable soup; pappa is effectively tomato gruel, and both are better to order in a cheap trattoria or osteria than in an expensive ristorante.

For dinner, remember: you don’t have to get an antipasto, primo, and secondo, but you do need to eat your salad last.  Florentines proudly take their bread salt-free, owing to an ancient grudge with Pisa, though the schiacciata, which they’ll note is not at all like focaccia, is drenched in sea salt.

In some other universe there’s a light, elegant version of Tuscan cuisine, defined by fresh vegetables and good olive oil, but I’ll take it heavy and crude, thanks. You could lead off with crostini smothered in chicken liver, or a platter of cold cuts called tagliere.   Then, for your primo, go for the pici with cinta senese (dense noodles with boar from Siena), or something with local porcini mushrooms.  For the secondo, some kind of cheap meat stewed slowly will do -- spezzatino, peposo (with wine and pepper), or francesina (with onion), or, if you’re splurging, the bistecca we discuss at Piazza San Lorenzo.  To rinse the fat from your gullet once you’ve drunk all the Chianti Classico, nothing better than a late night caffè; the northerners might get a grappa, others an amaro, or some combination therein.  Regionally, you’re looking at a fortified wine called vin santo with a couple biscotti, which they call cantuccini.   

For now, though, give a wander around the market and see what you can get di stagione as you ponder that most difficult of decisions: where will I eat tonight?

23 Piazza Lorenzo Ghiberti \|||// We’re now at the Mercato di Sant’Ambrogio which, along with Mercato Centrale and a shuttered location across the river, is one of three markets built in the 1870s in the wake of the gentrification of the Risanamento.  This, I’ll add, was a period when the old markets were deemed unsanitary and bulldozed to result in a purportedly cleaner, safer Italy. Given that we’re outside of the old city walls, it stands to reason that this location is smaller and less crowded, making it and its neighboring restaurants a far better bet, generally speaking, than those in the center.  This is the neighborhood, though, where I’ve lived the longest, where I would typically do my shopping, dining, and binge-drinking, so I may be biased.

Either way, I want to share a few words on dining in Florence: For breakfast, keep it simple: a cappuccino and a cornetto (or croissant) at the bar will do; note that many places in the center will charge you to sit down.  And strangely, some Italians think you’ll explode if you drink frothy milk after lunch.  Whatever. Drink any coffee you like, just don’t spend more than a euro fifty on it.

For the big meals, remember that for all the city’s wealth, the common Florentine was extremely poor, and the notable dishes reflect this: other than the cheap cuts of cow guts, the classic peasant food was soup made from stale bread, which you’ll see sold at the market in the form of ribollita or pappa al pomodoro.  I like to think of these as deconstructed precursors for pasta; though there is some evidence that the prehistoric Etruscans did eat a sort of noodle-crepe hybrid, what we consider pasta is relatively modern, likely coming from Arabic countries up through Sicily.  Just as it sounds, ribollita means reboiled, produced from leftover vegetable soup; pappa is effectively tomato gruel, and both are better to order in a cheap trattoria or osteria than in an expensive ristorante.

For dinner, remember: you don’t have to get an antipasto, primo, and secondo, but you do need to eat your salad last.  Florentines proudly take their bread salt-free, owing to an ancient grudge with Pisa, though the schiacciata, which they’ll note is not at all like focaccia, is drenched in sea salt.

In some other universe there’s a light, elegant version of Tuscan cuisine, defined by fresh vegetables and good olive oil, but I’ll take it heavy and crude, thanks. You could lead off with crostini smothered in chicken liver, or a platter of cold cuts called tagliere.   Then, for your primo, go for the pici with cinta senese (dense noodles with boar from Siena), or something with local porcini mushrooms.  For the secondo, some kind of cheap meat stewed slowly will do -- spezzatino, peposo (with wine and pepper), or francesina (with onion), or, if you’re splurging, the bistecca we discuss at Piazza San Lorenzo.  To rinse the fat from your gullet once you’ve drunk all the Chianti Classico, nothing better than a late night caffè; the northerners might get a grappa, others an amaro, or some combination therein.  Regionally, you’re looking at a fortified wine called vin santo with a couple biscotti, which they call cantuccini.   

For now, though, give a wander around the market and see what you can get di stagione as you ponder that most difficult of decisions: where will I eat tonight?

Mercato_di_sant'ambrogio,_ortofrutta_01.JPG

Sant'Ambrogio Market

MercatoSantAmbrogio.mp3

You’re fortunate to find yourself on this spot, and with your head intact, no less.  The “Poggi Ramps” up which you’re walking stood in ruin for the better part of a century.  The fountains were restored only in 2018, costing 27,000 man hours and 2.5 million euro.  Giuseppe Poggi first built the Ramps in 1873, just after Florence’s reign as capital of Italy came to an end, and they afford us a direct path up what was known by the Romans as Mons Florentinus (Mount Florentine), a journey much easier for us than it was for a man named Miniato.  

