You’ve escaped the herds of gelato-clutching tourists crossing Florence’s famed Ponte Vecchio (old bridge), and resisted the urge to buy a pair of shorts emblazoned with the privates of Michelangelo’s marble David, or an “I Love Florence” fridge magnet.
The hubbub melts away. You find yourself on a narrow street, palazzi on either side, offering shade from the ferocious midday sun. Here’s a restaurant — a trattoria with a dozen or so tables, a low, brick ceiling. Is that the chef you hear singing Neapolitan love songs in the kitchen?
