There's something quite romantic about stepping off a boat virtually straight into a train station then waiting with your cases on a sleepy, sunny platform for the train to arrive. We left Venice, and hauled through the grafitti-clad stations of Ferrara and Bologna, then through a series of tunnels carved through the hills, some of them plunging us into darkness for five minutes or more, until we finally emerged into the brightness and heat of Florence.
That warm autumn evening we left our hotel and crossed to the south side of the Arno. It was still light when we turned into the faded Piazza di Santo Spirito, but the sun was sinking quickly, warming the buildings on one side of the square and casting long dark shadows on the other. We passed a bar where workmen gathered outside in the remnants of the sun, enjoying a drink at the end of their working day. A young boy was kicking a football against the base of a statue, and a makeshift stage heralded the beginning, or it could have been the end, of some event or festival. Washing hung from the upper windows of the buildings, and voices and music and the smells of cooking wafted into the square.
At the far end of the piazza we found the Osteria Santo Spirito – an unassuming, vaguely bohemian little place. Inside, the walls of the tiny dining room were painted blood red. Outside a few tables spilled into the square on a makeshift terrace next to a newspaper stall that was closing for the evening. We took a table outside.
Within half an hour the place started to fill and by the time we had finished eating it was packed, humming. And no wonder. The food was very, very good. Sweet prosciutto wrapped around wood-smoked mozzarella, served with the wildest, pepperiest rocket I've ever tasted; a superb risotto with pesto and prawns; wonderfully fresh sea bass and, later, a beautifully presented chocolate cake. All was served on enormous, old, colourfully hand-painted and severely chipped plates.
A special bonus was that amongst the waitresses, in faded jeans and Santo Spirito tee shirts, one looked uncannily, exactly like a young Sofia Loren – almond eyes, high cheek bones, coquettish smile... this place had a lot going for it. I decided we might eat here again the next evening.
We did and, whilst it was still good, somehow the edge, the magic wasn't there. If you've had a great meal, don't eat in the same place again the next day is the lesson I suppose. Worst of all, Sofia wasn't there. Gone to join the film industry, no doubt.
Osteria Santo Spirito, Piazza di Santo Spirito, 16, 50125 Firenze
Tel 055 2382383
(Last time I checked, the restaurant's website was still under construction, but location details are up there. Just checked again to find it's one of those annoying hosting pages. It might have changed by the time you try it.)
1 comment:
nice post
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