Florence

Florence: The First Night I Saw Its Soul

Long before this trip with my daughters, I had stood outside the Uffizi Gallery under very different circumstances. It was the summer of 1993, just one month after the bombing that shattered not only part of the museum but the spirit of Florence itself. I remember walking into the square that night, candles flickering in every hand, the air thick with wax, smoke, and grief. I almost felt like an intruder- an outsider stepping into something sacred. The faces around me were solemn yet full of love, their silence heavier than any words. Italians of every age had gathered to mourn not just the loss of lives, but an assault on their history, their art, their very identity.

The attack—planted in a car on Via dei Georgofili just behind the Uffizi – was carried out by the Sicilian Mafia in retaliation for Italy’s crackdown on organized crime. The blast killed five people, including two young girls, and tore through part of the gallery, destroying several priceless works of art. Fragments of paintings and frescoes were found scattered in the street, mingled with glass and debris. Among the damaged works was Rubens’ The Holy Family with Saint Catherine, painstakingly restored in the years that followed.

Standing there amid the candlelight and quiet tears, I realized how deeply Florence’s people are woven into their art—their beauty and resilience inseparable. Decades later, returning to the same spot with my daughters, I still felt that energy: pain turned into purpose, destruction answered with restoration, and a city that continues to guard its masterpieces – and its soul -with reverence.

Returning to Florence

We arrived in Florence by plane, and even before the cab had stopped, I was clutching the window like a kid seeing something from a dream. The driver navigated impossibly narrow cobblestone streets, honking and squeezing past pedestrians and Vespas in a choreography that seemed part madness, part magic. I don’t know how anyone drives here – but somehow, they do.

When we finally hopped out of the taxi, I looked up and instantly knew where we were. Just ahead stood the Ponte Vecchio, golden and timeless, and behind us, the elegant façade of the Uffizi. A wave of nostalgia and excitement swept through me – it felt like stepping back into a memory, only now I was arriving not as a student but as a mother, with my daughters beside me.

Our hotel, Hotel degli Orafi, had been recommended by a friend’s parents who’d visited their own daughter studying abroad. It was beautiful – classic, elegant, and perfectly situated between history and the river. From the rooftop bar, the view stretched over the Arno and toward the Uffizi’s bell tower, glowing softly in the night.

Inside, our room was charming but small: two narrow beds that seemed more like twins than doubles. When our youngest begged for her sister to stay with us for the night, it sounded sweet – until bedtime. Within minutes, the “togetherness” turned into a full-blown sister cat fight about personal space, blankets, and the horror of their legs accidentally touching. Tears followed, and peace was restored only when my oldest retreated to her apartment down the street, promising to see us in the morning.

Watching her go – confident, independent, and so at home in a city that had once been new to me – I realized how much had shifted. Florence, somehow unchanged, was now the backdrop for her story too. And over the days that followed, I found myself falling for it all over again. By the end of the week, Florence had quietly replaced Rome as my favorite place in Italy- not because of what we saw, but because I experienced it through her eyes, her stories, and the life she’d built here.

Following her Lead and Tastebuds: Florentine Flavors

In a city where art and architecture take center stage, the food in Florence deserves a standing ovation of its own. Rather than following guidebooks, we let our daughter – who’d been living here for months – lead the way. She had a “best of” list ready before we even unpacked: the best pizza, gelato, steak, pasta, sandwich, and sunset view. We happily followed her fork.

Florentine Steak at Ristorante Buca Mario

The Florentine ritual – tableside carving and a perfectly seared T-bone.

My oldest daughter insisted on taking us to Buca Mario, declaring it “the best Florentine steak in the city.” She’d become the family expert after months of living here, and I happily let her lead the way. The restaurant, tucked below street level in what was once a wine cellar, glowed with warmth – arched ceilings, candlelight, and the low hum of Italian conversation.

Florentine steak isn’t for the faint of heart – these beauties typically weigh between two and three pounds (around 30 to 45 ounces) and are served rare, sliced thick and juicy right at the table. My youngest, not a steak eater, stuck to pasta. My husband ordered something else. That left my daughter and me to share one of those monumental cuts – and while I was game, I never eat more than six ounces of steak in a sitting. I petered out halfway through.

That’s when my petite, five-foot-four, 115-pound daughter looked at me and declared, “It’s rude not to finish your food.” And somehow, she did – every last bite but the bone. I have no idea where she put it, but it was impressive to witness.

She also chose the wine – a 2016 Vignamaggio Chianti Classico Terre di Prenzano, selected with confidence from her “Business of Wine” class.

We were seated in a downstairs room, served by a gracious waiter who could have stepped out of an old film. At one point, a loud group of tourists nearby gave him a hard time – oblivious to the respect Italian servers command – and I found myself quietly grateful that my daughter had learned not just the food and wine, but the manners that go with them.

