Firenze: Gelato Frenzy

Good morning, rain. We have only one day left in Firenze, and we seen a lot, but we have a few things we still want to see, and then there's shopping to do, by gum!

I had sort of half given up on the Brancacci Chapel since we hadn't called ahead to make the "mandatory reservation" (See my earlier post for opinions on "museum reservation systems"), but then another guest at our hotel said that they had just walked into the Church of the Carmine without one the other day. Hmmm... maybe it is off-season after all...

So we hotfoot it over to the Oltrarno, dodging puddles as we go...

After braving the (I think) unseasonably large crowds at the Uffizi and the Accademia, I'm quite surprised to see so few people at the Brancacci Chapel. We have absolutely no problem getting in, and there's even a video introduction in three languages on offer.

The video, while slightly cheesy, is actually kind of informative. In fact I might go so far as to say that I'd recommend it as a first stop and intro to the Florentine Renaissance history for anyone who's never been to Florence before. It flies through reconstructed streets past familiar landmarks and introduces the characters who made Florence a capital of art and learning.

It was also here that I realized I was in the presence of the patron Saint of Technology.

"How the freaking ... does this thing..." I mutter as I try to figure out which side of the headphones belongs on the right ear.

In the mean time, my Omnivore has donned his translator headphones, flipped a couple of buttons, found the English-language channel and is idly tuning it and adjusting the volume.

"I can't hear anything," I fuss, still messing with the wires.

The Patron Saint of Tech smiles beneficently, tunes my unit and tells me to be patient, "We won't hear anything until they start the DVD."

After the video, we head up to the chapel itself, which is magnificent. I'm terribly excited for my first viewing of the famous Masaccios. The last few times I've been in Florence the chapel was inaccessible-- filled top to bottom with scaffolding for literally years--but now it's clean and restored and what's revealed is incredibly beautiful.

What I'm most amazed by is the rich panoply of textiles parading through the streets of Florence -- the russet silk that St. Peter wears, the heavy golds, the elaborate patterning, these are the same fabrics we saw in the Setificio that we visited the day before.

The day is starting to clear a bit and we head back along the river, which now looks as placid as glass.





In fact one young couple is taking advantage of the view to perch on what might be the most imaginative, if somewhat dizzying picnic location in the city.

We don't get a lot of news since there's no TV in the room, and so we've been blissfully ignorant of the strike planned in Italy.

Until we passed the Uffizi and noticed that there were no lines.

No lines?

We ventured closer to the sign, which announced that due to the strikes, the museum was closed. I felt for all those people clutching their small shreds of paper with reservation numbers on them.

We moved on to Santa Croce, one of the loveliest churches in the city.

I'm always a little irritated that tickets are sold to enter a working church. I understand that they need to raise money, especially for all the restoration work going on, but I also can't help envisioning Christ coming down with a whip to cast out the moneychangers.

Of course there's renovation work going on inside -- in fact, the high altar looks rather like the way the Brancacci Chapel always looked when I visited in the past.

We're marvelling at the beauty of the interior architecture when suddenly a screech of metal against metal cuts through the air, shattering every conversation. A generator? the scaffold elevator? A chainsaw? Who knows. It continues intermittently as we walk through the church.

Anyway, in the afternoon, I suddenly realize that this was our last day in Florence and that we had done precious little gelato sampling. Grom was a worthy entrant, but what about the other ten places on my list?!?

After consulting our map, we decide that we can get to... well, at least two other places: Vivoli (via Isole delle Stinche 7, +39.55.292334), which comes with the tempting title of "Best Gelato in Italy"; and Vestri (Borgo Albizi 11r, 055-234-0374) known for their high quality chocolates.

First, Vivoli. We have a new theory, which so far has been borne out: If a gelateria has crap stuck in the gelato-- strawberries on top to show that it's strawberry gelato, chestnuts for chestnut gelato, peach halves for peach, pineapple for pineapple gelato (???) ... well, you get the idea-- just turn and walk away.

