stay and eat in Italy

Osteria Bancogiro, Venice

2011-01-05T21:11:00.044Z

Now here, I'm afraid, is a classic example of style over substance. It's very nice to sit in a first floor brick vaulted dining room near the Rialto market, a babble of tourists drinking and taking cichetti below, the Christmas lights of the souvenir stalls twinkling across the campo. It's nice to gaze on a square white plate of salmon and fennel and pear, or a salad of duck ham, blue cheese and grapes. How about smoked tuna with aubergine and a pumpkin and cardamom sauce, or lamb with tarragon? They read well on the menu, they look good on the plate...if only they tasted of something!

I'm not trying to be unkind or harsh, really I'm not. There are lots of people on Tripadvisor who would say I'm an idiot, that the food here is the best they've ever tasted. (And four who would say I'm being too kind). So I'm prepared to think that we just came on a bad day. Maybe the chef had a cold and had lost his sense of taste. Maybe he had had his tongue cut out with a stiletto in a feud with with a gondolier over a beautiful woman. Well, you never know in Venice.

For whatever reason, he clearly wasn't tasting his food that day, and we paid over 100 euros for two plates each of mediocre dishes, eaten in beautiful but empty dining room. The wine was good though. Listen, don't let me put you off. Dozens of Tripadvisors can't be wrong (surely?), and I can be, easily, and often. But really, everything here was in very good taste; except the food.

Osteria Bancogiro, Campo San Giacometto, San Polo 122, under the porticoes, Venice, 30125

Tel 041 5232061
Osteria Bancogiro

Ca' Favretto, Venice

2011-01-04T20:13:00.001Z

A room with a view of the Grand Canal: you'll pay a pretty price. But actually, the cost of our room at Ca' Favretto, which had this view from its window, was quite reasonable and the room was large and comfortable. Maybe it's because we were at the 'tradesman's' end of the canal, amongst the market and the post office rather than the galleries and palazzos and piazzas. But this is a convenient place to be: San Stae or Rialto Mercato vaporetto stops are just steps away, as is the Rialto bridge, and the traghetto across to San Marcuola gets you to Canareggio in minutes – if you master the art of standing up in a gondola.

The water laps and sucks at the hotel's canal frontage, and here is where you'll arrive if you have the taste to come by water taxi. Arrival on foot is a bit less salubrious, and more obscure, but not difficult if you're used to the anonymity of Venice's alleyways.

Breakfast was a good natured bun fight, in a room too small, or at least too narrow, for the number of guests, making for lots of polite giving way as people head for the fruit juice and coffee or return with a plate full of ham and cheese. A pity that, when we were there, it was too raw and cold to open the breakfast room doors out onto a balcony over the canal.

At night the noises from the canal were reassuring rather than disturbing. Vaporetti in the night and delivery barges in the early morning, bringing produce to the market. Not just a view, you see, but an ambient soundtrack too.

Residenza d'Epoca Ca' Favretto, Santa Croce, 2232 30135 - VENEZIA
Tel 041 52 41 768

Hotel Ca' Favretto

Il Clandestino, Portonovo

2010-10-31T18:38:00.000Z

Even in the shade of the forest it was hot. The searing midday sun pumped the resin through the pine trees until it sweated from the needles and the bark and the cones, filling the drowsy air with its soporific bitter-sweetness. Even the birdsong had grown lazy in the heat. The network of dusty tracks through the trees occasionally emerged into secretive coves of dazzling white rock and surf, each presenting a different, slightly surreal little scene. Here a deserted little beach, save for a bicycle which had been propped against a signpost, a small towel draped across the crossbar. No sign of its owner. A ramshackle jumble of boats and trailers, kayaks and sailboards filled the next beach. A man wearing a heavy mask was busy welding, creating flashes and sparks brighter even than the rock. Another, wearing only trunks, his skin tanned to the colour of chestnuts, sanded the fibreglass hull of a dinghy.

In the next cove we came across the appropriately named Il Clandestino; a laid back but acclaimed shushi (sorry, susci) and tapas restaurant in the middle of nowhere. Just a pale blue shack with a few tables and chairs outside, laid bare to the sun. A lone customer, a single man wearing a crisp linen suit and a panama hat sat at one of the tables sipping a glass of ruby red liquid and gazing out to sea. The man who served our drinks now lay on a large flat rock on the beach, apparently asleep. It was like a scene from a Buñuel film. We sipped the drinks we had ordered and felt a little out of place. And very hot, though it seemed uncool to sweat.

We later learned that Il Clandestino is owned by Moreno Cedroni, who holds two Michelin stars. Now if only we'd gone back for dinner...

Il Clandestino, Localita Baia di Portonovo 60100 Ancona

Tel 071 801 422

Il Clandestino

Osteria del Cinghiale Bianco, Florence

2010-10-30T22:48:00.000+01:00

It was early October - the start of the mushroom season - and in the markets the air was heavy with their heady, earthy, almost other-worldy scent. Crossing the Arno as the sun set, silhouetting figures on Ponte Santa Trinita against a golden sky, we plunged into the shadows of Borgo San Jacopo, just as one might step across some unseen threshold and sink back in time. The light from the osteria's narrow entrance spilled onto the pavement like a beacon.

Inside, the dining rooms veer towards Tuscan pastiche (dark wood, white walls, old farm implements, pottery wine jugs), but hold short of overstepping the mark. When the service and the food kick in, there's no question that this is the real deal. The season's ingredients were very much top of the agenda here, as we were told "off menu" and with some pride that they had mushrooms – a plate of raw porcini was wafted regularly through the dining room – and persimmons, which featured in a dessert. Persimmons, it seems, are widely grown in this part of Italy.

The ubiquitous Florentine crostini with chicken livers was at its best here, and our first taste of fettunta was a revelation. I've no idea how simply bread and garlic and oil can taste that good. As befitting the restaurant name, we chose wild boar with grilled polenta and, as befitting the season, we also chose pork with wild mushrooms. Both were superb. So was the bottle of Classico we washed it down with.

It seemed that tourists, mainly, came here to be wrapped in a cosy Tuscan embrace for the evening, but it seemed too that the osteria offered no concessions, no compromises to this ready flow of business. The sunset that had escorted our arrival had turned to blackness when we spilled out onto the narrow street. The air was still warm, but a breeze caused a shiver on the surface of the river as we crossed it and picked our way through the city back to our hotel. This time-warp thing kicked in again. Hardly anything you walk past in Florence hasn't been around for centuries, and I felt a strange feeling of déja vu and timelessness as we wandered back to our hotel.

Okay, the Classico may have had something to do with it.

Osteria del Cinghiale Bianco, Borgo S. Jacopo, 43R, 50125 Firenze

Tel 055 215706

Osteria del Cinghiale Bianco

Relais Villa Antea, Florence

2010-10-24T15:05:00.000+01:00

We were greeted first by a bat-eared and wire-haired young thing called Marta, who met us in the courtyard and we followed her into reception, where a young lady took over the formalities from this otherwise perfectly hospitable little dog. She had something of the theatre about her, this girl: when she showed us to our room she paused for a moment outside the unlocked door and said "Are you ready?", as though we should prepare ourselves for some life changing experience waiting on the other side of the door.

Life changing, no; but life enhancing, yes. Large room, parquet floors, comfortable bed, dressing area and thoughtful touches like a kettle and some tea and coffee. And a good value mini bar. A large bathroom and a huge shower. Every comfort. From our window we looked over a scene of leafy suburban Florence, and a few steps from the hotel the quiet Piazza della Vittoria went about its gentle daily business. A buffet of cheese and hams, bread and pastries in the first floor breakfast room set us up for our own gentle daily business of wandering and exploring the relaxed and sunny streets.