Enough steak to feed a small village – or one determined college student.

After dinner, a dessert cart rolled up like a dream on wheels – tiramisu, berry tarts, poached pears, and custards gleaming under powdered sugar. We sampled two, because of course we did, and ended with cappuccinos stenciled with the restaurant’s name. Before we left, our waiter returned with a gift: an apron embroidered Buca Mario dal 1886 – a keepsake of the night my daughter truly came into her own.

The sweetest finale – and a new favorite family memory.

That night, I soaked in the slow rhythm of a European dinner: attentive service, laughter over good wine, and the quiet joy of watching my daughter flourish in a foreign country that now felt like hers.

Pizza at Gustapizza

Heart-shaped pizzas – pesto & tomato, the way every love story with Florence should begin.

That evening, we walked across the Ponte Vecchio in the crisp fall air, the Arno shimmering beneath us as the city lights blinked to life. My daughter led the way, confident and sure-footed on cobblestones she now knew by heart. The destination: Gustapizza, her favorite pizzeria in the city.

When we arrived, the line was out the door – always a good sign in Italy – but we waited patiently, drawn in by the warmth and the smell of wood-fired dough. Just inside, we spotted a photo of Guy Fieri on the wall. My husband, who never misses an episode of Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives, grinned like he’d found his culinary soulmate. Clearly, this place had his seal of approval.

We were lucky enough to snag a high-top table as another couple left, giving us the perfect view of the small, buzzing space. Pizzas appeared and vanished in a joyful rhythm – friends clinking beer bottles, students ducking in for takeout, laughter bouncing off the stone walls.

I was especially happy because I don’t eat cheese, and Gustapizza actually had a pizza just for me – I didn’t even have to poorly pronounce senza formaggio to the waiter. My tomato-topped pizza came out bubbling, with that perfect Neapolitan-style char on the crust, and was absolutely worth the wait. The name “Gusta,” meaning taste or enjoy, couldn’t have been more fitting.

Gelato at Gelateria dei Neri

When in Florence, there’s only one answer to “where should we get gelato?” – Gelateria dei Neri.

By day three in Florence, we’d all fallen into a delicious routine: my husband and daughters needed their daily gelato fix, and the only acceptable place to get it was Gelateria dei Neri. It quickly became our spot, though truthfully, it had been my daughter’s long before we arrived. She and her friends had made it their unofficial campus-away-from-campus – a stop after class, after dinner, after anything, really.

Proof that choosing a flavor here is an art form – not a quick decision.

On our first visit, she taught us how to tell if a gelateria is the real deal. “See how the gelato isn’t piled high like whipped cream?” she said. “That’s how you know it’s authentic – made in small batches, kept cold and dense, not fluffy and over-colored.” She pointed out the muted shades – real pistachio is never neon green, lemon isn’t glowing white, and banana isn’t bright yellow. By then, she could tell a good gelato just by glancing at the bins.

Muted colors mean real ingredients – not artificial fluff.

We each ordered different flavors: she went for stracciatella, which quickly became everyone’s favorite, though we occasionally “tested” other flavors just to be sure. My husband leaned toward hazelnut and dark chocolate, while I opted for a swirl of coffee and cocoa cream.

No wrong choices here – every flavor earned its own applause.

We ended up returning every night that week, walking back to our hotel along the Arno with melting gelato and sticky fingers, laughing about whose combination was best. It became our sweetest tradition in Florence – proof that sometimes, dessert really does make the memory.

Mercato Centrale: A Feast for the Senses

Garlic and chili peppers dangle like ornaments above a rainbow of fresh produce – the market’s heartbeat in full color.

If you’re visiting Florence, don’t stop at the outdoor stalls of San Lorenzo Market – no matter how tempting the leather bags, scarves, and souvenirs may be. Keep walking past them, and tucked just behind the bustle you’ll find a large brick building – Mercato Centrale – Florence’s indoor food market and one of the city’s best-kept open secrets.

Step inside and the world changes. The air is thick with the scent of cured meats, espresso, and fresh bread. Locals weave through tourists, baskets in hand, while vendors greet regulars by name. It’s a place where you can shop for dinner ingredients and eat your way through Tuscany under one roof.

Inside the market: where every aisle tells a different culinary story.

We wandered through the maze of stalls, our senses overloaded in the best possible way – rows of golden olive oils, pyramids of Parmesan, wheels of pecorino stacked like sculpture. One counter displayed glistening prosciutto di Parma and salami Toscano, carved so thin you could see light through it.

Prosciutto di Parma – displayed like art and sliced paper-thin.

