THERE is a sign in a vast old paper mill by the side of the road in Fabbriche
di Casabasciana on which is scrawled in green paint, trote vive - live
trout. You get out of the car (often in the driving rain), try not to get
flattened by the juggernauts that thunder up and down the Brennero, and ring
on a bell that is hanging off its wire under the sign.
Just as you’re about to give up Ennio arrives in his three-wheeled Ape
(meaning bee; Vespa means wasp) and lets you into the warehouse with a rusty
key.
Everything inside, including large pieces of ancient and discarded furniture,
smells of damp and mildew. The echoing interior is lit by one tiny
fluorescent strip on the ceiling.
The river is diverted into the warehouse in all kinds of large and leaking
pipes and the live trout thrash around in shallow tanks, seeming to know
when Ennio is going to put his net in. He bops each one quickly on the head
and guts them with a pair of scissors, rinsing them in the torrent, popping
them in a plastic bag, weighing them on old grocer’s scales and charging you
not much at all. This is Tuscany.
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