In two days we got to know the routes from the hotel into the main parts of the city and across the river: nowhere was more than a pleasant fifteen minute walk. In the end we didn't even need to look at the map. I always like it when you no longer have to look at the map: it either means you've settled in, or it's time to move on.

Relais Villa Antea, Via Puccinotti 46, 50129 Firenze

Tel 055 484 106

Relais Villa Antea

Pane e Olio, Florence

2010-10-18T20:54:00.000+01:00

You can learn a lot about a town's eating habits by browsing its markets. You won't find much fish in Florence's Mercato Centrale, but stall after stall presents wonderful displays of meat: pork, beef, veal, chicken, guinea fowl, turkey, tiny milk fed lamb, suckling pig, rabbit, hare. There are trays of quivering offal: tripe, hearts, lungs, liver and other nondescript innards snuggle up alongside calves feet, nervetti and pale soft calves muzzles, peeled off as cleanly as if by a plastic surgeon. I'm not quite sure how you eat a calve's muzzle, or why. But it all goes to show that the Florentines like things meaty, and so it's not surprising that the city, a hundred miles or more from the sea, isn't exactly awash with fish restaurants.

We were a bit surprised then to find this little restaurant near the Ponte Rosso, and discover that the menu is almost exclusively fishy. It makes more sense when you get to know that the owners are from Liguria, and therefore accustomed to the abundance of the Ligurian coastline.

Outside is what you might call discreet. Inside is what you would definitely call small: we counted 18 covers, but that was only because a party of 12 was happy to share a communal table. It's a family affair, with mother in the kitchen and son front of house, and none the worse for that: a wordless intuition seemed to be at work to ensure seamless continuity between restaurant orders and kitchen output. Without asking, we began with breadsticks and slices of toast dunked in a little pot of anchovy mayonnaise. We ventured a little off the seafood track, but things maritime are undoubtedly this place's strong point. So the show was stolen from the various crostini of liver and tomatoes and mushrooms by the mixed seafood antipasti: a platter of fresh sardines and cheese, stuffed mussels, prawns, eel and pickled vegetables and unidentified (but delicious) little fishy tartlets. The trofie with pesto was bettered by the seafood lasagne. (No, I'd never had seafood lasagne before either, but I'd have it again here.) A bottle of Greco wine was a fitting accompaniment.

Service was careful, almost over-delicate, but efficient. The doors to the kitchen were thrown open throughout the evening, so the other, exclusively Italian, diners would have spotted, like me, the occasional use of a microwave to finish the food before serving. They didn't seem to mind, so neither did I.

I don't have a picture of Pane e Olio I'm afraid, so here's just a nice reflection in the Arno.

Pane e Olio, Via Faentina 2R, Ponte Rosso, 50133 Firenze

Tel 055 488 381

Pane e Olio

Osteria Santo Spirito, Florence - again

2010-10-16T20:14:00.000+01:00

I have a soft spot for Santo Spirito; both the piazza and the osteria which takes its name. It's a gentle relief from the crowds around the Uffizi and the Duomo and the Ponte Vecchio. Six years after we were first here, we found ourself standing in the square again on this warm autumn day, breathing a sigh of relief that almost nothing had changed. Except that this time, this Sunday, the square and the streets around were filled with the stalls of a flea market: tressle tables of bric-a-brac, arrangements of old furniture, pictures (some good, some tacky), rails of second-hand clothes, boxes of records, glass cases of old jewellery, stacks of crockery, tablefuls of books...

It was lunchtime. In one corner of the piazza a drift of smoke rose enticingly from a mobile kitchen serving porchetta and fried polenta to a growing queue of market browsers (and, I think, traders too). In the other, only one table was left on the osteria's little terrace on the square. We couldn't resist, and were taking our seats almost before we knew it. Some little things were different: the tablecloths, the cutlery tied with dark blue ribbons, the bread now served in a colander. But the essence of the place remained the same as we remembered: young, rafish and lively. And though we ourselves felt distinctly less young, rafish and lively than we did even just six years ago, we were happy to join in.

We didn't overdo it. We ate pizza with salamino piccante and salad with celery, walnuts and gorgonzola dolce, dressed at the table with apple balsamic. And drank a glass of Orvieto each. And we knew (and breathed the second sigh of relief that day) that the osteria hadn't lost its touch.

Osteria Santo Spirito, Piazza di Santo Spirito, 16, 50125 Firenze

Tel 055 2382383

Still no website. Still doesn't matter. Still fantastic.

Hotel Emilia, Portonovo

2009-08-20T19:24:00.024+01:00

It was all a bit like a James Bond film set. A glistening white building surrounded by green, green lawns dotted with sunloungers and pine trees and oddly industrial sculptures: all overlooking an Indian-Ocean-white beach and a pigment-blue sea. Crickets sang from the lavender bushes. The reception staff were dressed in white too, loose white linen tunics and trousers: they moved slowly, as if performing Tai Chi, and smiled alot, inscrutably. The hall and sitting room were hung with modern art, some of it very good, and large French doors opened onto a shaded terrace of smooth pale stone. Our rooms were all cream carpets and billowing curtains, cane furniture and dark wood floors. I half expected Ursula Andress to pad across the lawns, dagger strapped to her still-dripping thigh.

But, like a film set, it all looked better from a slight distance. Upon closer inspection the whitewashed building showed signs of wear, the cream carpets bore stains of spillage and the staff chose not to venture out from behind their reception desk, leaving us to haul our own luggage to our rooms. The art, on the other hand, remained as good close up as it was from across the room.

We spent a happy couple of nights here though, lounging in the gardens and around the pool, sipping cold beer beneath a shady arbour. We took dinner one night, outside on the terrace. Earlier in the day, when we asked to see menus, one of the floaty-linen reception staff felt it necessary to point out that the portions were small: an odd way to entice diners. Perhaps she thought we were gluttons. We were served fish that was overcooked and vegetables that were tasteless, so in the event we were grateful for the small portions. And whilst we ate we knew, could even faintly hear, that down the road in the bay people were eating the freshest of seafood, in the most garlicky, fishy liquor or the crispest of batters, looking out over the inkiest of seas.

But you can't have everything. And taking coffee in Emilia's gardens, with the breeze from the Adriatic wafting over the cliff and the sculptures looming vaguely in the darkness, was very pleasant; until it was too chill, and we moved into the living room: in the dimmed light the paintings took on a different quality. The strange filmset feeling returned. I might have ordered a martini, but I worried it might be stirred rather than shaken...

Hotel Emilia, Collina di Portonovo 149/a, 60129 Ancona

Tel 071 801117

Hotel Emilia

La Mulinella, Ponte Naia, Todi

2009-08-10T22:21:00.032+01:00

Vitello tonnato is at once a robust yet delicate dish: cold slices of cooked veal smothered in a smooth, light sauce of tuna, capers, eggs and olive oil. A classic if slightly unusual summer plate. I mention it because the version I was served at La Mulinella was so far removed from this description as to be either a regional variation warranting definition as a sub-species in its own right, or a joke.

A few hundred yards steeply downhill to the south of Todi, a large sports ground dominates the scattering of modern houses that makes up the suburb of Ponte Naia. One house has been turned into a restaurant and sits in a carefully tended garden with shaded tables. This is La Mulinella. On the sunny lunchtime we rolled up, a few local diners - workmen and families - had already taken their seats and were smoking and chatting as the waiter brought bread and water. We ate crostini with mushrooms, a rich chicken liver paté and torta al testo with spinach. Then ravioli with butter and sage and lamb scottaditto. This was all very good, made even better by warm sun and chilled wine. But the vitello tonnato... if I didn't know better, I imagine the conversation between waiter and chef may have gone something like:

Waiter: "He wants vitello tonnato."