There are other hints. Is the gelato in covered bins, or sitting out? Are they selling flavors that are totally out of season, such as strawberry in November? Is the smell of sugar sweet enough to knock you over before you've even walked through the door? Walk away. Just walk away.

Vivoli, apparently very popular and mentioned in many guidebooks, had crap in their gelato. Aw jeez. Okay, this is all in the name of truth. We get a couple of flavors, but include our benchmark hazelnut, a flavor that was delicious at Grom and moved us to tears at Amorino.

I am saddened to report that Vivoli just didn't stack up. Not that we spit it out or anything, but frankly, the quality and consistency of the gelato we had at Vivoli could be found anyplace. Average, very average and not worth the price.

From Vivoli, we walked over to Vestri, hoping at least for good chocolate. Interestingly enough, Vestri does not offer many flavors. However, they did have chocolate and hazelnut. In covered bins. No crap lodged in it.

The hazelnut was far superior to Vivoli, and approached Amorino in texture and flavor, though it was not quite as intensely nutty. The chocolate, however, was a total winner -- rich smooth, and deeply chocolate, we adored this gelato.

Bottom line: If you're standing in front of Vivoli, just turn north and walk two blocks up Palmieri to Vestri. Much better.

On the way, you might pass one hundred million Vespas.

Firenze: Chee-chee-Cibreo

“Don’t blog this one,” my Omnivore says flatly.

But I can’t help it. This was the best food we’ve had yet in Italy, and in the top ten of best experiences eating ever. I speak of course of Cibreo. No, not THAT Cibreo. The other one. The open-secret one. The one we will return to again and again.

If you seek Typical Tuscan Cuisine, this is not the place for you. There’s no bistecca or pasta on the menu. No spaghetti Bolognese or pici with wild boar ragu. However, if you want the best food in Florence, Michelin-star quality at about a third of what you pay at the Michelin starred restaurant around the corner, Trattoria Cibreo (Via dei Macci 118/r, off Piazza Sant'Ambrogio, 011-39-055-234-1100 – you can call all you like, but the trattoria does not take reservations) is it.

A favorite refrain for my Omnivore through this trip has been that he wanted to find the “L’Ardoise of Italy.” L’Ardoise is our favorite joint in Paris--Pierre Jay’s little place tucked away on 28 rue du Mont Thabor, where he serves up a market menu of fantastic Michelin star level food in a plain table, no-frills setting for a ridiculously low, three-course, prix fixe price. (Call ahead because it’s now totally overrun with American tourists who’ve discovered the secret, 011-33-1-42-96-28-18.)

Well, after some—I am happy to admit, not exhaustive-- eating around, we believe we have found It.






This is not to be confused with the white tablecloth Ristorante Cibreo around the corner, where you can make reservations, you get a larger range of choices and probably will be greeted in English. This is the small living-room sized place (there are only about 30 seats) behind the ristorante, where there are paper placemats on rustic tables, you’ll probably end up sharing a table with strangers and you’ll get a penciled menu in Italian only. But though the number of selections will be smaller, it will be food from the same kitchen. You’ll wait in the breezeway in the door as food passes you by, and you’ll wait. And you’ll wait. But it will be worth it.

We enjoyed it so much that we went back there a second night with Ms. Five-and-a-Half and Mr. Thirteen—that’s how good it was.

The first night, not quite knowing what to expect, we sat next a pair of Japanese women who, much to my delight, took pictures of all their food. I had no need to feel self-conscious about sneaking a photo--these two were happily exchanging cameras back and forth before each bite.

I started with Passato di Zucca, which translates roughly as The Best Pumpkin Soup You Will Ever Have in All Your Years On Earth. A French-style twist on an Italian favorite—which is really what much of the menu is—the silky smoothness of the pumpkin puree veiled what must have been an infusion of nutmeg and perhaps even a hint of cardamom, Ms. Five-and-a-Half thought. It came Italian-style, with a drizzle of olive oil for added smoothness, and a stripe of cinnamon sugar – a brilliant stroke.

