No Small Wander

When I first got into Florence, I was running on fumes.

I’d woken up at 5am; got to the airport after 90 minutes of public transit; waded through the airport haze for another 2 hours. After my flight, I stepped into a wave of 37°C heat, figured out the route to my hotel and how to pay for the tram—all on 4 hours of sleep, because I’m silly and was up past midnight the night before, packing my suitcase. I was so lucky to get an early hotel check-in.

But after a rest, I started getting hungry. And I popped by the concierge desk, and explained what I was looking for a place to get lunch. I asked for the concierge’s recommendation (pro tip: the people behind the desk will always have the best local knowledge!). She told me directly: I needed to go to the San Lorenzo Market.

Once I got there, I understood the hype: the lower levels of the market halls were full of grocers, fruit stands, and fish stalls. But the real treat was at the second level. I rode the escalator to a food market filled with stalls of Italian delicacies.

It took me about 20 minutes just to move through all the stalls, trying to figure out what I wanted. The options really seemed endless; many options like burgers and pizza, but there were also some really special offerings. Vegan stalls, pastry-filled bakeries, speciality salads, a brownie vendor, a prosciutto stand, and an alcoholic bar. Seating options abound, including counters of the bigger stalls, or in family-style seating tables throughout the hall.

I was on a mission: I’d written down phoenetically what to order, as per the concierge’s suggestion. “Skee-ah-chat-ah”—or in Italian, Schiacciata. At The Social Hub, my guide explained: “It’s like a thin panini. If you’re looking for a light lunch, most Italian delis will know what you’re after.”

I was grateful for the proper Italian word; I hate showing my ignorance of languages when I go to non-English-speaking parts of the world. Beyond “hello”, “thank you”, and “excuse me”, I hadn’t had much time to memorize common phrases. The name of a sandwich definitely didn’t make my list!

(I should note: the word “schiacciata” was successfully used to describe the sandwich. But looking back, I’m unsure if that’s the name of a sandwich, or if it’s just the name of the bread used. It’s possibly slang, as schiacciata is a bread type. Like the way in English we’d say, “Can I have a sub?” or “I’d like a bun”. The deli would know the type of sandwich we want based on the requested bread type.)

I finally found a stall without pistachios in the window (a huge feat in Florence!), I ended up at a small sandwich counter. After a brief confirmation that the sandwich wouldn’t kill me, I set up at the counter and waited for it to be pressed.

I then proceeded to have—I’m not kidding—one of the best sandwiches of my life.

The richness of the ricotta. The crisp toasted layer of the thinly-spongey bread. The salami that tasted better than any sliced meat I’d ever tasted. I sat at that counter with my sandwich and Coke, and devoured that sandwich.

I recommended it to every person who came to the counter; I told a couple speaking English that they wouldn’t regret it, and they bought two. My mouth is literally watering remembering it.

If you’re in Florence, I really recommend the San Lorenzo food market—there’s something for everyone, including those who love mouth-watering, meat-and-cheese filled sandwiches. Bon appetit!