Eventually, we found Enoteca Lombardi, a small wine-and-charcuterie stand on the ground floor. It had just four tables tucked in a cozy room off the main walkway – the kind of place you could easily miss if you weren’t looking for it. We sat down and were immediately greeted by a waiter who seemed to know exactly what we needed: a charcuterie board piled high with prosciutto, salami, pecorino, and olives, and a carafe of Tuscan red.

A platter worth traveling for – simple ingredients, unforgettable flavor.

The setting was unpretentious – paper placemats, communal laughter, and walls lined with hanging hams – but it was one of our favorite meals in Florence. Around us, shopkeepers called out prices, locals haggled over porcini mushrooms, and visitors like us tried to decide which delicacy to taste next.

Enoteca Lombardi – a hidden gem within the market where tradition still hangs from the rafters.

Before leaving, we wandered back through the aisles one more time – stopping to admire piles of artichokes, ruby pomegranates, and garlic braids hanging like jewelry. It was a reminder that Florence’s magic isn’t only found in museums or cathedrals – it’s also right here, in the rhythm of everyday life, one bite (and one market stall) at a time.

If color had a flavor, this would be it.

Trattoria Zà Zà – A Night Beneath the Red Tent in Florence

We’d heard the name Trattoria Zà Zà long before we arrived in Florence – whispered in travel blogs and mentioned by friends who’d said, “You have to go, but make a reservation.” Thankfully, we did. When we arrived, the square around the Mercato Centrale was glowing under a canopy of red tents, heat lamps buzzing softly above a sea of laughter and clinking glasses. The air smelled of garlic, grilled meat, and the faint sweetness of wine.

We were ushered to our table outside, the red tent casting everything in a warm, romantic glow – the kind of light that makes even travel-weary faces look relaxed and happy again. The restaurant was buzzing – waiters weaving between tables, couples toasting, locals gesturing mid-story – and yet somehow, everything felt perfectly choreographed.

Prosciutto e Melone – Parma Memories on a Plate

It felt only right to start with prosciutto and melon, especially after having spent three weeks in Parma, the birthplace of that silky, salty perfection. The plate arrived like art – translucent ribbons of prosciutto di Parma draped over golden slices of melon.

The first bite was summer itself: the sweetness of the fruit cooling and bright, the prosciutto whispering salt and umami. I could almost taste the sun that ripened the melon and the time that cured the ham. Each bite was a dance between sweet and savory, soft and smooth. It was so simple, yet so perfect – the kind of dish that makes you slow down and appreciate how Italians do everything with purpose.

Spaghetti alle Vongole Veraci – The Scent of the Sea in a Tuscan Night

For my main course, I chose spaghetti alle vongole veraci – a dish that never needs cheese, only confidence. The moment it arrived, the scent of the sea rose from the plate – garlic and olive oil mingling with the briny perfume of fresh clams and white wine.

Each strand of spaghetti shimmered, coated in that golden sauce, dotted with tender clams still nestled in their shells. The flavor was clean but deep: the salt of the sea, the warmth of the oil, the brightness of parsley, and that little spark of garlic that keeps you chasing the next bite. Every swirl of pasta seemed to carry the rhythm of Florence itself – lively, soulful, and perfectly balanced.

Family at the Table

My husband and I sat across from each other, exchanging quiet smiles between bites. Our youngest, true to form, ordered her “plain pasta with cheese” and looked utterly content, twirling away with no interest in the delicious seafood or truffles swirling around her. Our oldest, now the seasoned traveler, guided us like a local – insisting we try everything, toast often, and “don’t leave a single bite behind.”

And so we didn’t. We ate every bite, following her lead, showing our appreciation the Italian way – clean plates and happy sighs. Around us, the clatter of forks, laughter, and the soft murmur of Italian conversations wrapped us in that rare feeling of belonging, even just for an evening.

The Heart of Zà Zà

Trattoria Zà Zà isn’t just another Florence restaurant – it’s a family story. Founded in 1977 by Stefano Bondi and his mother, Mamma Mara, it started as a single small room tucked behind the Mercato Centrale. Over the years, it grew to fill the surrounding historic spaces – old convent cellars and 19th-century halls – now a labyrinth of dining rooms, each with its own soul. Yet despite its size and fame, the heart of Zà Zà still beats like a family kitchen. You can feel it in the way the food arrives – generous, unpretentious, and made with care.

It’s the kind of place where time slows just a little, where locals mix with travelers, and where every plate tells a story of Florence – bold, beautiful, and made to be shared.

As we stood to leave, heaters glowing behind us and the red canopy catching the night’s last light, I looked back at the tables full of laughter and half-finished glasses of Chianti. I thought, this is what travel is about – good food, family, and a table that somehow feels like home, even halfway around the world.

Sandwiches at All’Antico Vinaio

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