My Omnivore had the porcini soup—also beautifully smooth in that way that says pureed, then through a food mill, then a tamis, then a chinois. Delicately aromatic, it had a base of superb broth that didn’t overwhelm the porcinis, but gave it a heightened flavor.


This place is the sort of trattoria where everyone is craning their necks to see who has what, and my Omnivore’s dish—which Ms. Five-and-a-Half tried the next night—was the irresistibly strange vitello tonnato, or veal cutlet in tuna sauce. The veal is served cold and is very tender, but it’s the bizarrely compelling tuna sauce that is most unusual because it has tuna flavor with absolutely no fishiness. We think Ms. Five-and-a-Half hit it on the head when she surmised that it was a modified, thickened aioli made with the oil that tuna is often packed in. Finished with lemon and dotted with capers and parsley, it was by far the strangest but also most inventive dish we had there.

On my first night, I had the Stoccafisso all’Elbana, which turned out to be a stew of salt cod, not too unlike the brandades you can get in Spain. Warm and tasty, but overshadowed by the next evening’s choice, Polpettone di Vitello, which our server described as “veal meatloaf.” This ain’t your grandma’s meatloaf. Served cold, it’s a finely-minced, almost firm pate studded with pistachios and served with a tangy lemon aioli, which I might add, was a different texture from the tonnato sauce on the other veal, and played with the flavor in a totally different way.

My Omnivore had the Polpettine di Pollo on his second night, two heavenly chicken meatballs in a rich gorgeous tomato-based sauce.




Mr. Thirteen opted, for his part, for the Salsicce e Fagiole, or the upscale version of Franks and Beans, which had a lovely rosemary aroma and a thick rich sauce.




The contorni, which come with your secondi automatically here, are also fantastic. The cauliflower stew was terrific—and I don’t even like cauliflower—the beets were tender and sweet, and the sliced zucchini had that great autumnal darkness with a hint of the last green of summer.












If their main courses were wonderful, the dolce were no less surprising. The first night we had what they called panna cotta, but which really was a flan, though made with a deep caramel that stopped just short on the right side of being bitter. The second night I ordered the vanilla bavarois, which came with strawberry sauce, and was, I thought closer to the texture I associate with panna cotta.

The flavor was more intense in my Omnivore’s caffe bavarois, but the clear winner of the night was the chocolate budino, a chocolate with chocolate on rich lovely chocolate excursion. Probably best tasted by sampling with your finger and licking it off, it was certainly the finest dessert we’ve had yet in Italy.

Firenze: Our Lady of Good Shopping

We were up early on Thursday, desperate for a bit of coffee and a pastry at Pasticceria Sieni, which became our breakfast spot of choice whilst in Firenze. The hotel, while perfectly situated for our purposes and staffed by warm, helpful people, had one of those great push-button coffee/tea/hot chocolate machines that you find in the breakfast rooms of hostels across Europe. Insufficient for my Omnivore’s early morning needs.

At Sieni-- which sits at the corner of Via dell'Arriento and Sant'Antonino behind the Mercato Centrale--as at so many other caffes across Italy, you try to quickly get your “Due brioche con cioccolata e due cappuccini!!” in before the locals, many of whom seem to work at the leather market in San Lorenzo, can push past you.

You then squeeze into a space at the bar and watch your cappuccino, along with about twenty other caffeine-related cousins, being prepared with finesse and studied ease by a gentleman in an immaculate suit. You may now also feel free to be self-conscious about the innumerable flakes of pastry that have snowed down upon your coat and the thin train of chocolate that traces a line from your lip to your chin.

Let the morning begin. Much refreshed, we walked over toward the train station, where I conned my Omnivore into going into another church with me, this time Santa Maria Novella. The façade of the church was under renovation of course. I remember on earlier trips, all I’ve seen was the sight of scaffolding, around the Duomo, around the Baptistery, around David, filling the entire Brancacci Chapel. I’ve probably seen more actual facades—and clean ones at that—on this trip than on any other.

