Siena is about 20 miles north of Montalcino, as the crow flies. For a tourist, that feels nearby. ‘No,’ said a Sienese native, very firmly, when I suggested this. ‘Do you know what people from Siena call people from Montalcino? How do you say becchino in English?’ He paused, rummaging for the word. ‘The first one that brings the dead people to the cemetery.’ Undertaker? ‘Yes. Because during the war against Florence, I think the Battle of Montaperti, Siena asked for help from Montalcino. And when Montalcino’s people arrived the war was already finished.’
The Battle of Montaperti was in 1260. They have long memories in Tuscany and that is one of the reasons I love the place so much. In Tuscany, the past is so present that even the most humdrum activity can remind you of ancient rivalries between villages or connect you with the region’s very tapestried culture. Florence is a city in which even shoe shops have 17th-century frescoes on the ceiling. I have had taxi drivers in Montalcino give me a history of the Medicis and football fans in Florence hold forth on the uses of orris root (the iris is the symbol of the city and features on the Fiorentina football kit). I remember once chatting to Giovanni Manetti of Fontodi in Chianti Classico. Manetti, who was wearing an immaculate cream puffer coat as we stood among his vines in Chianti Classico’s Conca d’Oro, said that to get permission to plant a particular patch of vines on the hillside he had had to prove there was a historical precedent for growing vines on just that spot. It took a while but, in an archive at the University of Florence, one of his researchers eventually found a 15th-century work of art in which it was just about possible to make out rows of vines in front of a church. That did the trick. Permission was granted and the vines were duly planted.
In Tuscany, what is on the plate or in the glass is not just something to fill the stomach. It is culture, history and identity. This idea is neatly captured in the name given to Tuscans by other Italians: mangiafagioli – bean-eaters. I love that word, which makes your jaws work, as if chewing atavistically, when you say it. The Tuscan culinary repertoire contains a lot of beans. Consider ribollita , the hearty stew made with cavolo nero; fava bean and pecorino salad; or fagioli al fiasco , literally beans in a flask, once prepared by leaving beans with water, garlic and sage leaves in a container on the embers of a fire to cook slowly overnight. According to the Slow Food Foundation, Emperor Charles V introduced beans to Tuscany by presenting them to Pope Clement VII (Giulio de’ Medici) in the early 16th century. Despite this grand entrance, mangiafagioli never sounds like much of a compliment. Before the rise of flexitarianism, vegetarianism and veganism and the celebration of cucina povera made them fashionable again, beans were for a long time thought of as poor man’s meat.
In Tuscany, what is on the plate or in the glass is not just something to fill the stomach
I often end up pouring Sangiovese to drink with these bean dishes. That’s not just because refreshing acidity, dusty cherry flavors and tannic prickle goes so well with the food, although it does. It’s also because, when you eat Tuscan food, you travel to Tuscany. You only need to catch a whiff of ribollita or bistecca or wild boar sausage or porchetta seasoned with rosemary and fennel or chicken liver crostini (especially chicken liver crostini) and your mind is halfway to that land of fortified hilltop villages.
To make that journey complete you need to have a wine that speaks of Tuscany in your glass. I’m not a complete purist. I’m not going to dial the emergency services if I hear of someone making a porchetta and rocket sandwich then reaching for a bottle of Australian Shiraz they picked up in the last supermarket shop. And this isn’t about trying to remain in the past. We all know that wines, and even the permitted grapes used in them, change. This has certainly happened with Chianti in the last few decades. But I do consider it actually barbaric to sit down to a plate of food in a Tuscan restaurant and (as many of my wine colleagues do) throw money at the wine glass by taking along your own classed growth claret or boutique Burgundy.
Sangiovese has a faint dusty earthiness that suits the savoury taste of the herbs, chicken liver, bitter leaves and beans that might be on a Tuscan plate
It’s usually the Sangiovese-based wines of inland Tuscany that I’m drawn to. Whether in Chianti, the wines from Montalcino or those from Montepulciano, Sangiovese has a faint dusty earthiness that suits the savory taste of the herbs, chicken liver, bitter leaves and beans that might be on a Tuscan plate. Most importantly, it is incredibly evocative. Sangiovese has a haunting perfume and a texture that somehow recalls medieval crenellations. Drink it blended in a Chianti with the very aromatic, Frankincense-like Canaiolo and you’ll picture yourself in a church, surrounded by frescoes and stained glass.
