As a teenager, Dario Cecchini dreamed of becoming a veterinarian. Growing up in the Tuscan countryside, he fell in love with the simple, bucolic lifestyle and developed deep friendships with neighbors by caring for their animals. At the University of Pisa, he worked toward a veterinary degree.
It wasn’t meant to be. Halfway through college, Cecchini became an orphan when his father lost his battle with cancer (his mother had died when he was eleven). With no money to pay his school bills, he was forced to return home to Panzano—in the heart of Tuscany’s Chianti district—to run his family’s business. It was one of life’s little ironies that the business was, of all things, a butcher shop.
"Looking back, I realize that I had a romantic vision of being a veterinarian," says Cecchini, a big, handsome man with a resounding laugh. "When I was a little boy, the vets made house calls. If people couldn't pay in cash, they'd offer olive oil or flasks of wine. I loved the idea of helping poor farmers and breeders. Taking care of animals was where my heart was." (Even today, Cecchini has eight cats and three dogs.)
Now 51, Cecchini is Italy's most famous butcher. He travels around the world teaching people how to recognize high-quality beef and cook it well. Famous for his wild, jovial personality, he has been known to jump up on tables while quoting Dante, or grab a flank of meat from the locker and kiss it lovingly. Last May, New Yorker staff writer Bill Buford published Heat, a humorous memoir chronicling his apprenticeship at Cecchini's butcher shop, which has become a destination for European foodies.
Cecchini takes pride in his two-room shop, always crammed with people buying his famous cuts of beef, while classical music blares from the stereo. "I'm pleased that at a time when butcher shops seem to sell everything, from olive oil to wine, I sell almost exclusively meat, and traditional cuts of beef at that. And it's always a party in here," he laughs, as customers help themselves to samples of polpettone, or meat loaf, and glasses of red wine.
"These two rooms have been here for hundreds of years, but in the old days, the second room was a stable," Cecchini explains, as we walk through the store. "Beneath this marble floor are terracotta tiles dating back to the eighteenth century."
Despite the pride he takes in his work, Cecchini couldn't have found it easy to devote himself to a job that was practically the opposite of what he had envisioned for himself. "It was like dying and coming to back to life," he recalls. "Butchery was handed down in my family for centuries, from father to son. Whether you had a passion for it or not, in this family you were either destined or condemned to it."
Studying the Meat
Butchers in Tuscany have long been treated as artisans, and butcher hopefuls learned the trade through a rigorous apprenticeship. Cecchini, however, was forced to learn on the spot. "I wasn't fortunate enough to have my father teach me much, before he passed away," he says.
The first step was learning how to manage a knife. "Besides repeatedly cutting myself, I wasted money trying to find the best one, whether it was Italian, German or Japanese," remembers Cecchini. "Over time I realized that although a good knife can help, it's the hand that really counts. You need to develop a manual dexterity, an ability to truly feel the blade. That comes only with experience."
Buying the Meat
The biggest lesson Cecchini learned, however, was how to find the best possible beef. Orlando, an old friend of his father, explained that it all begins with what the animal is fed. Meat always tastes better when it comes from animals that graze on grasses, their natural diet, not grain, says Cecchini. When you buy meat, ask the butcher if the animal was grass- or grain-fed, advises Cecchini.
Curiously enough, at a time when menus boast Kobe or Angus beef, Cecchini takes another direction. "Certain breeds have the shape to produce big juicy steaks, but that's not the whole story," he says. "The breed itself doesn't greatly influence the overall quality of the cut." The Chianina breed is very popular in Italy, but Cecchini doesn't sell it because, according to him, the breeders haven't done enough to lift its overall quality. "It's so famous that it sells with ease, so there's little push to improve," he continues. "Italian breeders need to look outside Italy to see what others are doing. That's one of the reasons our wines are so fantastic: Our winemakers saw what other countries were doing and worked to surpass them."
It's not surprising, then, to learn that Italy's most famous butcher doesn't sell any Italian meat. "Currently, all my meat comes from Catalonia in Spain. I must be the world's smallest importer of beef—just one little truckload a week."
Cutting the Meat
Cecchini's most popular cut is the bistecca Panzanese, obtained from the front of the thigh and named after his town of Panzano. "It has a much finer yet more pronounced flavor and cooks more evenly," Cecchini explains, than the more widely known Tuscan bistecca Fiorentina cut.
His personal favorite, however, is the little-known ragno, a small cut obtained from the middle of the thigh. "You get less than a pound of ragno from an entire steer," Cecchini says. "It's a less celebrated cut of meat than tenderloin, which is the most expensive. Ragno is much more flavorful, as it is part of a muscle that the animal uses quite a bit. Personally, I don't like tenderloin; I find it bland."
Although these cuts aren't always available at butcher shops in the United States, many stateside carnivores think it's worth a trip to Cecchini's store in Chianti to try them.
Enhancing the Meat
There's more than just beef in Dario Cecchini's life, however. Cecchini has created signature condiments to enhance the taste of the meat—some of which have become as famous in Italy as the meat itself.
After attending a course on herbs in Siena years ago, he produced what is now widely considered the best salt flavoring for steak—his Profumo del Chianti, a mixture of sea salt, bay leaf, thyme, and rosemary. "It's actually a modern version of what was used centuries ago to preserve meat," Cecchini explains. "The addition of herbs meant you could use less salt, which was very costly."
The red pepper jelly he developed for his meatloaf bears more than a passing resemblance to American pepper jelly. "After years experimenting with mixtures of balsamic vinegars and mustards, I happened to taste some pepper jelly in the United States. It struck a chord, and I came back home to duplicate it with Italian ingredients. Chile pepper, red pepper, quince, sugar, vinegar—and voilaacute!"
Most of these condiments, like his cuts of beef, are made and sold only at Dario's shop in Chianti. When I ask if he plans to export his condiments abroad, he answers with great emotion, "People who are interested enough come here to meet me, see where I work and learn what I do. Therefore, my products are available here, in my shop."
Eating the Meat
Once outside the shop, I spy a small trattoria across the street, which Cecchini considers "the third phase in his career." Opened in July 2006, his restaurant has four rooms, each with a table that can seat up to sixteen. For 25 euro, hungry customers can enjoy with dishes of his renowned meat.
Three female chefs, including an Umbrian who has lived in Tuscany for the last ten years, run the restaurant. "I'm sure we'll work well together," smiles Cecchini. "The Italian writer Malaparte wrote that Umbrians are the only ones who can understand Tuscans, since they're just as crazy as we are."
On September 10th, Cecchini's 51st birthday, he opened Scuola Superiore della Bistecca, a grilling school above his butcher shop, which seats twenty lucky students. The ninety-minute cooking classes begin at 4 P.M., "an hour appropriate for eating a steak," he says. (Call the store, 055 852020, for reservations.)
"Being a butcher is an art—you need passion," Cecchini tells me, as we stand in the Tuscan sunshine. "We ought to be guided by the spirit of Ulysses and realize we're forever on a journey of discovery. The biggest compliment I get is when older butchers call me 'maestro.' Every time I object that it is they who are the real teachers, they shake their heads."
Fellow butchers have reason to applaud Cecchini, however, and when pressed, he modestly explains why: "During the mad-cow-disease scare in the 1990s, I won admirers when I spoke out in defense of beef," he says. "Many butchers in Italy were forced out of business; I thought much of what the media said was sheer insanity. Afterward, an old butcher visited me from his native town of Vinci to thank me for giving him back the pride he had in his life's work. The sheer joy I felt from his heartfelt words still inspires me to become better and better."
| Permalink | More Food & Wine articles
