The Italians have a saying, apparently, that restaurants with views only serve food fit for dogs. Sounds to me like a rumour started by the owners of restaurants with no view. This place unequivocally dispels the myth.
No more, really, than a shack on the beach (quite a smart shack, though), Il Laghetto assumes pride of place on the curved bay of Portonovo. The name means little lake, after the tiny lagoon behind the beach that hosts night-time frog croaking contests. Locally, it's simply Marcello's.
We've eaten here a handful of times. The first time was delicious chaos. We hadn't booked, but just managed to bag a table by the bar. The restaurant was packed, heaving, the waiters sweating as food was delivered by the bucketload from the kitchen. The noise was deafening, the atmosphere electric. We didn't really order, but left ourselves in the hands of our 100-mile-an-hour waiter, who brought us dish after dish. Mussels, polenta, clams, razor clams, sea snails, prawn risotto, fritto misto... it just kept coming. And it was very, very good.
It was all calmer, and most memorable, when we returned to celebrate our wedding anniversary. The table waiting for us directly on the beach was laid as crisply as in any fine restaurant dining room. In the curve of the bay, a handful of boats had moored for the evening and at another of the restaurants along the shore, as dusk fell, a guitarist started to play gentle jazz. Our waiter invited us to enjoy the view, but we had already taken the liberty.
We ordered souté di vongole and pesce azzuro and rombo – a whole grilled turbot between the two of us. Wine was placed in an ice bucket, its feet secured in the shail. A plate of tiny whole fish, lightly dusted with flour and fried to a crisp, was placed before us. The pesce azzuro, our waiter exlained, should be eaten with the fingers, no cutlery, and whilst piping hot. Scottaditto. He made burned fingers gestures, blowing onto his hands, to emphasise his point. Prizing the tiny backbones from the fish, we sucked on their salty, lemony flesh, leaving neat little piles of bones on the sides of our plates. Next a heavy copper pan, hot from the hob and rattling with glistening clam shells bathed in a garlicky liquor which dribbled down our chins and clung to our fingers. Then the turbot was skillfully filleted at the table and its sweet white flesh served to us simply with roast potatoes (but what roast potatoes!)
That night Italy were playing the USA in the first round of the World Cup. A TV inside the restaurant showed the game. It was dark when Italy scored their first (and only) goal in the match, raising a cheer from inside the restaurants along the beach and signalling the lamplit boats in the bay to sound their dull foghorns.
Il Laghetto, Portonovo di Ancona
Tel 071 801183
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