Inside though is my target, the Masaccio Trinity, which I’ve been dying to see again. Everyone else seems to be strolling right past it, so it feels like we have it all to our own, and it’s lovelier than I remembered. Have they cleaned it? The pinks appear brighter, as do the coffers in the archway, and it no longer seems necessary to have the fifty-cent-for-two-minutes klieg light glaring onto it, just to make out the beautiful composition.

I’m happy as a clam now. I got my Masaccio fix for the day. My Omnivore doesn’t know it, though, that I’m angling to see the Brancacci Chapel as well, because in all the years I’ve been coming to Florence, it’s never been open.

We head back to the train station, or actually to the McDonald’s in front of the station, to meet Ms Five-and-a-Half and Mr. Thirteen, who have come in for a little sightseeing fun. We have loose plans to maybe hit the Pitti Palace, but nothing is set in stone, so I have a little sidetrack suggestion.

It’s been terribly dry in our room at the hotel, probably because we’ve had the heater pumped up as high as we can make it. My skin is feeling the effects though, and so I want to visit the famous Officina Profumo di Santa Maria Novella, which is housed in an old 13th century former convent and has made lotions and balms for patrons as far back as Catherine di Medici.

“Only you could turn shopping for hand lotion into an event,” laughs Mr. Thirteen.

We set out across the plaza in front of S. Maria Novella and turn down via della Scala. The Officina, at No. 16, doesn’t look too grand from the street, but inside, it’s elaborate, to put it mildly. Gilded parlors and rooms filled with case upon case of enticing rows of products—none of which are listed in our phrasebook. We wander from room to room –from the perfumery in the front to the herbalist’s cabinet in the back. There’s a little museum with books of recipes and some of the glass implements for extracting essences and mixing the elements.

The place screams Expensive Product, so I’m a little afraid to ask for hand lotion, but then the woman behind the desk at the herbalist’s cabinet give me a smile, and thus encouraged, I start in with the questions.

They’re quite nice, as it turns out, and I get a pot of almond hand lotion which, frankly costs about what my slightly extravagant L’Occitane shea butter does. Plus it works like a dream, my hands are drinking the stuff in.

We are off for new adventures though and head to the riverside, stopping every now and then at shops along the Arno. Ms. Five-and-a-Half is not only a sharp eye when it comes to shopping, she’s got a keen nose for a bargain as well. Not only can she spot a knock-off at fifty paces, she can tell you in about ten seconds if it’s a good quality knock-off and worth your euros or whether it’s last year’s style and not worth a second glance.

By the end of the day, I will have acquired a crisp, new white blouse, a beautiful leather purse, gotten a line on an excellent pair of riding boots and now know what kind of coat I should be looking for.

Consequently, we’ve got a new title for her: Our Lady of Good Shopping. I imagine her painted in a Gothic icon, with a Prada bag looped over one arm as an attribute. And inscribed on a ribbon coming from her lips would be the words she muttered to me at the Mercato Nuovo as we bargained for a leather purse, “Get a Better Price.”

Her consort then, Mr. Thirteen, must be known as the Patron Saint of Luggage, oft depicted with a Tumi rolling suitcase (black of course) and shown speaking the words he says to Our Lady as she examines a gilt and crystal sconce that would be perfect in their dining room, “There’s No Room for That.”

After making it across the Ponte Vecchio—where Our Lady explained about the Grand Tour necklaces and my Omnivore had to be torn away from the Ulysse Nardin watch displays--we arrived at the Pitti Palace and scanned the vast façade, hung with banner after banner explaining the various exhibitions inside the multi-museum complex.

“Now we don’t have to go here, you know,” said Ms. Five-and-a-Half, “We’re happy to go anywhere and just wander today.”

