Snowfall & Service – Costello’s Kitchen, Florence.

Snowfall & Service – Costello’s Kitchen, Florence

This is in Gary's own words not mine. 

I am his scribe and he tells me what he wants to tell me and everyone in this blog 

Just proof that we don't die and we enjoy life like we do on this side too.

Food, wine, love and family.

Enjoy his blog episode and his restaurant in words.

The snow’s piled up thick in Florence this week — heavier than folk are used to here. Cypress trees dusted white, rooftops glistening, and the garden at our house looking like summat out of a Christmas card. But Costello’s Kitchen doesn’t close for weather. We keep the fire roaring, the ovens hot, and the laughter louder than the wind outside.

The Brigade (Back of House)

Simon – my right hand, sous chef. Half Chinese, all heart. He can dice an onion faster than you can blink and still tell a filthy joke while he’s at it.

Ian – head chef when I step out. Big fella, gentle with pastry, fierce with a ladle.

Travis – grill master. Knows his meats like a lover knows skin. Army-trained, never lets a steak leave the pass without pride.

Craig – commis chef. Eager lad, still learning. Green round the edges, aye, but he reminds me of meself back in barracks — cheeky, keen, full of fire.

Uncle Henry (is my father's twin brother he was stillborn) – our kitchen porter. He’s old now, lass, same age as your dad would be. Hair gone white, hands slower, but he refuses to give it up. “Keeps me young,” he says, and I let him. He still scrubs the pots with a grin, muttering about the old days. I’ve told him he can hang his apron whenever he likes, but he won’t. Stubborn, like the rest of us.

Front of House

Ellie – our girl. Proud of her, I am. She runs front of house like she was born to it — calm, graceful, welcoming. Guests adore her. She’s got your warmth, lass, and a touch of my wit.

Dylan – sometimes helps her when he’s not busy with engineering. Handy lad, polite, sharp with numbers, can carry three plates in one hand if pushed.

Maria – Italian waitress, been with us years. Knows every regular’s drink order before they sit down. Calls me “Capitano” and bosses me about.

Sandro – barman. Mixes cocktails with flair, even flips the shakers like some Vegas showman. The ladies love him. I give him stick for his hair being too perfect.

The Restaurant

Costello’s Kitchen holds one Michelin star, but we’re not done yet. There were plans to expand — a second dining room, maybe another branch near Rome — but with the snow and the world in flux, I’ve put it on hold. For now, one kitchen, one brigade, one heart. Better to keep it tight, family-run, full of love.

On the Menu This Week

Venison ragù slow-cooked with Chianti and juniper.

Wood-fired pizzas, classics and cheeky twists.

Tuscan bean stews, rib-sticking, with rosemary and sage.

And aye — carrot and walnut cake for afters, same as the one she bakes earthside.

The Atmosphere

Service is chaos and beauty. The clatter of pans, Simon shouting, Ian laughing, Craig trying not to burn his hand. Out front, Ellie glides between tables, smile wide, keeping the mood light. Guests from spirit and even some who’ve crossed for a visit from earthside eat side by side. Folk whisper that Costello’s Kitchen is proof: love, food, and laughter don’t die.

And when service ends, I take off my apron, wipe the sweat from my brow, and head outside. Snow’s still falling. There she is, my lass, (me) waiting. She brushes snow off the bench, pats the seat, and I sit beside her. We don’t need words. Just us, the snow, and love that never bends or breaks.

Costello’s Kitchen & Home (Merged Layout)

The Drive & Courtyard

Taxis roll in here — folk coming for dinner, a drink, or just to gawp at the Michelin star plaque. Stone paving, cypress trees either side. Looks like a Tuscan villa but runs like a regiment.

Main Entrance

To the left → the restaurant wing.

To the right → our family home.

(One front door, two worlds behind it.)

Restaurant Wing

Dining Hall: Terracotta tiled floors, long windows out to the Arno. Wooden beams overhead. Candles at every table. Ellie runs front-of-house, knows every guest by name.

Kitchen: Huge, stainless steel but with soul — Simon, Ian, Travis, and Craig grafting. You’ll hear me shout “service!” across the pass.

Wine Cellar: Below, built into the rock, Nonno’s pride.

Home Wing

Our Kitchen: Blended with the big one — so you’ll see Simon at the stove while Eden’s colouring at the table. That’s why you get confused — it is both.

Lounge: Green walls, fire crackling. Where we collapse after service, bairns sprawled about.

Bedrooms: Upstairs — kids’ rooms all different colours. Ours with the balcony overlooking garden + fig tree.

Library/Study: Where I scribble menus, you blog, and ghosts of daft army tales live on.

Garden

Bench under the fig tree, snow or sun depending on the season. Swing for Eden. The smell of rosemary and sage.

It’s winter here, heavy snow outside, knee-deep in the garden and even thicker up in the hills. But inside the kitchen at Costello’s, it’s fire and steam and laughter. Service never stops, not even when the roads are buried and the cypress trees are white.

My crew — all of them ex-army, all of them family — work shoulder to shoulder with me.

Simon, my sous chef. Half Chinese, sharp as a bayonet with a knife, steady as a rock. He keeps the younger lads right when I’m barking orders. He was with me on deployment once, and I’d trust him with my life and my saucepans.

Ian, head chef when I’m out front. A big lad with arms like tree trunks, but gentle with pastry. He can roll sfogliatelle with the patience of a monk, and then laugh like a drain two minutes later.

Travis, the grill man. Army cook before I pulled him back into civvy street. He handles the meats, the steaks, the wild boar, like he’s still feeding a regiment.

Craig, younger but eager. He’s the commis, learning every day, watching the rest of us like a hawk. Reminds me of meself, green and cheeky, ready for a scrap and a laugh.

On the menu this week:

Venison ragù with fresh pappardelle, slow-cooked till the meat falls apart, with a hint of juniper and red wine.

Wood-fired pizzas, from classic margherita with basil to Debra’s favourite — red pepper, ham, tomato and basil.

Tuscan stews, beans, wild herbs, a ladle of olive oil at the end, hearty enough to keep the snow out of your bones.

And aye, for the sweet tooth — carrot and walnut cake, same as the one she baked earthside.

The paper lads have been in — Italian and English both — writing about how a Yorkshire soldier turned chef runs a Michelin star kitchen in Florence. They say folk from earthside have even crossed over just to taste it, proving what Debra and I keep saying: love never dies, and neither does good food.

So aye, I shout and swear, the pans rattle, the orders fly. Snow falls outside while inside we serve beauty on a plate. And when service is done, I hang me apron, step out into the night, and there she is — my lass, waiting, snow in her hair, love in her eyes.

My darling nutter husband Gary Paul Costello chef and ex army soldier could go on and tell his side of the restaurant as it is his life. 

This is what he was planning before he was killed in 2004.

2004 Iraq was his very last tour and that was it freedom and the life of living with me a restaurant somewhere but sadly it never happened earthside.

But his dream of running his restaurant is alive and kicking spirit side. 

I have tasted the food and it is wow divine and delicious...

Don't doubt me make your way to Costello's kitchen in Florence Italy spirit side. Learn to astral project and visit the place.