Down one of the bricked vicoli of Siena, where heads are covered by a cooling arch, sits an unassuming osteria cradled within the stone walls.
The ceiling is less than 2 metres high – built for the Tuscans of another era, the kitchen is probably the size of a closet and they don’t have a menu, but a young girl with a warm face will recite the day’s pickings.
At this point you will end up with the choice of four options: two different types of pasta, a traditional stew with pork ( it was too hot to be consuming a scalding broth) and a cold tagliere of cured tuscan cold cuts, cheese, salad and maybe some kind of legume or even marinated tripe if you’re really lucky.
Following a recommendation I chose the tagliere. It was the idea of the unknown plate, filled with available produce, in season and made fresh for today’s walk-ins that pulled at some kind of culinary intrigue in me. By removing the control and context of food, you are forced to try and find out. Here emerges the space for revelations and epiphanies, and without it I would have never found a taste for patê.
Under the portico, I was placed at a table with a man who would have been in his late fifties. Directly opposite each other, we exchanged a greeting and he continued his meal. His plate was covered with four halved slices of bread, spread generously with patê and an assortment of prosciutto crudo and salumi. All of this was accompanied by a cold beer. Initially, this was a slight concern as I was yet to know the eventual state of my tagliere, and as a (lapsed) vegetarian, I wasn’t too sure I could stomach that amount of meat. Thankfully, when it arrived, my plate was adorned with panzanella, plump sundried tomatoes and olive oil-glistening eggplant that cut through the sinew of the accompanying cured meat.
"It was the idea of the unknown plate, filled with available produce, in season and made fresh for today’s walk-ins that pulled at some kind of culinary intrigue in me"
Despite my initial hesitations of sharing a table with a stranger – the act of enjoying a meal with others reveals a level of intimacy – I soon softened in my chair, enjoying the delight the man took in his meal. This communal form of eating that many Anglo-influenced countries now neglect, reminded me of a French institution: the Bouillon. Conceptualised following the French Revolution, the Bouillon democratised the way in which we enjoy food, making dining out accessible and affordable to all. Much like myself and my dining companion in Siena, you would be thrown on a table, shared with fellow diners and served whatever the kitchen was preparing that day. The meals' simplicity would never constitute a lack of quality, rather it is this informality of the dining experience that places a greater emphasis on the food itself. Time and care is placed into sourcing the best produce and preparing these ingredients in a way that truly does them justice, rather than fussing over the choice of the table settings and light fixtures. Needless to say, my plate was collected clean, even the residue of oil had been soaked up with a final scarpetta. The sun dried tomatoes were probably the best I have ever had in my life. They weren’t tough and slightly dry like the ones you pick out of jars from a supermarket, but you could draw your knife right through them, still juice beneath their skin, not yet burnt by the sun.
Two days in a row that same man came for lunch, 12 on the dot. Just as the paint-peeling doors were opening and the tables set with paper placemats. He worked at Feltrinelli, the bookshop around the corner – lunch break I assumed.
Today he chose a different beer, Ichnusa instead of Moretti.
I prefer Ichnusa anyway.