The faces of Orvieto

Orvieto is criss-crossed with narrow alleyways that must have been built to allow, at most, an ox cart to pass. The street next to our apartment was so narrow that I saw a truck nearly get stuck in it, like one of many heedless semis peeled open like sardine tins by the overpasses on Boston's Storrow Drive.

Often you'll pass one of these alleyways and see a single figure--a cat, a dog, an old woman, an old man--silhouetted by the light at the end. Alleys, arches, tunnels, buildings leaning up against one another, lend the town an air of cozy snugness.

 

We needn't get too deep into the Freudian imagery.

All this makes visitors feel, within a very short time, as if they are at home in a small town. Probably after they've been here for a week, Americans become the talk of this nevertheless goodhearted small town.

"Ah, the poor sick signora whose husband has bought out every medicine in the farmacias. See how feeble she looks!"

"The kind gentleman with the sunglasses in neon-yellow frames! I had my photo taken with him."

"They love all the cane [dogs] so much--even Signora Rita's nasty little beast."

"Haha, they take photos of cats, as if there are no cats in America!"

"They even take pictures of the grocery stores! Have they none of those in America either?"

Proprietors of your favorite hangouts will come to recognize you. After work, in fact, they patronize each other's hangouts, where you might run into them again.  Where else is there to go in such a small town?

Cafe Clandestino, in the middle of the main drag and almost always open, is a favorite hangout. We intend to ship the waiter a pair of yellow-rimmed sunglasses like Bill's--provided that the Thai bar girls don't win them all first. The Clandestino staff will tell you that the unique mix of Italian-American and big-band swing music that they play on an endless loop is the work of one Ray Gelato, whose heyday was the seventies. One of them handed me a well-worn copy of Ray's cookbook, full of stories and recipes, which I pored over for an hour. When I asked where I might buy a copy, they simply gave me their only one.

You can't stop these wonderful people from giving you things--from lemons to books to the delectable free appetizers that accompany all drinks.

After we had shared chips with his little boy, Leonardo, Anthony, owner of the Blue Bar, kept urging us to share a bite of his dinner panini, eventually forced a chocolate croissant on us for breakfast, and took a photo of our crew of new pals, behind the bar preparing him a drink.

Is this photo really moving? I think Orvietan magic has turned my blog into The Daily Prophet, the animated newspaper from Harry Potter.

Anthony, a former Club Med operator, has an open personality that draws in tourists, other local business owners like barber Vito (above, center), and other restaurateurs, after they've closed for the night. Go home and collapse after dinner rush? No, no, go for a nightcap at the Blue Bar or VinCafe!

Chef memoirs are not unique to Ray Gelato.  One local chef, whom you might see at VinCafe after hours, has coauthored The Etruscan Chef, a combination recipe book and florid love story, with his new partner--a cultured young Boston woman who, unwittingly following Elizabeth Gilbert's Eat, Pray, Love path up to a point, came to Orvieto, fell in love, and stayed, as Chef Lorenzo's partner. The two now manage a countryside farm B&B called Casa Segreta, an Etruscan cooking school, and a five-star restaurant.