Chef: "I don't have any tonnato sauce."

Waiter: "He's English."

Chef: "I have a can of tuna."

Waiter: "That will do."

Chef: "Are you sure?"

Waiter: "He's English."

So the plate put before me was simply two slices of veal topped with with mashed tinned tuna. There may have been a few capers sprinkled on top, I can't remember. Sadly neither my Italian nor my culinary expertise were up to questioning the dish, so I ate it. It was okay, but it was a bit odd. I think I detected a faint raise of eyebrows when the waiter collected my empty plate, which I imagine he returned to the incredulous chef and said "I told you so."

I think (though I may be wrong) that Mulinella means little windmill, though there's no evidence of one. Mind you, there was no tonnato sauce either. But, really, don't take this as a reason not to go: it was very good, and I hope you're luckier with the tonnato than I was.

La Mullinella, Vocabolo Ponte Naia, 06059 Todi, Umbria

Tel 075 8944779

No website of their own that I can find. I don't have a picture of little Ponte Naia, so here's one of big sister Todi.

La Locanda del Baio, Loreto Aprutino, Abruzzo

2009-08-10T22:14:00.012+01:00

Imagine the scene, if you will. Two English people with little grasp of Italian save for a few words walk into a small ristorante pizzerie in a remote village in Abruzzo. The staff have even less grasp of English, and why would they? Until the recently converted Castello Chiola started attracting British and American tourists to its new hotel rooms, such foreigners were, I imagine, a rare sight in the village. Perhaps even now they are a rare sight at La Locanda del Baio, as the hotel does its best, understandably, to keep hold of you for dinner as well as for bed.

But sometimes the hotel restaurant thing is just too much. They can try too hard, the dining room can be too hushed for comfort, the service too attentive and yet the food mediocre. We didn't eat at Castello Chiola so I may be doing them a great injustice and the food may be spectacular... but that evening we just didn't fancy the rigmarole of smartening ourselves up for dinner. So we found ourselves knocking, in jeans and tee shirts, at La Locanda's door. The welcome we received was beautifully, correctly, indifferent: you're not Italian, you're tourists and we can't understand you, but this is what we serve and this is how we serve it, so what do you want? No fuss. We had a very good meal here, and paid an exceptionally good price for it. The same price, I imagine, as the locals who frequent the place. Most of all we felt completely welcome. And relaxed.

Bruschette and pasta and grilled meats later, we left. And as we did, the entire staff, who had gathered anyway at the end of the evening for a chat, bade us a friendly farewell. I hope that La Locanda has, if it wants it, picked up some more diners staying at the Castello. But I hope too that this tourism doesn't go to its head. If our gum-chewing waitress has anything to do with it, I doubt that it will.

La Locanda del Baio, Via Baio 21, 65014 Loreto Aprutino

Tel 085 829 0674

No website I can find.

Caffe Calce, Ravello

2009-08-08T08:47:00.028+01:00

Ravello's Piazza Vescovado is roughly square, and dominated along one side by the duomo of San Pantaleone, patron saint of the town. Directly opposite, the square ends in some iron railings, and the ground drops away into the valley. To the left, a café with outdoor seating and a small shop and, beyond, the Villa Rufolo. To the right, a run of ochre coloured peeling plaster on what was once an elegant building. And up a few steps in the corner, between Via Roma and Viale Richard Wagner, a white building with a wooden bench outside. If you peek through the open door you may see behind the bar a chap with greying-black slicked-back hair and glasses pushed back high onto his forehead. If you do, don't hesitate: walk in and ask him for one of his arancini, for this is Signor Alfonso Calce and his are the best arancini in all Ravello; perhaps the best on the Amalfi coast.

For each night of the week we were here, Caffe Calce was our last stop of the evening, after dinner at the Villa Maria where we were staying. We'd wander into the square and, usually, sit under the stars at one of Signor Calce's outside tables for coffee and limoncello. On a couple of nights, when the weather was cool or when spots of rain blew in on the breeze, we sat inside; sometimes the only customers, apart from an odd drop in for a takeaway or a beer. The television blasted out the football loudly on the wall in the corner while Signor Calce watched and cleaned glasses, and his daughter fed her own baby daughter at a table opposite. We'd often call in in the morning too to pick up arancini for a picnic lunch. We became temporary regulars and nodding acquaintances and on our last evening, when we said goodbye and explained we were going home, Signor Calce gave my wife a gift of a small bottle of limoncello. The contents are gone, but we still have the bottle. When we were last, more recently, in Ravello, he was still there: a little greyer, perhaps, but the glasses remained perched where they always did.

Caffe Calce, Via Roma, 16 - 84100 Ravello, Campania

Tel 089 857 211

Caffe' Florian, Venice

2009-08-08T08:43:00.013+01:00

"How much?!" Our indignant son could never quite understand, or even believe, that we had paid that much for morning coffee. I can't remember now how much 'that much' was. But it was a lot. More than I've ever paid anywhere for three cups of coffee, a hot chocolate and a liqueur. I told him that we were seated in Venice's oldest caffe', that they had been serving coffee here since 1720, that some of the most influential creative minds of Europe had partaken here and discussed great things. We were just another moment in its history, I said. He told me we'd been had.

So it depends, I suppose, on your take on life as to whether you appreciate Caffe' Florian or not. It's beautiful inside, certainly, and the staff is impeccable. But coffee can only get so good, and in truth I couldn't discern that much difference from the pot I'd had at breakfast in the hotel that morning. Our daughter's hot chocolate disappeared as quickly as a Starbucks version, and the liqueur was, well, alcoholic. Call me a philistine, but what's all the fuss about?

Well, for a start, how many branches of Starbucks will still be here in 300 years time? Florian is unique, a piece of Venetian history, and of its culture. The fact that tourism has also turned it into something of a theme park experience is hardly the fault of the caffe'. "We even tried increasing our prices to astronomic heights", they might say, "and still the tourists come!"

So, I've been, and I probably wouldn't go again. It's a bit like paying to see an ageing rock star who is unique and you know may never play another concert. You just want to say you were there. And then I noticed on their website that they've opened a branch in Harrods, and another in Dubai. Maybe there are some similarities to Starbucks after all...

Caffe' Florian, Piazza San Marco, Venice

Tel 041 520 5641

Caffe' Florian

Ristorante Etrusco, Turin

2009-08-04T08:14:00.032+01:00

On our last night in Turin an Italian friend called us to say he had just arrived from the UK, also to visit the Salone del Gusto, and we arranged to eat together that evening. Taking an Italian for dinner, especially in Italy, has something of the double edged sword about it. It's helpful to have a knowledgeable and fluent companion, of course. But what will they think of our choice of restaurant? If the food's not up to scratch will they say so? What if we think it's really good and they don't? The sword has been honed to a sharp edge when your Italian guest is a chef, and threatens to draw blood at the slightest touch when that chef is a Marchigiano. Good job we know him well.

We chose Etrusco on some recommendation or other which I can't remember now. We were already in the restaurant when our friend arrived, like the whirlwind that he is, ushering in cold air from the crisp November night outside, then much shaking of hands and kissing of cheeks. We toasted each other with a bottle of prosecco and threw ourselves upon his mercy with the menu. He enquired politely of the hostess some things we didn't understand, but with a directness that clearly put her on her guard, which is exactly what our wily friend intended. Instead of the easy evening she was expecting with the two British know-nothings who had booked, she was clearly to be tested to the full by this knowledgeable Italian guardian. Her initially cool approach to us rapidly melted into eager-to-please fawning.