But first, a few words on the name of this place.  Dating back to the 2nd century, the Romans called this city Florentia, derived from the Latin florere, meaning “to flower” or “flourish”.  This word is “fiorire” in Italian, and “Firenze” is only documented in use from the 13th century onward, but even during the Renaissance Florenzia returned to favor, so should an Italian mock you for saying “Florence” instead of “Firenze”, you can tell them to stuff it.  

Anyway, the walk you’re on is a sacred one.  In the early days of Christianity, St. Minias, or San Miniato, an Armenian serving in the Roman army became the first Christian martyr of the city.  The story goes that when he refused to pray to the Roman gods, he was burned, stoned, and thrown to wild animals, but nothing seemed to harm the guy.  

Finally, in 250 AD, he was brought before Emperor Decius’s encampment by the river and decapitated.  Minias then calmly scooped up his head, said thank you very much, and made a headless pilgrimage up to where you’re, uh, headed, while Decius was killed by the Goths the next year.  

Should you make it all the way to the top, note that the Church of San Miniato was founded in 1018; it holds the remains of Carlo Collodi, the author of Pinocchio, amongst many others.  It’s also featured in the opening credits of the Brian de Palma film Obsession, if that’s your thing.

1 Piazza Giuseppe Poggi \|||// You’re fortunate to find yourself on this spot, and with your head intact, no less.  The “Poggi Ramps” up which you’re walking stood in ruin for the better part of a century.  The fountains were restored only in 2018, costing 27,000 man hours and 2.5 million euro.  Giuseppe Poggi first built the Ramps in 1873, just after Florence’s reign as capital of Italy came to an end, and they afford us a direct path up what was known by the Romans as Mons Florentinus (Mount Florentine), a journey much easier for us than it was for a man named Miniato.  

But first, a few words on the name of this place.  Dating back to the 2nd century, the Romans called this city Florentia, derived from the Latin florere, meaning “to flower” or “flourish”.  This word is “fiorire” in Italian, and “Firenze” is only documented in use from the 13th century onward, but even during the Renaissance Florenzia returned to favor, so should an Italian mock you for saying “Florence” instead of “Firenze”, you can tell them to stuff it.  

Anyway, the walk you’re on is a sacred one.  In the early days of Christianity, St. Minias, or San Miniato, an Armenian serving in the Roman army became the first Christian martyr of the city.  The story goes that when he refused to pray to the Roman gods, he was burned, stoned, and thrown to wild animals, but nothing seemed to harm the guy.  

Finally, in 250 AD, he was brought before Emperor Decius’s encampment by the river and decapitated.  Minias then calmly scooped up his head, said thank you very much, and made a headless pilgrimage up to where you’re, uh, headed, while Decius was killed by the Goths the next year.  

Should you make it all the way to the top, note that the Church of San Miniato was founded in 1018; it holds the remains of Carlo Collodi, the author of Pinocchio, amongst many others.  It’s also featured in the opening credits of the Brian de Palma film Obsession, if that’s your thing.

PoggiRamps (att req).jpg

San Miniato and the Poggi Ramps

MiniatoFinalScored.mp3

Pulling up to Santa Croce, you may be awestruck by how the light plays with the lurking, gothic cathedral: it is literally awesome.  It’s in this piazza where a truly fierce sort of ancestral soccer began in the 1500s, died out in the 1600s, and was revived in 1930 as an expression of Fascist nationalism, ever rooted in the past glories.  Each June, they fill the piazza with sand, and amateur teams divided by the city’s four main neighborhoods literally risk their lives for the honor of winning a prized Chianina cow (though today the victors simply get a free dinner). 
   
For all the blood spilled in the piazza by living beings, the church is most famous for being the resting place of approximately every important Italian skeleton in history, such as Machiavelli, Galileo, and Michelangelo.

It’s also notable for who isn’t buried here.  At the pinnacle of the church, you’ll notice a curiosity: a sea-blue Star of David.  While its significance is debated, as the six-pointed star has been utilized historically in the Catholic church, I’ll note that the designer of the facade, completed only in the 19th century, was Niccolò Matas, a Jew.  I find this more than a little curious. For religious reasons, Matas was denied a proper burial within the church, and yet the architect is at least interred in the garden outside.  This half-honor, however, is denied to Florence’s -- and arguably Italy’s -- most illustrious figure of all.  For more, head toward the church, to that huge figure you see on the left. 

