We were anxious to learn more about Adalio, and he was more than willing to continue speaking to us, so we sat on a low stone wall and offered him a chocolate energy bar and a bottle of water. Truth was we weren’t eager to tackle the remaining hills. He took the bar eagerly, but refused the water saying that he only drank from the well on his property. He believed it contained minerals and other benefits that had allowed them to remain healthy thus far and he was not about to change. Wine however, would be a different matter, and if we had any in the van that he would try. When we replied we didn’t, his face broken into a huge grin and he invited us to join him for wine at his house across the road at the edge of the vineyard.
It occurred to us this might not be such a good idea as we still had 40 km of difficult biking back to the villa where our group was staying. That thought lasted only a brief minute. We looked at each other, and without a word passing between us, we locked the bikes in the van and walked across the road.
With a surprising spring in his step, Adalio led us to a small two-story cottage surrounded on three sides by thick, woody, climbing grape vines, all supported by trellises and a cluster of trees which provided a wind break. It was obvious someone had taken care of the numerous tomato and vegetable plants in front of the house. Close to the front door was a colourfully-tiled long table surrounded by wooden chairs. Adagio opened the door and called for Genevra, who we assumed was his wife. She came out, wiping her hands on the apron around her waist and attempting to put several stray locks of hair inside the kerchief she wore on her head. If one was looking for a stereotypical rural housewife, you need not have gone any further. Gina, as we came to call her, was it. After shaking our hands, she asked us to sit and in a very direct way, told Adagio to fetch wine and food. With this exchange, there was no question as to who was in charge of their household.
Adalio returned with a carafe of wine and a bowl of olives, sliced soft ripe tomatoes, and onions, covered with oil. When Gina saw what he brought, she appeared to admonish him, hurried back into the house, and returned with a large artisanal bread, two uniquely-shaped carafes of wine, antipasto, plates of mozzarella, a small clay jug of olive oil and what we learned was ribollita.. She explained it was a traditional Tuscan soup made with bread, kale, beans, carrots, and potatoes. It was just the thing to replenish two very hungry cyclists – and a support driver.Through our interpreter, she pointed out that the olives had come from the trees on the hillside and the flour in the bread milled on the estate next door. We dipped pieces of the still warm bread in the oil and vinegar. It was delicious. As soon as we finished eating, and not being versed in Italian culinary etiquette, Susan and I pushed away from the table and prepared to leave. Julio very quietly said to us that we should stay a while longer as it would be impolite and insulting to go so soon after eating.