We shared three dishes of pasta: tagliolini with walnuts and speck, tagliatelle ragu and agnolotti. We thought the pasta was fine, but our friend was carefully non-committal. In the meantime our hostess attempted to ingratiate herself by recommening a fine bottle of barbera, which our friend tasted and merely nodded (I thought it was fantastic). Then osso bucco for the three of us, accompanied by roast potatoes. It wasn't outstanding.

The woman breathed a visible sigh of relief when we drained the wine, paid the bill and left, our friend bidding us thanks and farewell in clouds of breath on the night air. Tentatively I asked him if everything had been okay. "Oh, yes," he said, "it was all fine. But you have to keep them on their toes, don't you?"

Ristorante Etrusco, Via Cibrario Luigi, 52, 10144 Torino

Tel 011 480285

Didn't have my camera with me that evening, so here's a picture of the old Fiat building instead. Etrusco has no website of its own. Think they're worried in case our friend might contact them.

Aristocampo, Trastevere, Rome

2009-08-03T19:30:00.025+01:00

The slogan on the blackboard outside reads "We are against the war and tourist menus". Well as restaurant slogans go, it's more profound than "I'm lovin' it". They have a point about the tourist menus: why do so many restaurants offer them? Perhaps they think that tourists will be confused by a free choice of dishes, so have to be told what to eat. Maybe tourists are attracted by the security of a set menu and a fixed price. We took a look at the odd menu turistico in Trastevere and found that that they're pretty much all the same: same dishes, same prices. So whatever else they may offer, it's not choice.

Anyway, Aristocampo's little rebellion drew our attention. In the July early evening it was still too warm to eat outside, so we settled into the spartan interior. Woven through the menu was an unexpected common thread: pecorino. We started with pecorino with pears and pecorino di fossa with fig marmelade. We could have gone onto pasta with sardines and pecorino but feared we'd have nightmares, so sidestepped the cheese and ate pasta with clams, and chicken with lemon and milk. And some of those oven-roasted potatoes that are pleasantly burned on the edges. All good.

We thought a quiet stroll by the river would finish the evening off nicely. So did about two thousand others. Crowds thronged both banks of the Tevere, and the bridges, carrying tiny lanterns and waiting expectantly. We joined them and waited too, without knowing what for. From somewhere upriver singing started, like a monastic chant, and through the crowds we glimpsed a boat on the river. The singing swelled and applause rippled through the audience as the boat docked and a wooden statue of the Madonna, adorned with precious clothes and jewels, was lifted onto the bank and carried up the steps by Ponte Garibaldi. The Madonna-bearers disappeared amongst the crowds as they carried the statue back (we later learned) to the church of Sant'Agata, signalling the end of an eight-day local holiday.

We wandered back to our little hotel past brightly lit stalls selling porchetta and sweets and candyfloss; the final fling of the festival. We finished the day against tourist menus, and very much in favour of local festivals.

Ristorante Aristocampo, Via della Lungaretta 75, Trastevere, Rome

Tel 06 583 35530

No website of its own I can find. Try searching for pecorino.

Hotel Berchielli, Florence

2009-08-03T17:42:00.010+01:00

The main thing I remember about the Berchielli is the motorbikes. I'll explain. The hotel sits directly on the Lungarno Acciailuoli, a long street that runs alongside the Arno between Ponte Amerigo Vespucci and Ponte alle Grazie. It's a busy road, by Florence standards. (By Naples or Rome standards it would be a quiet backwater, but here it's a pretty well-used thoroughfare.) And the traffic that uses it most seems to be motorbikes, scooters, mopeds... all of which descend in weaving waves of determination as soon as the traffic lights turn green. And sometimes, perhaps, slightly before. And when the Amerigo Vespucci lot's lights are on stop, it's the turn of those who have come across the bridge from Via Maggio, thus ensuring an endless two-wheel tide. A single step out the the Berchielli's front door and you're amongst it all, cheek to cheek with the passing moped rider, toes just inches from the motorbike's tyres, a whiff away from the scooter driver's perfume. The other side of the road becomes seemingly unassailable, yet something to be conquered, like the north face of the Eiger. The first time we attempted to cross the road took us maybe half an hour. We got worried, because we were only in Florence for two days.

Surprisingly, once inside the hotel, no hint of this mayhem pervaded its serene ambience. All was calm. The hotel was efficient and tidy rather than personable and friendly. Our room was pleasant enough, though probably identical to the room next door. Breakfast was okay, from what I remember. There seemed to be no quirk, no personal touch. I do remember though that one of the coffee table books in the lounge displayed paintings of a highly erotic and explicit nature, which came as a bit of a surprise as we thumbed through it over coffee one evening.

So maybe the hotel does have a trick or two up its sleeve, after all.

Thanks, by the way, to the hotel website for this picture.

Hotel Berchielli, Lungarno Acciaiuili, 14, 50123, Firenze

Tel - odd, but they don't seem to want to publish their phone number?

Hotel Berchielli

Locanda Canal, Venice

2009-08-03T08:27:00.036+01:00

Venice is, on the whole, a city of gentle sounds, free as it is of the rush of roads and traffic. Market stallholders feel no need to shout. The distant 'hoi!' of a gondolier around the corner of some still backwater, the gentle strains of a string quartet in Piazza San Marco, the metallic ring of footsteps in an empty alley are all evocative, but unobtrusive. Even the throb of boat engines and the horns of the vaporetti on the Canal Grande are somehow subdued. But the sound that all Venetians listen for, can pick out above and through all others, is the city's siren; the warning, the harbinger of high tides, of acqua alta.

One blast of the siren alerts the city to the likelihood of flooding (so stay tuned), then further emissions spell out the expected magnitude (how far up your house the water might come). In a time when most of us are glued to our radios, televisions, computers and phones for the latest news, this simple sonic alert remains a neatly effective way to reach the majority of Venice's populus, wherever they are and whatever they're doing. An efficient, well-rehearsed response quickly kicks into action, as flood boards are installed in front of shops and walking platforms assembled. We saw, and heard, it happen one watery September.

Locanda Canal is a small, tucked away hotel with comfortable if unspectacular rooms. It reminded me vaguely of a David Lynch film. The walls of the corridor were lined with padded silk that subsided disconcertingly to the touch. We were served a modest breakfast each morning in a compact room with wooden floors and beamed ceiling, sitting just that bit closer than comfortable to our fellow guests, while an extremely petite young waitress wearing thin latex gloves wordlessly made the most incredible cappuccino. The hotel entrance gives out onto the Fondamenta del Remedio and stepping out one morning into heavy rain we noticed that the level of the deep green canal was considerably higher than the previous day. Other canals we passed were the same, and by midday the lagoon had spilled over the Riva degli Shiavoni and was lapping at the base of the Leone di San Marco. A buzz of expectation ran amongst the tourists in the Piazza, excited as children at the novelty of a city full of water.

Not so for the Venetians: just resigned frustration perhaps. And a quiet acceptance.