4 Via Giovanni Da Verrazzano \|||// Pulling up to Santa Croce, you may be awestruck by how the light plays with the lurking, gothic cathedral: it is literally awesome.  It’s in this piazza where a truly fierce sort of ancestral soccer began in the 1500s, died out in the 1600s, and was revived in 1930 as an expression of Fascist nationalism, ever rooted in the past glories.  Each June, they fill the piazza with sand, and amateur teams divided by the city’s four main neighborhoods literally risk their lives for the honor of winning a prized Chianina cow (though today the victors simply get a free dinner). 
   
For all the blood spilled in the piazza by living beings, the church is most famous for being the resting place of approximately every important Italian skeleton in history, such as Machiavelli, Galileo, and Michelangelo.

It’s also notable for who isn’t buried here.  At the pinnacle of the church, you’ll notice a curiosity: a sea-blue Star of David.  While its significance is debated, as the six-pointed star has been utilized historically in the Catholic church, I’ll note that the designer of the facade, completed only in the 19th century, was Niccolò Matas, a Jew.  I find this more than a little curious. For religious reasons, Matas was denied a proper burial within the church, and yet the architect is at least interred in the garden outside.  This half-honor, however, is denied to Florence’s -- and arguably Italy’s -- most illustrious figure of all.  For more, head toward the church, to that huge figure you see on the left.

12SantaCroce.jpg

Piazza di Santa Croce

12 SantaCroceScored.mp3

That scowling spectre looming over you stands in memory of Dante Alighieri, whose legacy as a poet simply can’t be overstated.  Surrounded by four marzocchi and a Roman eagle, the statue was completed in 1865 on the author’s 600th birthday by a sculptor from Ravenna, which is a bit rich, given Dante’s complicated relationship both cities: born a proud Florentine, he was visiting the Pope in Rome in 1302 when his assets were seized and he was permanently exiled from his beloved city due to his political allegiances. Had he tried to return home, we would have been executed, and even with the easing of his sentence he was still far too proud to return to anything but an honorable welcome, and so he floated around from town to town.  Given how ardently political he was, I have to speculate wildly and irresponsibly if, had he stayed in Florence, he’d have focused more of his energy on politics than on writing.  In exile, however, with no one to govern but himself, he managed to execute his Divine Comedy, an unparalleled work of epic verse that took him some twelve years to complete, which he did, in Ravenna, only a year before his death in 1321.  

Now, despite the statue, and a monumental tomb inside the church, Dante, alive or dead, has yet to return to his city since 1302.  Indeed, the site of his remains remain quite controversial: in the 1500s, it was decided that they would be restored to Florence, but when it came time for the move, the sarcophagus was empty, and up through WWII, his bones were hidden and restored and rediscovered time and time again.  Finally, in May of 2021, Florence held a “re-trial” and officially cleared Dante of his crimes, ensuring that, were he to come back to life some 700 years after his death, though, the city who banned him would roll out the red carpet.  

12 Piazza di Santa Croce \|||// That scowling spectre looming over you stands in memory of Dante Alighieri, whose legacy as a poet simply can’t be overstated.  Surrounded by four marzocchi and a Roman eagle, the statue was completed in 1865 on the author’s 600th birthday by a sculptor from Ravenna, which is a bit rich, given Dante’s complicated relationship both cities: born a proud Florentine, he was visiting the Pope in Rome in 1302 when his assets were seized and he was permanently exiled from his beloved city due to his political allegiances. Had he tried to return home, we would have been executed, and even with the easing of his sentence he was still far too proud to return to anything but an honorable welcome, and so he floated around from town to town.  Given how ardently political he was, I have to speculate wildly and irresponsibly if, had he stayed in Florence, he’d have focused more of his energy on politics than on writing.  In exile, however, with no one to govern but himself, he managed to execute his Divine Comedy, an unparalleled work of epic verse that took him some twelve years to complete, which he did, in Ravenna, only a year before his death in 1321.  

Now, despite the statue, and a monumental tomb inside the church, Dante, alive or dead, has yet to return to his city since 1302.  Indeed, the site of his remains remain quite controversial: in the 1500s, it was decided that they would be restored to Florence, but when it came time for the move, the sarcophagus was empty, and up through WWII, his bones were hidden and restored and rediscovered time and time again.  Finally, in May of 2021, Florence held a “re-trial” and officially cleared Dante of his crimes, ensuring that, were he to come back to life some 700 years after his death, though, the city who banned him would roll out the red carpet.

13Dante.jpg

The Hollow Statue of Dante Alighieri

DanteCroce1Scored.mp3

Gelato is arguably Italy’s greatest contribution to the world, and you’re standing at the oldest gelateria in the city of its birth.  Though sorbet purportedly originated in Ancient Persia, and Egyptian Pharaohs would serve guests silver chalices filled with snow and fruit juice, these frozen desserts fell out of favor, only to be re-invented by a Florentine chicken seller named Ruggeri in the 16th century; around this time, Bernardo Buontalenti, a famous architect and all-around “Renaissance man”, made strides in ice preservation technology and introduced cream and eggs to the recipe, leaving us with a true precursor to gelato.

