Gin

Picking juniper berries in rural Tuscany, Sandra Bell finds the spirit of Italian cooking is alive and kicking

LEANING back in his chair and grinning contentedly, Federico Trumpy laces his hands over his stomach and, with an unabashed pride in his region, happily announces that "the table is at the heart of family life in Tuscany."

After a meal that started at eight in the evening, encompassed over a dozen courses and, at two in the morning still shows few signs of slowing down, it's difficult to disagree. In fact, if the Tuscans made such a thorough investigation of their culinary traditions every night then it seems unlikely that they would have the time or inclination to do much else.

Yet despite Trumpy's love of the Tuscan table, he manages to achieve more than the six hour dinner might suggest. Trumpy is Italy's leading spice merchant and as such he works in tune with the agricultural seasons which determine what is on a Tuscan's plate at any given time of the year. While the Scottish diet bears little relationship to what is seasonally available, the Tuscan tastebuds closely follow the spoils that each successive month brings to their plate.

Autumn into winter is a key time in the Tuscan culinary calendar. With Trumpy as guide, we head off on a whistlestop tour of the region's gastronomic highlights just as they are reaching their peak. The truffle season extends from now until spring; the wild mushroom harvest is beginning to wind down and, while in Britain the chestnut harvest means another load of old conkers for the kids, in Italy it causes grown mens' eyes to well up with tears at the thought of another batch of chestnut pte and pasta.

Most importantly for Trumpy, the months between October and March mark the ripening of the juniper bushes high above the tree line of the Umbrian Appenines. The intensely aromatic black seeds form a vital part of Trumpy's trade and are just as important for the financial survival of the tiny communities which harvest the crop.

The old saw about truth being stranger than fiction can be verified by a cursory glance at any newspaper but, in a bizarre twist of irony that Umberto Eco could be proud of, these Umbrian junipers form the backbone of that most quintessentially British of drinks, Gordon's gin. But more of that later. Our spin around the region starts with lunch at Trumpy's country house in the small hills outside the seaside town of Livorno.

Leave the sprawling industrial port behind and the Tuscany of the picture postcard is revealed. Gnarled old workers tend to gnarled old olive groves, hills roll in a manner that is inevitably described as 'gentle' and every building is a charming villa which is 'quaint' or 'rustic' or both.

Needless to say, not everything is quite as idyllic as it seems. Since certain sections of the British and German population now own holiday homes in what has come to be known as Chiantishire, the Tuscans haven't been unilaterally happy with the upshot. A ban on new building - and incomers waving large wads of cash - have forced up house prices to artificially high levels and ensured that many locals simply cannot afford to live in the area any longer.

While most new arrivals have fallen in with the rhythms of their long-established neighbours, others have banded together into cliques, fencing off their hamlets with barbed wire and private roads. One place that is still as Italian as gelati is a tiny restaurant about thirty miles outside of Livorno. The Osteria del Contadino used to be a family home but now looks as though it has been a Tuscan trattoria for generations. Walking into the dining room is like stepping into a showcase for Tuscan food. A kitchen table groans with pecorino cheese, different breads, walnuts and intensely bitter olives. Lining the walls are hundreds of bottles of wine from simple farmhouse reds to barolos that have a pre-war pedigree. For every bottle of wine the management seem to have a corresponding dish.

Our little party is brought more courses than I can count. Bruschetta, parma ham, quails' eggs, spinach pies, suckling pig, porcini salads, pungent truffle tagliatelle and mountains of crusty bread for dipping in fresh olive oil; they all make a welcome appearance with endless varieties of wine. Just when we're on the verge of praying for them to stop, out come the heavy, sweet vin santo, the espressos and the grappa. Less a meal, more a marathon.

Chuckling happily, Trumpy explains that while the Milanese have more or less completely switched over to the northern European custom of snatching a quick bite to eat whenever work allows, the more sanguine country dwellers are quite happy to let them get on with it. My waistband straining under the onslaught, I can see his point.

The next morning finds us heading south of Florence, towards the Appenines which spill over from Umbria. At the tiny village of Caprese Michelangelo, the birthplace of the Renaissance artist, we clamber into four wheel drives for the steep path leading up to Trumpy's beloved juniper bushes.

Up in the higher reaches of the Appenines, the ordered plains and elegant lines of cypresses give way to vast ranges of chestnut trees which carpet the forest floor with rusty leaves and, at this time of year, the freshly fallen chestnuts. Gathering these can't be particularly easy work - just reaching the forests is hard enough, never mind the trip back down carrying a bulging sack of nuts.

Our driver seems to be a walking advert for the health benefits of the Mediterranean diet. While apparently not far off reaching his century, he seems unfeasibly fit. And this despite the steady stream of cigarettes.

Even so, there are a few hairy moments when the decrepit Landrover bounces up narrow paths that goats would think twice about. I don't like to ponder the consequences should Mr Longevity have to fight hard to stop the wheels going over the edge.

Once the chestnuts thin out, the landscape becomes wilder and the thorny junipers begin to appear. They aren't cultivated or owned by anyone but they are harvested solely by family collectives from the area. The money they bring in is so vital that outsiders are restricted by law to gathering no more than a kilogramme of them.

The method by which the junipers are collected has not changed since the Medicis were the top dogs. Milan and Rome may be as sleekly modern as New York, but in the Appenines they still collect the berries by bashing seven bells out of the bushes with branches. High up an Umbrian mountainside, microchip technology seems a long way off - and besides, big sticks work better.

The work is done mainly by older people. With Italy rapidly becoming a post-industrial country, the youngsters who haven't headed to the cities don't see much of a future as bush batterers. Given that the juniper harvest stretches from the parched days of late summer right through the bitter cold of winter, the workers have to be hardy souls.

Trumpy sells the pick of the crop onto Gordon's who use them as one of the botanical flavourings in their spirit. Crushing the berries between your fingers unleashes a sharp and unmistakable tang of gin which seems rather incongruous when you're standing in the middle of nowhere. That the principal ingredient of the good old G and T grows wild in Umbria is a curious fact that Tuscan holidaymakers can savour as they sip iced sundowners and gaze out at the scenery.

Back down in Caprese Michelangelo, it is, inevitably, time for lunch. Situated on a cobbled street next to the village council office is another fabulous ristorante. From its position in the hills, it looks across green valleys.

A worthwhile wander can be had by sauntering up to the Michelangiolesco Museum in the village. Comprising the house where the artist was born in 1475, the Clusini Palace and the rooms of the Rocca fortress, the museum allows for a relaxing potter about.

In the mildly unkempt gardens there is a broken wall that overlooks a valley to the west and up into the mountains. As the sun sets and rays of light reach down from the heavens, you don't need to be incurably romantic to imagine where Michelangelo got his inspiration from. How he managed to motivate himself to create anything after a Tuscan lunch with Federico Trumpy's ancestors, however, is more of a mystery

NEED TO KNOW How to get there You can fly direct to Pisa from Glasgow or Edinburgh from around #200. Call Dial-A-Flight on 0870 334488 Where to stay The family-managed Duomo's Hotel is situated on the main street Montepulciano and is carefully furnished in typical Tuscan style. Reservations on (39) 0578 757 473 For more information Check out www.intuscany.com for the inside track on relaxation

Copyright 1999
Provided by ProQuest Information and Learning Company. All rights Reserved.