I look into my Omnivore’s eyes, which are saying, “Oh God. Museum shuffle,” and I understand that the Uffizi and Accademia have had long-term effects that have not yet worn off. The Pitti is a great collection, but between the Palatine Gallery and the Boboli Gardens, it’s an all day museum extravaganza. I have another idea.

“There’s a silk workshop on this side of the Arno,” I venture, “Would you like to visit it?”

Much more positive response. So we set off through the Oltrarno in search of the Antico Setificio Fiorentino, which has been in the same neighborhood, now at via L. Bartolini 4, since 1786. The workshop was founded as a clearinghouse and factory for all the looms and patterns used by the great Florentine families to decorate their palazzos, the Medici, the Corsinis, the Bartolozzis and the Puccis, whose family still runs the business.

As at the Officina, Number 4 doesn’t look too inviting from the street. In fact it looks like someone’s driveway. But I am not to be deterred—we’ve walked a fair distance to get here now—and I ring the bell. A very nice young woman comes out. She doesn’t speak English, and we can only hand-wave our Italian, but she understands that we’d like to see the place, and so she takes us in and leads us to the showroom. I’m a little disappointed to understand that we can’t see the looms, which are of course, original, and some of which are based on designs by Leonardo da Vinci. But once we step into the showroom, my disappointment vanishes.

The place is filled top to bottom with the most elegant gorgeous silks in rich lavish colors. Thee are heavy tapestry brocades that could decorate the Pitti Palace, and brilliant ermissino—shot silk taffetas that look like they should be draped over Maria Callas’ shoulders.


There’s a Vermeer light streaming in through the windows, and a wonderful old wood and heavy silk smell in all the rooms with the far-off sound of the clacking shuttles of looms in the workshop across the way. Clearly you can see from whence came all those incredible colors and textures that Renaissance artists so loved to show off in their oil paintings.

Our Lady of Good Shopping is thinking about completely reupholstering all the dining room chairs, while the Patron Saint of Luggage cautions, “There’s no room for that in our suitcase.”

We leave empty-handed, a little regretfully, taking a quick peek through a window at the looms, but with my mind plotting—how can I make a situation in which I simply must have six yards of Florentine silk taffeta?

We make our way back through the streets to eat at Trattoria Casalinga. I’ll mention it here only as a cautionary word. Originally, it made my list because it was described as a “place where you’ll find the locals.” This is indeed true, but that doesn’t make the food or the service particularly good.

It was probably the first place we’ve been to in all of Italy where absolutely no English was spoken, and to the extent that we were able to manage in our disjointed Italian, I was quite proud. But that’s about as far as the fun went.

I had a passable Bolognese and my Omnivore had ricotta and spinach raviolis, but while Mr. Thirteen’s ribollita arrived in a timely fashion, we never did see the pollo arrosto that he ordered. Later on as we hit the bathrooms before leaving (having cancelled on the pollo) my Omnivore saw sad and lonely plates lingering on the pass. Was one of them his chicken? So sad to contemplate.

From there, I suggested a hike up the hill to see the view from Piazzale Michelangelo and take a peek at San Miniato al Monte, which is one of my favorite little churches in Firenze. Fortunately, Ms. Five-and-a-Half and Mr. Thirteen were kind enough to indulge my tendency to drag people from one end of town to the other. Hey, I figured, we would have walked this far at least in the Pitti Palace…

Besides which, it looked finally like we would get some blue sky in Firenze and some sunlight, of which we had seen very little in our week and a half so far.




At the end, we came down the hill and settled in at Le Volpe e L’Uva for a few glasses of wine and a plate of cheese.

Volpe’s cheese plate is I think whatever interesting stuff they see at the Mercato, (fine by me!) in this case—clockwise from the top—a tome de Piedmont; “Bosina” from Caseficio alte Langhe, which we get in the States, but not this fresh; a nice Taleggio, and slices of pecorino sardo.

Wine, food and good friends – now there’s an Italian recipe.

Firenze: Go in October – You’ll love it.