To your left, you’ll notice that the city block is slightly curved: you’re standing at the former site of a 2nd century Roman Amphitheater, on whose foundation those buildings were directly built.

Directly before you is the Palazzo Lottini, a building dating to around the late 15th century.   The plaque above reads as follows: “It was here in this humble room where the obscure sculptor Giovanni Dupré, with the indomitable strength of will, overcoming the adversities of poverty and sustained through minimal assistance, was able to execute in clay his first masterpiece, “The Dying Abel”, revealing himself already to be worthy of a reputation that will endure as long as the world lasts.”  Other than the extremely dramatic phrasing, here, the last part of this citation is rather interesting. They seem to be citing Dante who, in the Second Canto of Inferno, addresses Virgil in almost identical terms.  Did Dupré enjoy the lasting reputation of a Virgil, as this plaque seems to promise?  Sorry, Giovanni.
As for the ice cream, Vivoli was first opened in 1929 as a dairy in the nearby town of Pelago.  Light on business, Serafino Vivoli moved his shop to the big city and gradually, still without the luxury of a freezer, transformed his business into the gelateria you see before you, now operated by Serafino’s grandchildren.
While I neither endorse nor disavow the product itself, I will bring your attention to the “buchetta di vino”, that little window through which you can buy your gelato, if you are so inclined. 

 This tradition was started in 1559 by Cosimo I, Grand Duke of Tuscany, as a way to cut out the middleman and allow winemakers to sell directly to the customer, which in turn stripped some power away from the Arte dei Vinattieri, or wine-making guild.  It also helped limit face-to-face contact between seller and customer which proved quite useful during the epidemic of 1629, and again, unfortunately, during COVID-19.

7r Via Isola delle Stinche \|||// Gelato is arguably Italy’s greatest contribution to the world, and you’re standing at the oldest gelateria in the city of its birth.  Though sorbet purportedly originated in Ancient Persia, and Egyptian Pharaohs would serve guests silver chalices filled with snow and fruit juice, these frozen desserts fell out of favor, only to be re-invented by a Florentine chicken seller named Ruggeri in the 16th century; around this time, Bernardo Buontalenti, a famous architect and all-around “Renaissance man”, made strides in ice preservation technology and introduced cream and eggs to the recipe, leaving us with a true precursor to gelato.

To your left, you’ll notice that the city block is slightly curved: you’re standing at the former site of a 2nd century Roman Amphitheater, on whose foundation those buildings were directly built.

Directly before you is the Palazzo Lottini, a building dating to around the late 15th century.   The plaque above reads as follows: “It was here in this humble room where the obscure sculptor Giovanni Dupré, with the indomitable strength of will, overcoming the adversities of poverty and sustained through minimal assistance, was able to execute in clay his first masterpiece, “The Dying Abel”, revealing himself already to be worthy of a reputation that will endure as long as the world lasts.”  Other than the extremely dramatic phrasing, here, the last part of this citation is rather interesting. They seem to be citing Dante who, in the Second Canto of Inferno, addresses Virgil in almost identical terms.  Did Dupré enjoy the lasting reputation of a Virgil, as this plaque seems to promise?  Sorry, Giovanni.
As for the ice cream, Vivoli was first opened in 1929 as a dairy in the nearby town of Pelago.  Light on business, Serafino Vivoli moved his shop to the big city and gradually, still without the luxury of a freezer, transformed his business into the gelateria you see before you, now operated by Serafino’s grandchildren.
While I neither endorse nor disavow the product itself, I will bring your attention to the “buchetta di vino”, that little window through which you can buy your gelato, if you are so inclined. 

 This tradition was started in 1559 by Cosimo I, Grand Duke of Tuscany, as a way to cut out the middleman and allow winemakers to sell directly to the customer, which in turn stripped some power away from the Arte dei Vinattieri, or wine-making guild.  It also helped limit face-to-face contact between seller and customer which proved quite useful during the epidemic of 1629, and again, unfortunately, during COVID-19.

vivoli.jpg

Vivoli and the Invention of Gelato

Vivoli_TR_SFX_07-06-2021_LEVEL_FIX.mp3

From this spot, one of the most chaotic in the city, we can look up at the Duomo, at the site where Michelangelo’s David was originally meant to be installed upon the statue’s completion in 1504.  

We’ll travel back just over two hundred years prior to that and imagine this, the Piazza delle Pallottole, or the Square of the Bullets, when it was still a grassy field where folks would come to play pallottole, a sort of predecessor to bocce ball.  Yet this site represents something more noble than bocce: memory.  