Locanda Canal, Fondamenta del Remedio, Castello 4422/c - 30122 Venezia

Tel 041 523 4538

Locanda Canal

Le Colombe Agriturismo, Assisi, Umbria

2009-08-02T16:35:00.028+01:00

Gina Lollobrigida springs to mind when I occasionally recall our stay here. Actually Gina Lollobrigida quite often springs to mind for no reason at all, but I think that must be my age. We'd driven up an improbably steep dusty track, following discreet wooden signs, to be greeted (well more bumped into really) by the agriturismo's owner, who was just leaving on some brief expedition or other. Now if 'owner of a holiday farm' conjures up a rustic character in shirt sleeves and cord trousers, with weatherbeaten features and rough hands, you're in for a pleasant surprise. The woman that skipped down the steps towards us was in her early forties perhaps, tanned and lean, wearing a crisp striped blouse with turned up collar, fastened one button less than might be expected, white trousers and sunglasses pushed back into her auburn hair. As she leaned into the car her heavy necklace fell forward from her chest and a heady waft of scent instantly cooled the hot air. I felt we'd arrived.

From the tiny hamlet of Rocca Sant'Angelo across the valley from the agriturismo, a thin bell rings at intervals. Other than birdsong and the chirping of crickets, this is the only sound to be heard here on a summer's day beside the pool. I visited the hamlet one hot afternoon; a small knot of buildings tightly tied against outsiders. I saw no people, only their evidence: scattered chairs beneath a sort of gazebo; low voices from an open window; the smell of cooking; a bike propped outside a door. And cats. There were a lot of cats.

Le Colombe itself was peaceful perfection. Our hostess presided over breakfast, making poached eggs more exciting than usual. Most of the time we had the place to ourselves, to laze and potter in between excursions for food. In the evening we'd make the ten minute drive into Assisi to eat, returning in the dusk as bats flitted around the roofs, to sit beneath our loggia until the stars appeared.

Nights were completely silent and star-filled. And occasionally scented with a waft of expensive perfume.

Le Colombe Agriturismo, Localita Rocca S. Angelo, 42/43, 06088 Assisi

Tel 075 8098101

Le Colombe Agriturismo

Hotel San Francesco, Trastevere, Rome

2009-07-30T19:41:00.040+01:00

Several bridges will take you from the heaving capital into Trastevere. Broad, wrought-iron-framed Ponte Palatino; solid stone Ponte Garibaldi; Ponte Fabricio which hops across to Isola Tiberina in the middle of the river, and Ponte Cestio, which skips from there to the western bank. Crossing any of them is like breathing a sigh of relief, as you leave the crowds and the traffic and the heat behind and plunge into a leafy suburb which seems far more separated from the commotion of the other shore than a mere fifty yards or so of churning brown water.

Trams rumble along Viale Trastevere, a broad avenue of dusty plane trees, where men sip coffee outside bars, a florist waters his stock from the nearby drinking fountain and an Indian family sells fabrics and bags from a tiny stall which we never saw closed. Along Via San Francesco a Ripa tables and chairs burst the boundaries of their restaurants and spill out onto the sanpietrini pavements. In the Piazza Santa Maria a Trastevere people enjoy the relative cool of the evening after another stifling day; happy just to mingle amongst the gentle activity of the square, the musicians, the living statue dressed as a Pharoah, the Indian street sellers whipping illuminated frisbees high into the night air.

Tucked into all this, a block back from the Viale, past the laundrette and the Jaipur restaurant, just by the convent in the Piazza San Francesco d'Assisi, we found this modest hotel of contrasts: smallish bedrooms, but spacious bathrooms; smart reception but peeling stairwells; and a roof terrace that looked worn around the edges by day, but was a magical retreat at night, when the canopy flapped in a breeze that carried thin chimes from the nearby church bell, the seagulls flew like pale ghosts through the black sky, and the pre-dinner beer was as refreshing as the post-dinner grappa was warming.

I'm a big fan of roof bars. And bridges.

Hotel San Francesco, Via Jacopa De' Settesoli, 7, 00153, Roma

Tel 006 58300051

Hotel San Francesco

Hostaria Da Paolo, Trastevere, Rome

2009-07-29T16:57:00.065+01:00

Anywhere you can get a litre of decent house wine for less than the price of a plate of green beans deserves a mention, in my book. Hostaria da Paolo is one of those places that withdraws like a snail into its shuttered shell during the day; to emerge in the evening, as the sun dips and the temperature drops a little, spreading itself across the pavement and into the piazza. At the end of each night it retreats once more, shutting down so comprehensively that it might never have been there.

They begin setting out at around seven, un-padlocking the tables and covering each with a gold-coloured cloth, bringing out plastic chairs from inside. Luca D'Alfonsi (we assume it is him from the name on the bill - we never found out who Paolo is) performs this task, as he must have done a thousand evenings before, in a careful, measured way, stopping now and again to chat to passers-by. He is a small gorilla of a man; straight-backed, barrel-chested, full-stomached, in denim shirt, apron and jeans. When we had chosen our table, Alfonsi's leaner brother appeared, in official red waiter's waistcoat. If anyone remembers Mister Pastry from the earlier days of British children's television, then this is the briefest way in which I can describe him to you; but with less grey hair. A twinkle in his eye told us from the outset that he had a reliable sense of humour.

As we picked our way through the written menu, Mr Pastry delivered a comprehensive inventory and imaginative explanation of what was off that evening: it equated to most of the things my brother-in-law had planned to order. I'll start with the zuppa advertised on the menu, please: "No." said Mr Pastry firmly, with a shake of the head. "We don't have any. Anyway, who would want to eat soup in this heat?" He had a point. Next then, how about the abbacchio scottaditto? "No." said Mr Pastry. "That's off. You'd prefer the pollo al peperone." What about some roasted potatoes? The reply was predictable: "I'll bring you fagiolini." Musicians appeared in the square to serenade the diners; an accordianist, then a guitarist who also sang, while my dining companion contemplated his singular achievement of not actually receiving anything he had so far ordered.

Meanwhile my bucatini amatriciana was earthily rich, as a dish involving dried pig's cheek and pecorino cheese should be. The chicken with peppers was meagre on chicken but generous on flavour. To my brother-in-law's horror, the beans were served cold, with just a dribble of oil and a squeeze of lemon. The outside tables were now filled, mostly with locals, and plates of food that we hadn't seen listed on the menu regularly appeared. At the end of the evening, attempting at least to get on the scoresheet, my brother-in-law, knowing that it was against convention, ordered a cappuccino. Mr Pastry's face acquired a look of alarm. "No, no!" He clasped his hand theatrically to his chest and asserted that this was absolutely impossible: they didn't serve milk, because it was bad for the heart. "You will have an espresso." My companion was defeated. With such a maestro at work, attempts to order anything other than what he was determined to serve him were futile. I ordered a grappa to toast him in admiration. And got it.

Next morning when we passed, any evidence of the previous evening was gone. Until this evening, when no doubt it's happening all over again. That litre of wine cost three euros, by the way. The beans were four.

Hostaria "Da Paolo", Via San Francesco a Ripa, 92 Roma

Tel 06 5812393

No website. Even if there were, you'd probably be redirected to a different site altogether.

B&B Accademia, Venice

2009-07-20T20:18:00.026+01:00

Venice has an abundance of many things. Water, obviously. Tourists, clearly. Dimly lit calle and dripping sottoporteghi. Gondolas. Art. And graffiti. There's a lot of self expression in Venice.

This particular piece of plebeian art was right outside the window of our first floor rooms at the B&B Accademia in Dorsoduro, and during our short stay here we grew to quite like it. It acted as a landmark, assuring us that we'd turned the right corner on the way back; reminding us to turn left as we left in the morning. Appearing mainly on temporary structures, the graffiti comes and goes, appropriately transient in a city of such crumbling history which is itself passing away, and might not even remain in as few as fifty years, they say. What Venice may no longer have in abundance is time. In the comfortable rooms of this lovely old bed and breakfast the polished parquet floors, the original shutters, the heavy door furniture, even the creaks and groans seem stoically rooted in the past, as if denying the prospect of such an insubstantial future.

