Wednesday night, after returning to Siena from Volterra, we sought out one of our recommended restaurants, Trattoria La Torre, just off Piazza del Campo, right under La Torre on the left side of the town hall (hence, the name). You've already seen the interior of the place, a simple vaulted hall with a beautiful brick ceiling and the kitchen just off the dining area. The exterior is just a doorway, very unassuming and easy to miss (which, in fact, we had done the night before when first looking for the place).
We walked in, asked for "un tavolo per due," and were shown to the table for two in the corner.
A Trattoria tends to be a family-run business, with all members playing some role in running the Restaurant. A son may be the cook, another son handling the bar and the cash, and the mother or daughter hosting. The woman who had shown us in was either the daughter or the mother in the family. She had an ageless quality about her; she had the young beauty of a 30-year old woman, but the calm and compassion of a woman much older. She took our drink order, each of us reaching past our language barriers, and the evening was off to a pleasant start. She brought a mezzo-litre of the Vino de Casa in a Chianti bottle with the typical old straw wrapping around it (a bottle style no longer used in the production of most Chiantis).
Then came the moment for ordering dinner. Our charming, ageless hostess was replaced by the father of the family, and clearly the owner and ruler of this establishment. The man looked a bit like Nancy's father (who I never had the privilege of meeting, as he passed away two decades ago). This man - as Nancy described to me - had the same commanding, quiet pressence, and just like Nancy's father, when he spoke, it was important and you listened and you didn't ask questions. There was no menu, nothing to mull over or point to, only this man. He started to speak in a voice both quiet and commanding: "La minestra, ravioli, lasagna, ..." the list went on. We had to decide, and this man either knew no English to help us, or felt it unnecessary for the transaction at hand. Nancy liked the sound of the ravioli, and I was thinking about the soup. We started to order, as noted, but he stopped us and either suggested La Minesrtra was a dish for two, or that it was his call that we should both get La Minestra. Either way, Nancy felt a bit scared and I was working feverishly to stay on his side of the language barrier, so we both said "si," and moved from ordering "i primi piati" to "i secondi piati." we could see many of the other tables were having a small chicken dish, which interested Nancy, and I was suddenly in the mood for some red meat. Again, he droned through the choices, "il pollo, bisteak toscana, bisteak firentine, ..." the list went on. We expressed our interests, and he told us we would both be getting the bisteak firentine. We both said "si." Somehow, he asked us how we would like the meat done. Somehow we indicated it should be done as the chef thinks best. He then picked up the edge of the red tablecloth lying under our white table cloth, pointing to it and asking, "si?" Again, we returned to scared and said "si." He then turned towards the kitchen, shouting out in a booming voice the order he had just selected for us. I had a feeling that the yelling was all just for show, as I suspected that he had decided long before we entered the Trattoria what we were to have, and it was already on the grill, which was why he was so forceful about our choices.
Well, after eating the mixed salads which had been selected for us, la minestra arrived, and it was delicious and different from anything we had eaten thus far. It was only then that it crossed my mind that a Trattoria this small and wonderful might not take credit cards, and I had already spent the cache of cash I'd gotten the day before. I leaned over and whispered my concerns to my beautiful fiancée. Her eyes got really big (a pretty good trick for a girl with such big, beautiful eyes to start with), and she asked how I could have forgotten. She conjured up pictures of us working dinner off in the kitchen. I told her I had to go find a Bancomat now, rather than wait for the end of the meal and reveal my mistake to "Nancy's father" ("Signore Torre"). I started to get up, but she stopped me. "You can't leave me here!" she said through her big eyes. "He will come ask me where you went and I won't know what to say!" Then came the threats ... "If you don't come back right away, I won't marry you." I looked at her. She was serious. I laughed. She didn't. I looked her again. She was still serious. I made my vow to return and hoped for the best; then I rose and departed, mumbling "un momento" to "Nancy's father" on the way out. He looked concerned and turned to go ask Nancy where I was going. I got as far as the door, spied the Visa sign in the corner of the doorway, turn on my heel, and made my way past "Signore Torre" before he made it to Nancy.
We relaxed, received our bisteak firentine (which was deliciously seasoned, perfectly cooked, and nicely crispy on the outside), and thoroughly enjoyed the best meal of our trip so far. Despite all the fear and loathing, I wouldn't hesitate to recommend Trattoria La Torre to anyone coming through Siena, and suggest you just let "Nancy's father" order everything for you. He does seem to know best.
Next up, Pizza in Pisa, and a very tall bell tower leaning at an alarming angle.
Ciao!
- Brent & Nancy
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