In the Medieval age, memory was synonymous with wisdom, a gateway, to quote Thomas Aquinas, to the “sensitive part of the soul.” To effectively compose one’s memories in written form was to transcend to a more spiritual realm, which was the medieval writer’s highest aspiration.  The legend of Dante Alighieri speaks directly to these virtues. 

It is said that prior to his exile in 1300, Dante Alighieri would sit on that rock right there to watch as the cathedral was being built before him while pondering the universe.  One day, as he was deep in thought, some troll approached him and shouted, “yo, Dante, what’s your favorite food?”  

Dante, a man of modest taste, responded, “I like a nice egg.”  

Around a year later, the same fool saw Dante sitting, once again, on this boulder.  Thinking he’d stump the most influential author in the history of language, the guy yelled, “how do you like it prepared?”  

Dante, demonstrating his great capacity for recollection, replied: “with salt.”  

From the time of the Grand Tour and beyond, authors such as William Wordsworth and Elizabeth Barrett Browning viewed this as a sort of literary mecca, traveling far and wide to pay their respects to a stone that stands as testament to one man’s memory.  Yet Dante himself, a deeply spiritual man, acknowledges in his Commedia that memory and intellect alone is not enough to reach heaven; in following his Beatrice into Paradise, he notes that this is one place where “memory cannot follow,” and even a writer as good as he is unable to recount what he sees there.  

Well, whether he likes it or not, between that stone, that church, and an egg: this is the legacy of Dante’s genius.

1 Piazza delle Pallottole \|||// From this spot, one of the most chaotic in the city, we can look up at the Duomo, at the site where Michelangelo’s David was originally meant to be installed upon the statue’s completion in 1504.  

We’ll travel back just over two hundred years prior to that and imagine this, the Piazza delle Pallottole, or the Square of the Bullets, when it was still a grassy field where folks would come to play pallottole, a sort of predecessor to bocce ball.  Yet this site represents something more noble than bocce: memory.  

In the Medieval age, memory was synonymous with wisdom, a gateway, to quote Thomas Aquinas, to the “sensitive part of the soul.” To effectively compose one’s memories in written form was to transcend to a more spiritual realm, which was the medieval writer’s highest aspiration.  The legend of Dante Alighieri speaks directly to these virtues. 

It is said that prior to his exile in 1300, Dante Alighieri would sit on that rock right there to watch as the cathedral was being built before him while pondering the universe.  One day, as he was deep in thought, some troll approached him and shouted, “yo, Dante, what’s your favorite food?”  

Dante, a man of modest taste, responded, “I like a nice egg.”  

Around a year later, the same fool saw Dante sitting, once again, on this boulder.  Thinking he’d stump the most influential author in the history of language, the guy yelled, “how do you like it prepared?”  

Dante, demonstrating his great capacity for recollection, replied: “with salt.”  

From the time of the Grand Tour and beyond, authors such as William Wordsworth and Elizabeth Barrett Browning viewed this as a sort of literary mecca, traveling far and wide to pay their respects to a stone that stands as testament to one man’s memory.  Yet Dante himself, a deeply spiritual man, acknowledges in his Commedia that memory and intellect alone is not enough to reach heaven; in following his Beatrice into Paradise, he notes that this is one place where “memory cannot follow,” and even a writer as good as he is unable to recount what he sees there.  

Well, whether he likes it or not, between that stone, that church, and an egg: this is the legacy of Dante’s genius.

DanteRock (att req).jpg

Dante's Rock and the Meaning of Memory

DanteRock_TR_SFX_07-06-2021.mp3

Above and encompassing the radiant ceramics shop before you is a palace that shares its name: the Palazzo Ginori.  Achieving nobility in the late-1400s, the Ginori Family, represented by a blue shield crossed by a gold band with three diagonal stars, have long been amongst the most powerful in Florence.  Thanks to this wealth and perhaps a bit of ingenuity, the Ginori have sustained their fortune for many centuries, and founded Italy’s most important porcelain company in Florence back in 1735.  Hence the “1735” in Ginori 1735.  Feel free to check out their $400 gravy boats as I blather on.  

We’re here, though, for a certain HR decision they made not long after the shop opened, hiring Angiolina and Domenico Lorenzini to work in their kitchen.  The Lorenzinis would produce ten children, one of whom, a skilled businessman, would lead operations at the family factory just outside of town.  The other, a mere author, would go on to write perhaps the most widely-read book in Italian history not named the Bible.

Translated into some 250 languages and printed around 80 million times, Le avventure di Pinocchio needs no introduction from me, other than to note that that little wooden burratino was born here, in Florence.  Carlo Lorenzini -- whose pen name was Collodi, after the small Tuscan hometown of his mother -- spent his formative years in this, one of the Ginori’s two main palaces, not a kilometer from his own birthplace.