We fell asleep to the sounds of the evening's last vaporetto chugging away into the night, and woke to the morning's first, noisily disgorging its passengers into the alley below our window. The autumn days when we were there were damp and grey, only occasionally broken by a pale, ineffectual sun. We opened the French doors of the breakfast room hopefully one morning, only to close them against the chill before we'd finished our coffee. It was that time of year when a shroud of quiet melancholy seems to fall over the city (and nowhere does melancholy like Venice), as if in mourning for summer past. Or maybe in mourning for Venice itself. The swell slapped the gondolas on the Riva degli Shiavoni and a keen wind blew in off the lagoon. The gondoliers had put on their coats and pulled up their collars. By mid afternoon in the Campo Santa Margherita the few stallholders had begun to pack up and head for home, leaving only puddles of water where they had cleaned down their stalls and a dog snuffling for scraps. In the empty Rialto fish market at dusk the heavy red tarpaulins between the pillars snapped and billowed in the breeze. At night our footsteps echoed along the alleys, filled with the foggy yellow light of the city's lamps, and with black shadows. Venice's ghosts surge easily in on nights like this.

Perhaps one day, maybe sooner rather than later, they'll have the city to themselves again.

Accademia Bed and Breakfast, Dorsoduro 1054, Venice

Tel 041 5221 113

Accademia Bed and Breakfast

Al Vecio Pipa, Burano

2009-07-19T20:54:00.035+01:00

The islands of the Venetian lagoon are like children from the same family who share common parents but have developed their own characters and gone their separate ways. Murano is industrial and commercial, still churning out glass in its furnaces located a safe distance from the city. Atmospheric San Michele, the island of the dead, groans under the weight of Venice's departed (but only temporarily, until they are removed and deposited in the ossuary, in readiness for the next inevitable occupants). Torcello exudes abandonment: a portent of Venice's own eventual fate, perhaps. So Burano, with its brightly painted houses and displays of delicate lace, feels the most cheerfully wayward of the offspring, even on a misty autumn day.

The bright colours of the houses were traditionally employed, apparently, to help the island's fishermen find their way back home on murky days and nights. Days like this. Today they have become a design statement. Philippe Starke owns three houses here, apparently. So it's hard, when wandering Burano's streets, to know what's real and what's pastiche. Those nets and sticks outside that small house, are they awaiting a fisherman's next trip or just there for effect? The fishing boats tied up at the side of the canal; do they really fish any more, or just take tourists on safe little rides into the lagoon? That lace in the window, is it really made by hand here, or on some machine in China?

And then we stumbled upon 'Al Vecio Pipa' for lunch, and all seemed real again. An elegant wood panelled dining room. A reserved but efficient waiter; older, wiser. And very good food. This place must host tourists by the boatload, but seems to have resisted any temptation to lower itself to the common denominator that so often results. We ate risotto with a brisk taste of the lagoon and drank crisp white wine. An elderly, elegant French couple were the only other diners. After lunch the mist thickened and even the bright colours of the houses were subdued in the greyness. We chugged back across the water as if surrounded by cotton wool, the dim votive lamps of the Fondamente Nuove appearing suddenly as we docked.

Behind us, the cemetery, the foundries, the forsaken church and the colourful houses out there in the lagoon had slipped away: receded into the insubstantial fragments of our imagination.

Al Vecio Pipa, Via San Mauro 397, 30012 Burano

Tel 041 730045

Even the website seems to have disappeared in the mist.

Da Anna, Portonovo

2009-07-19T20:45:00.025+01:00

Before we discovered Marcello's, we found Da Anna amongst the scattering of wooden buildings that line the shore around the bay. Further on towards the headland are smaller, scruffier boathouses and fisherman's huts. But this is the restaurant quarter of the beach. Da Anna is painted powder blue beneath an asbestos roof, with troughs of oleander below its windows. The lovely Anna takes things at a measured pace. In the late afternoon a man carefully raked the fine pebbles of the beach outside the restaurant, and tended to the parasols. At seven in the evening, as the shadows of the parasols lengthened across the shingle, the mainly Chinese staff sat outside the restaurant in what was left of the evening sunshine, eating. At seven thirty they were talking and smoking. At eight they unhurriedly began to open the restaurant, and we were the first eager diners through the door and into the vaguely nautical dining room.

First, garlicky, winey, chilli-spiced vongole, then crisply rustling fritto misto. You can judge a lot from a restaurant's fritto misto. The batter should be thin, crisp and very light; the misto may be squid, octopus, tiny fish, but all must be spankingly fresh. There may be courgette too. The fried morsels should leave hardly a trace of oil on the greaseproof paper and no aftertaste in the mouth. And there must be salt, and lemon; in quantity. Nothing else is needed. Like fish and chips, it's best eaten directly out of the paper. In Venice we ate a slightly sad version, served with salad. In Amalfi a better one, mainly of octopus. The very best exposition we've enjoyed is a few steps up the beach from Da Anna, at Il Laghetto, but this came a close second.

Down to earth, prompt service from a slightly swarthy waiter kept the place up to speed with the seemingly endless stream of customers that poured through the door like the tide had come in. Here a young couple gazing into each other's eyes. There a family with a young baby. Over there two young chaps who ate their pasta more quickly than anyone I've ever seen (apart perhaps from Alessio Villa's father in Assisi). At intervals an increasingly sweaty Chinese head would appear from around the kitchen door to check progress then disappear back into the kitchen, no doubt to report that the deluge continued.

As we left Da Anna, more diners squeezed past us through the door and yet more waited outside, good-humouredly, in the now chilly dark. The tide was still coming in.

Trattoria Da Anna, Via Portonovo, 60020, Ancona

Tel 071 801 343

No sign of a website I'm afraid. You'll just have to wander along the beach until you find it.

Antica Focacceria San Francesco, Palermo

2009-07-17T19:45:00.029+01:00

It's more than a year since I was in Palermo, yet odd reminders still draw me back. The weather was like it is here now – hot and close, threatening to rain. What made me think of it this morning is the fennel growing in our vegetable garden, now so tall that it waves to me through the kitchen window in the breeze. I ate bucatini with wild fennel and fresh sardines at the Antica Focacceria San Francesco, sitting outside in the shaded piazza. There was a breeze there too, this one warm and scented with the smells of cooking.

So hungry I could eat a horse's head (tacky Godfather reference, sorry), I claimed my outside table for one and ordered mixed antipasti and a portion of caponata to start. Most of what arrived I'd expected. There were arancine (deep fried rice balls filled with ragu), panelle (chickpea fritters), sfincione (a kind of pizza) and cazzilli (potato croquettes). But there was a surprise too, which I hadn't ordered. Pani ca' meusa: a small bread roll filled with boiled veal lungs and spleen, topped with slivers of caciocavallo cheese. Yum. Probably not on McDonald's NPD horizon, but evidently extremely popular in Palermo. And any city that offers veal innards in a bun as its signature dish deserves respect.

In for a cent, in for a euro, I bit into the soft bread and the meat inside. And chewed. The taste was oddly sweet, meaty but sweet, like cow's breath, the texture rubbery. I peeled back the top piece of bread to investigate. The innards were layered in thin slices, and pinkish brown. One piece had a delicately frilly and anatomically detailed pale centre. I closed the bun and chewed some more. As I chewed, I noticed a few people emerging from the Focacceria with serviettes wrapped around buns of their own. Then more people. Theirs were not little buns, like mine, but large ones, the size of saucers, stuffed so generously that the filling oozed out from between the bread. The Big Macs, the Whoppers of Palermo fast food.

