ALL TRATTORIA’S ARE NOT CREATED EQUAL

All Trattoria’s are not created equal– even in the delicious city of Florence.

We were working all day, my husband painting (he’s an artist) and me attempting to navigate blogs and a new website. We thought we’d stay home for dinner, but by 6pm, we decided we needed to get out. Besides, the heat is not turned on yet (country law) and we were too cold to stay home. So we went for a walk, over by San Lorenzo market but the bar we usually go to was open-windowed and too cold for an aperitivo so we went elsewhere. But where to dine? We would try something totally new—an adventure. There is a place I often walk by named Marino, at # 8 via della Oche, near the Paperback Book Exchange. I have peeked inside and it looked to be small, cozy and charming. The food has to be good—it’s Florence!

It was still early –7:45 when we entered the trattoria with about 12 tables. There were three men having dinner, the owner, and the cook and the waiter. We asked the waiter his name; Leonardo, showed us to a table. No other customers were present nor did any materialize, the entire time we were there—and for good reason. We waited and waited and Leonardo stood in close proximity to the kitchen area watching TV.  Two children of the kitchen worker came in. One a sulky female teen who sat on some steps that lead to what appeared to be living quarters upstairs and a boy of about 8 or 9 years who circled around the tiny restaurant with his hand-held video game– yelping as he lept periodically from the kitchen swinging door.  “So, how did you hear about this place?” my husband asked.

 I wanted to leave –cut my losses–but finally Leonardo reappeared. I asked could we have some water and bread and we wanted to order wine. He could not take his eyes off the TV. I should have known when I asked what was the pasta of the day and what was fresh, he said he didn’t know. He also didn’t care. We sat. Fifteen minutes passed and some bread and water arrived. My husband ordered lasagna. I ordered Milanese. Leonardo said, it was pollo (chicken), not veal. Fine; it was 11 Euros. Half an hour passed and the food was delivered. The “Milanese” was half of a dark pressed and breaded obviously frozen– mystery meat– accompanied by 3 roasted potatoes. Not one time in the next 20 minutes did Leonardo come over to his only customers and ask how we were or how the food was. He stood 20 feet away watching TV, leaning
on the wall. This was without a doubt the worst food and the worst service ever in 12 years of coming to this wonderful city. All trattorias are not created equal—even in Firenze.

I was hungry as we walked home. My husband asked if I wanted to pick up a pizza or go someplace else. I did not.  I preferred to sulk.  But we were walking through the alley, Volta Di San Piero and passed Antico NOE’.  Massimo, the owner, came out to say hello. We asked for a table but of course they were totally booked for Friday night. He told me he would give me some ravioli with Ragu sauce “porta via.” So he did and we came home, bundled up and devoured the delicious ravioli, washed down with a delightful Villa Antinori Tuscan red.