Pinocchio was first published at a crossroads of Italian past and future, a mere twenty years after Italy was declared a country and five before the first Italian law was passed to rein in child labor.  Considerably more violent and wry than the Disney version on which you and I were likely reared, Collodi’s novel suggests a far more nuanced relationship with truth as virtue and the very concept of what it meant to be a “real boy” during this challenging post-war period of Italy’s founding.  Collodi seems to cast the puppet’s journey as a metaphor for that of a populace coerced into unification and modernization, urging the puppet away from natural law and impulse, instead toward industriousness and autonomy.  It’s no coincidence that just prior to and following Disney’s 1940 film, four Fascist interpretations of the tale were published; to this day, the work remains as controversial to academics as it is popular with kiddies.

Those shopping for a Florentine souvenir will have no lack of choices when it comes to pottery, and no doubt the Ginori deserve some credit for the reputation Tuscany enjoys in this realm.  But I’d wager that on the streets of Florence, you’ll see even more of those unmistakable little marionettes with the long nose, a reminder that Ginori’s real legacy just may be more in wood than ceramic.

17 Via dei Rondinelli \|||// Above and encompassing the radiant ceramics shop before you is a palace that shares its name: the Palazzo Ginori.  Achieving nobility in the late-1400s, the Ginori Family, represented by a blue shield crossed by a gold band with three diagonal stars, have long been amongst the most powerful in Florence.  Thanks to this wealth and perhaps a bit of ingenuity, the Ginori have sustained their fortune for many centuries, and founded Italy’s most important porcelain company in Florence back in 1735.  Hence the “1735” in Ginori 1735.  Feel free to check out their $400 gravy boats as I blather on.  

We’re here, though, for a certain HR decision they made not long after the shop opened, hiring Angiolina and Domenico Lorenzini to work in their kitchen.  The Lorenzinis would produce ten children, one of whom, a skilled businessman, would lead operations at the family factory just outside of town.  The other, a mere author, would go on to write perhaps the most widely-read book in Italian history not named the Bible.

Translated into some 250 languages and printed around 80 million times, Le avventure di Pinocchio needs no introduction from me, other than to note that that little wooden burratino was born here, in Florence.  Carlo Lorenzini -- whose pen name was Collodi, after the small Tuscan hometown of his mother -- spent his formative years in this, one of the Ginori’s two main palaces, not a kilometer from his own birthplace.

Pinocchio was first published at a crossroads of Italian past and future, a mere twenty years after Italy was declared a country and five before the first Italian law was passed to rein in child labor.  Considerably more violent and wry than the Disney version on which you and I were likely reared, Collodi’s novel suggests a far more nuanced relationship with truth as virtue and the very concept of what it meant to be a “real boy” during this challenging post-war period of Italy’s founding.  Collodi seems to cast the puppet’s journey as a metaphor for that of a populace coerced into unification and modernization, urging the puppet away from natural law and impulse, instead toward industriousness and autonomy.  It’s no coincidence that just prior to and following Disney’s 1940 film, four Fascist interpretations of the tale were published; to this day, the work remains as controversial to academics as it is popular with kiddies.

Those shopping for a Florentine souvenir will have no lack of choices when it comes to pottery, and no doubt the Ginori deserve some credit for the reputation Tuscany enjoys in this realm.  But I’d wager that on the streets of Florence, you’ll see even more of those unmistakable little marionettes with the long nose, a reminder that Ginori’s real legacy just may be more in wood than ceramic.

Palazzo_ginori_(via_dei_Rondinelli).JPG

Pinocchio & Porcelain

GinoriPinocchioScored.mp3

Here in Piazza San Lorenzo, you’re likely feeling kinda uncomfortable, surrounded as you are by crowds, car and bike traffic, and, as far as Italian 'piazze' go, a relative lack of color and charm.  Obviously it’s not my favorite place in town, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t important.  In the aftermath of the Black Death, Florence was a self-governed powerhouse: one of the wealthiest cities on earth, it was also one of its true centers of artistic expression.  The fundamental concept of the artist, in fact, evolved from the competent craftsman of the Medieval Age into the well-rounded, intellectual master of self of what would be called the Renaissance.  Today’s concept of the artistic genius, such as Michelangelo or Leonardo, simply hadn’t existed previously.  Though I hate to admit it, much of the development of this self-made “Renaissance” man was only made possible thanks to wealthy benefactors, and, at least in the 15th century, none were wealthier than the Medici.  

We stand on their territory now.