Soon almost everyone in the piazza was chewing. And talking. They stood, they walked, they sat on the steps of the church, and they chewed. The Palermitans must have the most exercised jaws in Europe. Next day, wandering around the market, I saw the raw materials of the dish hanging from hooks like wet chamois leathers, and realised why all that chewing was necessary.

Talking of jaws, it would have been nice if the waiting staff at the Antica Focacceria had managed to stretch theirs into some semblance of a smile. Whilst the food here was acceptable, the service was the epitome of Sicilian surliness. Perhaps the fawning attention lavished upon the crisply suited and sun-shaded businessmen on the next table had left them drained, bless them.

Antica Focacceria San Francesco, Via Paternostro Alessandro, 64, 90133 Palermo, Sicily

Tel 091 6090261

Antica Focacceria San Francesco

Tentazioni di Gusto, Trapani, Sicily

2009-07-15T20:49:00.015+01:00

I like the way Italians name their restaurants. There's practicality and down-to-earthness at work in a naming convention that often includes the owner, or even previous owner, or grandmother; sometimes refers to its location or an attribute of the place's history; and that usually makes reference to the accepted coding system which only Italians seem really to understand that tells you what kind of establishment it is - osteria, trattoria, ristorante. So a name that translates as Temptations of Taste seems to break with all of that accepted wisdom, and risks sounding a bit tacky. When the B&B owner drew circles on my map of Trapani to indicate good places to eat, he wrote just Gusto, so either he couldn't spell Tentazioni or he felt the name is tacky too. There was nothing tacky about the food though.

It was a hot evening. The clear skies of the day had clouded over thunderously and occasional spots of rain spattered the pavements, threatening to break into a downpour. Gusto (as I prefer to call it) didn't start serving until 8pm, so I spent the previous hour outside a bar within spitting distance, so to speak, of the restaurant, drinking cold beer and watching my fellow drinkers, thinking how different this was from a British pub. Men in smart suits dropped in, presumably after the office and before home, and sipped from cocktail glasses. A beautiful, elegant young woman in an evening dress joined them and drank a glass of wine. Pairs of young girls in jeans sat and sipped coke and coffee, and smoked. Groups of teenage boys gradually swelled in numbers, pulling in more chairs as required, and carrying on earnest and animated conversation. They didn't drink, and as each additional boy arrived, there was much kissing of cheeks. See what I mean about not being like a British pub?

From where I sat I could watch the staff at Gusto lay the tables and set out the chairs in the alley outside the restaurant. Lighting the oil lamps at either end of the alley signalled they were ready to serve, and I sidled up to my table for one. The two dishes that most tickled my fancy on the menu were both pasta. A busiate with wild board ragu, which I ate second, was excellent. The two glasses of wine, white with my first bowl of pasta and red with the busiate, which the waiter had gently but firmly steered me towards, were superb. The service, the knowledgeable explanation of the dishes, the genuine desire that you enjoyed the food, was exemplary. But it was the first bowl of pasta, bucatini with sardines, that was the star. I'd eaten this dish in Palermo, and was impressed. But this rendition was so many notches up it was in a different league. Sardines so fresh you needed your sea legs to eat them just melted in the mouth. Pine nuts and raisins wafted in the Arab world like a breeze across an oasis. Wild fennel lent a heady other-worldliness. I don't usually photograph the food I'm eating (I'd rather just eat it), but on this occasion I couldn't resist recording how simply this dish was presented, compared to how sublime it tasted. Unsurprisingly, every table was filled by the time I left.

So, that name. I still think it's tacky. But maybe there's something about that temptation thing after all.

Tentazioni di Gusto, Via Badia Nuova, 27, 91100 Trapani, Sicily

Tel 0923 548165

Can't find a website of its own. Google probably rejected the tacky name. Doesn't matter - if you're in Trapani, this is where to eat.

Tavernetta Ai Lumi, Trapani, Sicily

2009-07-14T21:05:00.026+01:00

I wasn't sure, when I was in western Sicily in the early summer, whether La Mattanza - the ritual tuna slaughter - still existed or had slipped into folklore. I saw no evidence of it in Trapani or on the island of Favignana, where the old tuna processing factories now lie empty. No one seemed to want to talk about it much. I did see an awful lot of fresh tuna for sale though, so someone's catching it.

In Palermo the arrival of a whole tuna at the Ballaro market had been greeted with noisy excitement, as stallholders barked and a crowd gathered to watch the huge fish being butchered into bright red portions. In less than an hour the head and a few bits and pieces were all that remained of the glistening black torpedo. Here in Trapani, the sale of tuna is a more considered, less frenetic affair, perhaps because there's so much of it. In the fish market by the harbour a whole tuna had been neatly portioned and the pieces laid out knowingly, like some mystic arrangement of symbols. The colour of the flesh varied markedly from piece to piece, some almost black, some deep crimson, others bright scarlet, a few as pale as raw chicken. Elsewhere in town every fishmonger displayed their hand drawn cardboard signs advertising tonno locale, all at the same kilo price. On the odd street corner little trucks sold a few pieces of red flesh off slabs of chipped marble, covered by the makeshift shade of an old umbrella. At a stall by the seafront I was cheerfully offered a tuna sandwich: a huge bread roll stuffed with thin slices of cured tuna, a squeeze of lemon and a twist of black pepper. While I waited for it to be assembled the stallholder invited me to taste a thin, dense, dark slice of intense fishiness. Cuore di tonno, he smiled: tuna heart.

So, in a town awash with tuna, it was no surprise to find it on the menu at the tavernetta Ai Lumi. I took a table outside in the early evening. The heat was just going out of the day and the sun had sunk low enough that the pedestrianised street was in full shadow. Lamps were lit and the bars and restaurants were filling. A waiter not unlike Cristiano Ronaldo weaved skillfully between the tables on the wooden terrace, taking orders and brusquely delivering bread and water. I started with something I'd never seen before on an Italian menu, or any other for that matter: fried eggs, salsicce, red onions and pecorino cheese, served in its cooking pan. It was quite tasty. Ronaldo shimmied neatly past the other diners to deliver my main course: the tuna. A thick slice topped with a yellow dollop of sweet and sour onions, and a side of roast potatoes. It was okay, but a tad overcooked, and in truth I was a bit disappointed.

It was dark when I left, nearly ten o'clock, and as I wandered back to my B&B I passed a chap on a street corner selling something off the back of one of those tiny little vans. You've guessed it.

Tavernetta Ai Lumi, Corso Vittorio Emanuele, 75, 91100 Trapani, Sicily

Tel 0923 872 418

Tavernetta Ai Lumi

Ristorante Bar Nuovo Edelweiss, Erice, Sicily

2009-07-13T15:17:00.042+01:00

As far as I'm aware, I'm the only paid up member of the mile high arancini club. Okay, eating deep fried crumb-coated balls of rice at altitude may be a bit of a minority sport, but someone has to do it, and it was at the mountainously-named Ristorante Bar Nuovo Edelweiss in Erice that I broke my previous record. Smashed it, actually.

Until then the highest place I'd consumed an arancino was in Ravello, on the Amalfi coast. 350 metres below, past the hairpin bends and the tumble of roofs and lemon groves, the azure sea twinkled. Signor Schiavo at the Caffe Calce on the square twinkled too as he worked his magic with humble rice and breadcrumbs.

