Nobody in Tuscany eats at seven. I learned this late, and I learned it the way you learn most things here, by being too early, then too hungry, then finally, after a summer, at eight-thirty with everyone else.
The hour has a quality that is not about the clock. It is about the light. By eight-thirty in July, the sun has gone behind the ridge but the sky is still holding. The stones of the house have given back their heat. The wine at the table is neither warm nor cold, it is the temperature of the evening itself.
What is on the table
It is less than you would think.
- Bread, torn, not sliced.
- A plate of tomatoes with good salt.
- A bowl of something that was cooked slowly, earlier.
- A bottle already half-finished from the aperitivo.
- Another bottle, just opened, waiting.