If I could only count the number of people who told us that Italy in October would be just like San Francisco. Our favorite ironic refrain nowadays has become, “Go in October, they all said. You’ll love it. The weather will be great.”

That was before the polar wind swept through Italy bringing along icy rain as a bonus. We will have a whole new wardrobe – albeit an Italian one—before this trip is finished.

We’re not the only ones however. Everywhere we go, we seem to be running into people from America, and more specifically connected to California. “You’re, like, the twentieth people from California we’ve met,” said a visitor from Virginia, in between huffs and puffs as we scaled the Duomo together. At dinner, we run into a former dancer from San Francisco Ballet, who now directs a company in Oregon. At the Mercato Centrale, we stop for truffle butter at the Conti stand and I happen to mention that we’re from San Francisco, and the woman behind the register proffers a business card and says they’ll be opening a place on Union street early next year.

I notice that we start to introduce ourselves as coming from San Francisco a lot, unless it’s a wine-related transaction, in which case, my Omnivore places us closer to Napa. Anyway, I have the sense that people here are quite used to seeing a lot of us underdressed West Coasties shivering in unison.

In fact, we already knew that Ms. Five-and-a-Half and Mr. Thirteen are in the area, staying in Tuscany at Le Miccine. We have plans to meet up with them on Thursday, but run into them while we’re on the line for the Uffizi.

“We’re here for a lunch recommendation,” Mr. Thirteen says with a laugh. It took them exactly two minutes to locate us in line, he says. “I knew exactly where you’d be. We already did this.”

By “this” he means the Uffizi Shuffle—not to be confused with the livelier and faster Accademia Two-Step.

Who in the name of all that is holy, thought this system up?

Now bear in mind, we have a reservation—for 1 pm—but whereas you might imagine that a reservation for 1 pm would mean that you arrive at the door of the Uffizi at the appointed hour, buy your ticket and go in, a reservation actually means that you may begin your ride on “Adventures in Queuing” at 1 pm.

Stay with me here. Everyone—you in the back—stay with the group.

12:40 pm: Clutching your tiny shred of paper with a precious number on it, struggle down the Vasari loggia to Door Number One. Read the sign that says those “without reservation, this-a-way” (ugly long line that stretches to the river), those “with reservation, proceed to Door Number Three to pick up your tickets.” Ask lots of people where Door Number Three is in this many-doored corridor. Proceed briskly across the courtyard to the other loggia to Door Number Three with many other people clutching tiny shreds of paper. Be informed by the guard at Door Number Three that it is not yet 1 pm and you will have to wait before you can even get in the line for Door Number Three.

12:45 pm: Wait, sitting on a cold stone bench for several minutes. If you’re lucky, something entertaining like a Japanese couple getting married will pass by.

12:50 pm: Decide that given the length of Door Number Three’s line, it’s going to take at least the additional ten minutes to get in.

12:51 pm: Join line.

1:10 pm: Get impatient. Foment rebellion among other tourists, and push to the front of the line to wave hands and say, “Prenotazione per uno!”

1:12 pm: Guard gives in. “Anyone with reservation for 1 pm, prego.” About a dozen others shake their shreds of paper and we all move forward in the line past the 1:15ers. “Good work, sending her up to the front,” murmurs the woman behind us to my Omnivore.

1:15 pm: Shove tiny shred of paper at woman in ticket booth, who lazily types in a number. “This is for Accademia for yesterday,” she says dismissively, with an understood “You moron,” as she gives a “NEXT!” kind of glance behind us.

In no mood for this, I take the shred of paper—which does have our Accademia reservation… written one line above the reservation that says “Uffizi”—and start to go ugly American. I shove a finger at the word “Uffizi” and say in my most uncharacteristically sarcastic voice, “Ecco. Uffizi,” with an understood, “You moron,” appended to it.

1:16 pm: Emerge from Door Number Three, proceed to Door Number One—or rather, join the end of what you assume to be the line for Door Number One.

