Pesto

After Florence, we went to Manarola, on the Cinque Terre. Since we rushed breakfast to get on an early train, by the time we settled into our room it was almost two and we were starving. As we walked downed the hill, back toward the center of town, it was becoming apparent that this was not a town full of restaurants, we better find something while it was still open. We came upon gazebo filled with tables brimming with plates of seafood and gregarious Italians. One thing we have quickly learned here in Italy, if you find a restaurant filled with Italians, go in; if it is filled with tourist, go in only if your desperate. Italians know good food.

There was exactly one empty table, set for two, in the entire place. The waiter nodded that we take it. As we walked over, it was as if someone turned down the volume with a remote control – it felt like everyone was staring at us. We were not wearing our Sunday-best tight jeans like the Italians were, but we rather wearing tourist clothes. DH looked at me, “Oh my God, should we leave?” To which I replied, “Where would we go?” We slithered in our chairs and stuck our noses deep in the menus. The volume slowly returned, and it became apparent we were the only English speakers in the place. The table next to us had two French couples, dining on mussels and shrimp.

This area of Italy is particularly known for their pesto, as their temperate Mediterranean climate allows for happy basil plants. DH and I started with an order of fresh anchovies to share, spaghetti alle pesto, with mussels for me, spaghetti alle ragu and local lobster for DH. (I told you we were really hungry.)

First came the house wine, a green label-less bottle, filled to the very top with wine. House wine was evidently also made by the restaurant, and it was very good. White wine was the specialty here, and this bottle was a great example why. Dry but smooth, not an over-oaky chardonnay; as the diner progressed, the wine mellowed even more. That bottle was starting to convert this red wine girl.

The anchovies were buttery soft that were neither too fishy nor too salty. The bread was fresh with a chewy crust, the sun shining, the restaurant continued to buzz with activity. We were no longer tourist looking at Italy; we were now dripping in the culture.

Then came the spaghetti alle pesto.


There are moments in my life, when I take a bite of something; I instantly know deep in my soul, I will never consume anything better ever again. Like a warm June strawberry that was just on the plant 5 seconds before it came to your lips, blows away anything you would ever get at the supermarket. This was food heaven.

Now, this was certainly not the first time I ever had pesto. I make the stuff at home when my basil (finally) comes in; buy it in jars when I’m lazy. But this, oh this was out of this world. The basil was very fine, I’m sure it must have been rubbed or pounded with a mortar and pestle. The cheese was fresh and the olive oil held it all together like an conductor at a symphony. Words just can not express the nirvana that was in my mouth.
After the first bite, I gave DH one bite. We rarely order the same thing, and always “trade forks” a bite of yours for a bite of mine. There was to be no more sharing after that one bite.

Now there may be a slight difference in how the following moments would be described by DH and me. I would say that I really enjoyed my spaghetti alle pesto, and the French couples next me admired my enjoyment. He may say our conversation stopped as all my attention went to that plate of pasta. When he motioned to me that I had a little sauce on the side of my mouth, using my napkin was not a consideration, my tongue when out for it, like a soldier on a rescue mission. His eyed bulged as I grabbed more bread to wipe up every last drop of that pesto. I mentioned in French to the table next to us, that a cat must have eaten it, as I mimicked licking the plate, and they laughed in response.

As we ate our seafood, we noticed the Italians getting little pitchers of a honey-colored liquid and baskets of cookies– whatever it was, it was not listed on the menu and I wanted it. With broken Italian and a little charades, our meal ended with the local dessert wine and biscotti to dunk. Eating the specialties of whatever is grown, caught or produced in the region brings a culinary paradise.

On Monday, the restaurant was closed and I was heartbroken. After dinner we swapped travel tips with another family from America, telling them of our memorable meal. Tuesday was our last night we returned to the same waiter, each getting our own plate of spaghetti alle pesto. We shared the antipasti di mari (Seafood appetizer)


Each little pile of seafood had a different character. The stuffed mussels were divine, like a little mini sausage meatloaf stuffed in a shell. I ate octopus for the first time, and I would certainly have it again.

The American family we just met the previous night was seated right by us and we had a great time talking and eating. (The husband makes handmade violin bows. Really! What a cool job!) It was sad leaving the next day because I felt like we were leaving “our” restaurant with “our” waiter.