The Art of Lunch with Riccardo Illy

Riccardo Illy drives his Audi fast and furious on the dusty, winding Tuscan roads of Castelnuovo dell'Abate, leading to his magnificent hilltop property Mastrojanni Relais, where I spent a few days marveling at the vineyards, drenched in honey light, the shadows of the latent Monte Amiata volcano, mystical in the distance.

Grandson of Francisco Illy, founder of Illy, the iconic Italian coffee brand, and ex-mayor of Trieste, Riccardo is a handsome man of sophisticated taste and exacting detail regarding product design and consumer experience. In fact, his new book "The Art of Excellent Products" demystifies why Italians make some of the most premium, sought-after products in the world. So, it was not surprising that the "simple" lunch he hosted for PR maven Myra Fiori, Mauro Maccioni of Le Cirque fame (now resident in Tuscany), and me, in the rustic poolside dining room of the Mastrojanni property, was a theatrical and sumptuous experience.

The Mastrojanni winemaker, Andre, decided on a controversial double pairing of reds, usually not suited to seafood and vegetarian dishes. Perhaps a bold move to impress the boss. But, the Brunello di Montalcino 2017 and a 2016 Schiena d' Asino were lyrically matched to the moment. Riccardo, Mauro, and Andre ate antipasti of fish strawberries, burrata, almonds, and red cabbage marinated with raspberry vinegar. Myra and I were served an exquisite beetroot gazpacho with ricotta and herbs.

The Brunello made perfect sense now. I imagined the volcano erupting in slow motion a long time ago, ashes and flames and smolder; church bells chiming madly as the earth rearranged itself. Secondi was fettuccini with salmon and roe, and a spinach and ricotta cannelloni with tomato reduction for the vegetarians. The wine-ignorant American in me now understood why two reds were being poured concurrently.

Frenzied butterflies dove into the flaming coreopsis bushes outside. A woman in the pool seemed to be swimming lazily into the blue-sequined Tuscan sky. We discussed the cover of the American edition of Riccardo's book. I suggested the title appear chiseled into marble with black and gold like the exquisite tiles on the floor of the Duomo di Firenze. Lorenzo, the patient waiter, took photos while choreographing the meal.

I noticed I had thrown my usual dietary constraints out the window since arriving in Europe. The focaccia makes you weep silently. Myra explained that sometimes when you ask for salt during a meal in Italy, they refuse. The dish is served the way the chef conceived it. So don't fuck it up.

Lorenzo brought the dessert. Is it a glorified choco bar, I wondered. In fact, it was a Magnum-inspired Domori chocolate with passion fruit and hazelnuts served in a swirl of a dish that reminded me of the sand dunes in the Sahara. A recalcitrant Moroccon pop singer refused to climb a rented camel to film a video. She had quarreled with her lover, who was sulking nearby. Previously, she had eaten massive lamb shawarma at his behest. As a rule, significant others should not be allowed on set.

Over-excited bumblebees were bouncing off the glass walls of the restaurant. Chianina cows grazing drunkenly in the pasture. Are animals happier in Italy and western Europe compared to the USA? We treat our pets obsessively, but our meat is slaughtered with brutal disregard for animal rights. Mauro is planning a return to New York. I need to lighten up on my activism.

A bottle of Mastrojanni Botrys 2014 appeared. Have we been dismissive of dessert wines as a culture? I looked at Myra after taking a sip. "The grapes are Moscato, Sauvignon Blanc, and Malvasia di Candia," she said. "Sweetness comes from muscat notes of apricot jam and honey with a palate of candied fruits- peach, pineapple, and figs." Riccardo explained that the Botry would also go well with cheese and charcuterie on a picnic. I thought of the poetry I wrote when I was a young man- sweet homages to lost love never published. I tasted Walt Whitman's "Leaves of Grass."

Finally, the espresso that made the House of Illy made an appearance. A bitter electric jolt into the undulating day. Myra told me about the time Francis Ford Copolla brewed a cup while giving a TV interview; he is a fan and has directed commercials for them. The shy young Roman chef Raniero and sous chef Sara came by to introduce themselves. Riccardo smiled. We applauded. Outside, the dazed bumblebees rose again.

Another mythic meal awaited that night on the adjacent mountain. Another story of people in love with their lives, their vineyards and olive trees, food, dessert, and coffee. A people who worship their cars and churches. Impassioned, obsessed artists who take centuries to build a cathedral. No wonder their products are masterful, and every lunch is as much an act of art as it is of sustenance.