The Body in the Piazza - By Katherine Hall Page Page 0,40

as a sort of horrible headmistress like Frances Hodgson Burnett’s Miss Minchin in A Little Princess. No cake for you.

They were all here now except for Luke, Jean-Luc, who had stayed home. Coming to the mercato, and Florence itself, was an everyday occurrence for him.

Francesca introduced the group to the Baronis, and soon Paola, a lively, striking brunette, was lining up samples of Parmesan cheese.

“Wow!” Tom said. “Which one is this?”

“That is the Parmesan that has been aged in wine,” Paola told them. “The other is the fresh Parmesan. A big difference, no?”

“A big difference, yes,” Tom said. “I want them all.”

“Try the fresh one with a drop of this balsamic vinegar. The real kind, from Modena. I will give you tastes of a number of different ones. The flavor of the vinegar depends on the age, to be sure, but also the kind of wood used to make the barrels.”

Faith noticed that as soon as they entered the market, the Culvers were once more taking pictures of all the food in sight. Olivia seemed just as enthusiastic, or what passed as such for her, but wasn’t taking many photos, instead jotting things down on her phone. Her fingers flew. Faith was reminded of the way Ben and his friends texted, members of the Thumb Tribe. Texting even when a few feet away from one another.

So far Jack and Sky had trailed behind everyone but were now getting into the tastings. They stopped holding hands long enough to sample the vinegars and then the olive oils.

“Who would have thought they would taste so different. I mean E-V-O-O is E-V-O-O, I always thought,” Sky said, sounding more than a little like Rachael Ray.

Faith had made a small pile on the counter in front of Paola—some Malpighi Saporoso balsamic vinegar, she could already taste it on the strawberries they’d pick this summer; several kinds of honey, including acacia and fennel; tubes of black and white truffle paste; and cards with the Baroni Web site, so she could get more of everything when she was home. Francesca, she noticed, was busy buying cheese, including several kinds of pecorino, that delicious Italian sheep cheese. Another tasting back at Cucina della Rossi?

They said arrivederci to Alessandro and Paola, as well as the Rossis, who were lingering to talk with their friends. Once outside the market, the Fairchilds, Olivia, and the Russos headed for San Lorenzo. Faith presumed the Culvers were going straight to the Ponte Vecchio, maybe stopping to find Sylvia and her scarves on the way. Sky and Jack left with a “See you later” and headed toward the center of town—maybe to get a room, who knew? The Nashes hadn’t had much time in the market, but it was apparently not of sufficient interest to capture their further attention and they left also—without a “See you later.”

After an hour in San Lorenzo, Tom turned to Faith and said, “It’s too much for now and I’m hungry.”

She nodded in agreement. Donatello’s bronze pulpits with the anguish of the Crucifixion and other scenes portrayed in realistic bas-reliefs; Michelangelo’s massive somber figures on the tombs—Dusk and Dawn, Night and Day; and the interior’s stark white walls and gray stone, pietra serena, were overpowering. They had been walking in silence, oblivious of other tourists and even of each other. She had come back with a start at his words.

“Yes, we need to go outside. And yes, it’s time to eat.”

Francesca had included a number of suggestions in the packet for all kinds of places for food ranging from gelato to a full-course meal. They were not far from one of them, Cantinetta del Verrazzano. It sounded perfect from the Rossis’ description—one side a coffee bar and bakery—pasticceria—the other a wine bar with Chianti from the family’s vineyards. A place to stop in for a quick bite, but not too fast.

“I like the Verrazano Bridge, so let’s give it a try,” Faith said.

They had missed the lunch rush and were able to get a table near the enormous, venerable wood-burning oven. The smell of freshly baked bread was enticing.

Standing at the display cases, Tom said, “I think I want one of everything, but that one for dessert definitely.” He pointed to an almond-studded torta della nonna, dusted with plenty of powdered sugar. “I loved her dearly, but I’m afraid my grandmother’s gingerbread, which tended to be a bit heavy, wouldn’t have stood a chance in any Italian grandmother Bake-Offs.”

Because you can never have too many artichokes, too many