The Medici built the San Lorenzo Cathedral on the site of a church dating to 393 AD,  largely to house their dead, and indeed it’s full of ‘em. From Giovanni di Bicci, the founder of the Medici empire, to Giovanni delle Bande Nere, the known rapist commemorated in the statue next to you, the women and men contained herein spared no expense in cementing their legacy.  Though they did have some help.
From the library in the niche up on your left, and even in the so-called New Sacristy behind the dome in front of you, which I hope you’ll explore later, the Medici hired Michelangelo to leave his mark on this place, and he ran with the opportunity.  Most famous is the staircase inside the library, a cascading, asymmetrical masterpiece which subverted the strict proportions of the High Renaissance, effectively inventing the movement of Mannerism in the process.  Moreover, at a time when only the wealthiest could own a book, the 11,000-odd volumes beyond that staircase were as much a show of wealth as was the massive Medici Palace directly behind you, which you’ll spot by the tooth-like battlements on the roof.

My main interest in this site, though, relates to a good ol’ food myth.  If you know your saints -- and I don’t -- you’ll know that Saint Lawrence (San Lorenzo in Italian) is said to have been executed over hot coals.  

Appropriately, the Medici threw a Feast for San Lorenzo every August 10th where they would roast entire cows in this piazza and distribute beef for all.  The legend goes that, given its status as a crossroads for the world, they had some British Knights -- the soldiers, not the shoes -- in their midst.  Unlike most Florentines, the Brits were accustomed to red meat, and reportedly shouted beef steaaaaak! like lunatics, lending the word bistecca to the Florentine dialect.  

22r Piazza di San Lorenzo \|||// Here in Piazza San Lorenzo, you’re likely feeling kinda uncomfortable, surrounded as you are by crowds, car and bike traffic, and, as far as Italian 'piazze' go, a relative lack of color and charm.  Obviously it’s not my favorite place in town, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t important.  In the aftermath of the Black Death, Florence was a self-governed powerhouse: one of the wealthiest cities on earth, it was also one of its true centers of artistic expression.  The fundamental concept of the artist, in fact, evolved from the competent craftsman of the Medieval Age into the well-rounded, intellectual master of self of what would be called the Renaissance.  Today’s concept of the artistic genius, such as Michelangelo or Leonardo, simply hadn’t existed previously.  Though I hate to admit it, much of the development of this self-made “Renaissance” man was only made possible thanks to wealthy benefactors, and, at least in the 15th century, none were wealthier than the Medici.  

We stand on their territory now.

The Medici built the San Lorenzo Cathedral on the site of a church dating to 393 AD,  largely to house their dead, and indeed it’s full of ‘em. From Giovanni di Bicci, the founder of the Medici empire, to Giovanni delle Bande Nere, the known rapist commemorated in the statue next to you, the women and men contained herein spared no expense in cementing their legacy.  Though they did have some help.
From the library in the niche up on your left, and even in the so-called New Sacristy behind the dome in front of you, which I hope you’ll explore later, the Medici hired Michelangelo to leave his mark on this place, and he ran with the opportunity.  Most famous is the staircase inside the library, a cascading, asymmetrical masterpiece which subverted the strict proportions of the High Renaissance, effectively inventing the movement of Mannerism in the process.  Moreover, at a time when only the wealthiest could own a book, the 11,000-odd volumes beyond that staircase were as much a show of wealth as was the massive Medici Palace directly behind you, which you’ll spot by the tooth-like battlements on the roof.

My main interest in this site, though, relates to a good ol’ food myth.  If you know your saints -- and I don’t -- you’ll know that Saint Lawrence (San Lorenzo in Italian) is said to have been executed over hot coals.  

Appropriately, the Medici threw a Feast for San Lorenzo every August 10th where they would roast entire cows in this piazza and distribute beef for all.  The legend goes that, given its status as a crossroads for the world, they had some British Knights -- the soldiers, not the shoes -- in their midst.  Unlike most Florentines, the Brits were accustomed to red meat, and reportedly shouted beef steaaaaak! like lunatics, lending the word bistecca to the Florentine dialect.

Firenze_-_Florence_-_Piazza_di_San_Lorenzo_-_View_West_on_Basilica_di_San_Lorenzo_&_Statue_of_Giovanni_delle_Bande_Nere_1544_by_Baccio_Bandinelli.jpg

The Steak of San Lorenzo

SanLorenzo1Scored.mp3

Since we’re passing by the Mercato Centrale, I thought it worthwhile to say a few words about Florentine edibles.  Not the fun kind, which remain illegal here as of this recording, but the grapes and olives and pigs and all the wonderful things they render.

To be honest, I avoid this area at all costs.  I really don’t like the leather hawkers shouting at me, and I hate the crowds, but it’s a great trial ground for those new to the country  As a naive, blonde Californian, I tend to smile at everyone who looks at me, but really, if you don’t want a wallet or keychain, it’s OK to ignore the vendors.  If you’re on the lookout, though, feel free to bargain down the asking price, or find someone who will.  It’s all a big game.