1:17 pm: Check that you are in the right line, which you are.

1:18 pm: Enjoy the neon signs for the other, non-reservation line, which say things like “Wait time 3 hours, 20 minutes.”

1:19 pm: Speculate on how there can be this many people interested in Renaissance art in shoulder season in a cold, wet city.

1:22 pm: Explain to many confused American tourists clutching tiny shreds of paper, what the procedure is and where Door Number Three is. “Good luck!”

1:23 pm: Finally make it inside the door of the building. Security check. Like at the airport, only, thank god, they don’t want to x-ray our soggy, smelly shoes.

Welcome to the pinnacle of the Art of Western Civilization.

Curiously, as we waited in the line for Door Number One, a tall man with a shock of fuzzy white hair barreled up to the guard. Clutching a brightly colored brollie in one hand and what looked like the same ticket we had in the other, he scooted past everyone else and ducked into Door Number One without a question.

We all looked at each other and shrugged. “10:00 am reservation?”

Once inside on the security line, I saw him again, still clutching his brollie. He leaned over to the guard watching the x-ray machine’s screen, and handed her another ticket and then, most curiously, she turned around to a bank of cubbies behind her, pulled a silver butter knife out of one of them, handed it to him, and he rushed off, still clutching that brollie.

My Omnivore and I looked at each other with the “Wh-a-a?” look on our faces.

Closer examination of the cubbies revealed that each one had a piece of tableware in it. If anyone knows what this transaction signifies, will you please share it with me? I can decode Flemish iconography, I can identify saints by attributes, I can even tell you the many secret names of the Virgin Mary, but I have no idea what all that was about.

Anyway. Uffizi. Art of the Western World. Incredible, incredible place. But no longer is it even imaginable to do what I’d really like to do, which is spend a leisurely hour or so each day for a week strolling through the different galleries and enjoying the art that made the Italian Renaissance, getting to know the Baroque masters, and contemplating the development of Mannerism. It’s an amusement park ride now, a dizzying rollercoaster through gallery after gallery, as you try to absorb the transitions, the drama of subtle human interaction, and the vast display of history all at once. They’ve made it into an experience like no other, and that’s not a good thing. After three hours, you tumble down the last steps, through about eight different gifts shops, and are spit out onto the streets of Florence behind the gallery like so much flotsam.

Thanks for visiting. Come again.

I shudder to think what the Vatican Museums are going to be like now.

Contrast this with the experience we had just around the corner at the Museum of the History of Science. No one comes to Florence to see this museum, although they should, because in its way, it is as much the story of the Renaissance mind as the Uffizi collections.

Here you stroll in blessed quiet through galleries with, oh, say a half a dozen other people in the whole place. Maybe, you might have an Italian school group too, but that will be about it. But you see the astrolabes, the quadrants and compasses that made navigation and trade with other lands possible.

You see, too, the tools, the calipers and rules that made possible the brilliant architecture of this city. You see Galileo’s telescope, and the ramp on which he conducted his gravitational experiments, discovering and confirming so much about what we know and take for granted about the natural world today. It’s a fantastic place, and you are just steps away from the melee at the Uffizi—the stress and the frustration, the sore aching feet, and the brain overloaded by more paintings than you could shake a brush at.

So you might think, after all this walking, that the last place we’d hit would be a stand up sandwich stand for lunch. But we have no other options. After the Uffizi excursion, all the trattorias are shut until dinner, but we’re desperate for something to eat. Thus did we wind up at I Fratellini (via dei Cimatori 38/r, 055-239-6096), the terrific little place set into a six by four foot storefront space across the street from Orsanmichele. The guys behind the counter are chatty and funny, which makes it, understandably, a popular spot for all those Florentines you see spilling out onto Via dei Cimatori.

Order a little glass of Chianti for 1 or 2 Euros and a ham and truffle paste sandwich for another 3 Euros, and lean against a wall. It’ll be one of the best lunches in Florence that you can imagine.