Now, let’s head into the market, which was opened in 1874, three years after the capital of Italy was transferred from here to Rome.  Downstairs, you’ll find groceries; the main thing to keep in mind is that there are 2.2 pounds in a kilo, while an etto is 100 grams.  To make your own sandwich for two, just ask for un po’ di pane and an etto of finocchiona -- Tuscan salami with fennel -- or the famous lardo di Colonnata: fragrant, melty pork fat from just up the coast. Be quick, though, as downstairs closes early.

Upstairs, you’ll find a food court.  The same developers have region-specific markets in Rome, Milan, and Turin; though it may be soulless and built for social media, you could do worse for a quick lunch than their panino con lampredotto.  

Named for its resemblance to the lamprey eel, it’s made from the cow’s fourth, last stomach, cooked slowly and served with a fresh, zippy green sauce.  I recommend it “piccante” and with a cold beer, or, if you get it at a cart elsewhere, with a cheap cup of local boxed wine.  Note that while lampredotto is all over Florence, you’re less likely to find it in other big cities; even Rome, the Italian capital of offal, thumbs their nose at the sandwich, and seems to prefer its tripe from the second stomach.  

For the stomach-squeamish, there’s still plenty of Tuscan stuff to enjoy up here.  Perhaps the noble chianina burger or a few glasses of wine, be it Brunello or Morellino.  

Whatever you do, take a stroll upstairs and down, and as you marvel at the colors, smells, and flavors, keep in mind that the quality here is what it is thanks to standards that remain more stringent than practically anywhere in the world.  European designations such as IGP and DOP guarantee that for a product to be labelled, say, Pecorino Toscano, it must pass insane requirements related to process, scale, and locale, in turn protecting both the consumer and the traditions themselves.  

There is much to learn from this, I think, and I hope that after tasting some of this stuff, you’ll start considering how we can all compel our governments to ensure similarly high quality, sustainable food systems worldwide.

Via dell'Ariento \|||// Since we’re passing by the Mercato Centrale, I thought it worthwhile to say a few words about Florentine edibles.  Not the fun kind, which remain illegal here as of this recording, but the grapes and olives and pigs and all the wonderful things they render.

To be honest, I avoid this area at all costs.  I really don’t like the leather hawkers shouting at me, and I hate the crowds, but it’s a great trial ground for those new to the country  As a naive, blonde Californian, I tend to smile at everyone who looks at me, but really, if you don’t want a wallet or keychain, it’s OK to ignore the vendors.  If you’re on the lookout, though, feel free to bargain down the asking price, or find someone who will.  It’s all a big game.

Now, let’s head into the market, which was opened in 1874, three years after the capital of Italy was transferred from here to Rome.  Downstairs, you’ll find groceries; the main thing to keep in mind is that there are 2.2 pounds in a kilo, while an etto is 100 grams.  To make your own sandwich for two, just ask for un po’ di pane and an etto of finocchiona -- Tuscan salami with fennel -- or the famous lardo di Colonnata: fragrant, melty pork fat from just up the coast. Be quick, though, as downstairs closes early.

Upstairs, you’ll find a food court.  The same developers have region-specific markets in Rome, Milan, and Turin; though it may be soulless and built for social media, you could do worse for a quick lunch than their panino con lampredotto.  

Named for its resemblance to the lamprey eel, it’s made from the cow’s fourth, last stomach, cooked slowly and served with a fresh, zippy green sauce.  I recommend it “piccante” and with a cold beer, or, if you get it at a cart elsewhere, with a cheap cup of local boxed wine.  Note that while lampredotto is all over Florence, you’re less likely to find it in other big cities; even Rome, the Italian capital of offal, thumbs their nose at the sandwich, and seems to prefer its tripe from the second stomach.  

For the stomach-squeamish, there’s still plenty of Tuscan stuff to enjoy up here.  Perhaps the noble chianina burger or a few glasses of wine, be it Brunello or Morellino.  

Whatever you do, take a stroll upstairs and down, and as you marvel at the colors, smells, and flavors, keep in mind that the quality here is what it is thanks to standards that remain more stringent than practically anywhere in the world.  European designations such as IGP and DOP guarantee that for a product to be labelled, say, Pecorino Toscano, it must pass insane requirements related to process, scale, and locale, in turn protecting both the consumer and the traditions themselves.  

There is much to learn from this, I think, and I hope that after tasting some of this stuff, you’ll start considering how we can all compel our governments to ensure similarly high quality, sustainable food systems worldwide.

Hear an Audio Sample

Reviews

Excellent

Great walk

History lovers

FLORENCE

Crossing Cultures

$11.99

About

Get the App

Stay in Touch

Join our Newsletter

Get the App

About

Stay in Touch