The journey to Erice's summit was more of a serendipitous trip than a planned record-breaking attempt. A number 23 bus brings you to the foot of the mountain and a cable car whisks you silently high over scrub and rocks (and the odd villa with swimming pool) to deposit you in deserted Erice. You only have to peer over the edge to know that you're pretty high up. 751 metres high up, to be precise, making Ravello look like a hillock. There are two bars in the tiny central square, and I chose this one. Of course for the sake of research I could have ordered an arancinu (which is what Sicilians call them, apparently) in each bar and compared them. But I judged that would involve wasteful effort, so I ordered two from this same bar, and compared them instead. The first was filled with ragu, rich and slightly spicy. The second contained cheese and peas. Both were encased in crisp golden breadcrumbs and surrounded by soft moist risotto rice. I preferred the first, but it was a close run thing. I congratulated myself on my record breaking achievement with a celebratory ice cold Moretti beer.

The owner of the B&B where I was staying told me that people in Trapani like to visit Erice in the autumn when it is atmospherically gloomy, misty and damp, because there are rumoured to be ghosts roaming the streets. Perhaps it's just high spirits.

Ristorante Bar Nuovo Edelweiss, Piazza S. Domenico, Erice, Sicily 91016

Sorry, no phone or web that I can find, but if you've made it to the piazza you can't miss it.

I Colori del Vento, Trapani, Sicily

2009-07-10T12:18:00.008+01:00

Trapani is Sicily's westernmost town. The westernmost point of the westernmost town has an edge-of-the-world feeling: a single road runs along a promontory to a squat stone building, beyond which a few rocks tumble into the clear sea, then nothing but an eye-squinting sky meeting a dark blue horizon. If you were to set sail from here it feels like you would go on forever. You wouldn't of course. Before very long you'd bump into Sardinia to the west or Tunisia to the south west, but it's a romantic idea.

My rooms at the bed and breakfast I Colori del Vento felt a bit end-of-worldly too, in a comfortable sort of way. Staying here on my own for a few nights in an enormous apartment, with two double bedrooms, a sitting room and kitchen and bathroom, I imagined this as a place of anonymity, a place where you could disappear from the world for a long time. Maybe forever. (Well it was hot, and the sun may have heightened my imagination.) The windows of my room, full length and shuttered, looked over the treetops and across the road onto the port, where the ferries between here and Tunisia dock and depart. At night the sounds of mopeds and the shouts of boys and the thud of a football against a wall drifted through the open windows on the warm air, and often the low and steady engine-throb of a ferry at anchor. I settled and relaxed here: felt at home. When I first arrived, late at night, the owner appeared from the darkness to greet me, give me maps, tell me where to eat and offer me a glass of limoncello. All I really wanted was a bed, but I was touched by his concern. When I struggled to open the front door, returning one morning to collect something from my room, one of the young cleaners climbed out of the window to help. And late on the night before I left, when I went upstairs to the owners' rooms to pay, I was offered again the limoncello. This time it would have been impolite, I judged, to refuse.

Not everyone, apparently, agrees with this assessment. I Colori del Vento's reviews on TripAdvisor are at opposing ends of the spectrum: 'five star fantastic' to 'avoid it like the plague'. It's all about expectations, I think, and whether you consider yourself lucky or unlucky to have bagged the 'apartment' on the first floor. I did, and if I ever travel to the edge of the world again, here is where I would stay.

I Colori del Vento, Viale Regina Elena 62, Trapani, Sicily

Tel 347 2504630

I Colori del Vento

Casa del Brodo, Palermo, Sicily

2008-11-09T08:20:00.025Z

There's something about a table for one in Italy that's an especially lonely experience. Eating is such an important part of Italian social life that to do it alone seems a bit like... well, never mind what it's a bit like. It's not as good as eating in company. You want to share the food, try your partner's, discuss it, compare it, make ecstatic mmm and aah noises about it, and you can't really do those things on your own. There's only one thing worse than eating on your own, and that's eating in a room where everyone else is eating on their own. The silence is deafening.

You don't often see lone Italian diners, but for a while at the beginning of the evening an Italian chap and I were the only people eating in the Casa del Brodo in Palermo, and we spent an uncomfortably hushed half an hour ordering and waiting for our food to arrive. Even the waiting staff seemed embarrassed that their restaurant could only attract a couple of Billy-no-mates.

The place is sub-titled 'dal dottore', a reference to the original chef's broths that were restorative enough to heal the sick. Today it's one of Slow Food's Palermo eating recommendations. Actually I was a bit disappointed and didn't feel terribly restored. I ate a plate of battered fried vegetables that were pretty tasteless. Then maccu di fava - a soup of broad beans and wild fennel that purports to be one of their specials, but didn't taste very special to me. Finally cotoletti di agnello, a platter of grilled lamb cutlets that were, frankly, fatty and tough. My fellow solo diner must have chosen better, as he cleared both of his plates. But I'm prepared to bet that, when sharing the table with a companion, everything would be better: the service would be brighter and even the lamb would be tender. So I'd go again, just not on my own.

This shot of the police has little to do with Casa del Brodo, other than it was taken nearby. And maybe that they were on the lookout for rogue lone diners, in an attempt to banish them from Palermo's streets.

Casa del Brodo, Corso Vittorio Emanuele, 175, Palermo

Tel 091 321655

Casa del Brodo

Casa di Flora, Torino, Piedmont

2008-11-06T16:59:00.018Z

Turin is a rather dour industrial city, we found. Perhaps it was just the autumn greyness, which persisted in the city as it had over the fields we'd crossed by train from Venice. So when, on a dour street in a dour quarter we found our bed and breakfast, it was a pleasant surprise to be greeted by Flora, our distinctly cheery black-haired hostess, and shown to a top floor room that wasn't dour at all.

We'd arrived at the station with no directions to the guest house, just an address, and couldn't understand why the map that we bought from the platform stationers made no sense whatsoever. Nothing was where it should have been. The street we should have stepped onto as we emerged from the station didn't exist. It took several minutes of map turning and head scratching to realise we'd arrived at a different station to the one we were looking at on the map.

Simplest solution was to grab a taxi. The twelve minute journey that followed was probably the most hair raising since we'd screeched around Amalfi coast bends at the hands (well, only one hand on the wheel, the other was used to hold his phone to his ear) of the self-proclaimed Americano. But that's another story. Our Turin driver shot off at a pace, employing an unusual technique of driving in the opposite direction to the bulk of the traffic, which was usually heading straight towards us. Anyway, we reached Via le Chiuse and Casa di Flora in one rather shaken piece. A grinning Flora met us at the front door and showed us up the stairwell of wrought iron balustrades, wooden handrails and blood-red polished plaster to the top floor, and our room. Actually, make that 'apartment'.

Right up in the roof space, with velux windows looking over on the nearby rooftops, the generous room had a full kitchen area (though curiously no cooking pan, crockery or utensils), a sitting area, double bed and a spacious bathroom. Breakfast was cosy and communal, as guests squeezed around the table in Flora's own kitchen while she made tea and coffee.

During our short stay we never did get to grips with the bus and tram system. Thankfully not all the taxis were as manically driven as our first.

By the way, did you know that the T in FIAT stands for Torino?

La Casa di Flora B&B, Via Le Chiuse 85, Torino

Tel 011 4733456

La Casa di Flora

Sagra degli gnocchi, Santa Maria, Monteleone d'Orvieto

2008-11-05T09:02:00.018Z

This one's a bit different. It's not a hotel or a restaurant, but a tent in a field. And it's only there for a few days a year. It's a sagra, a kind of food festival. All across Italy towns and villages arrange festivals to celebrate a particular food and drink that's either exactly in season or especially good in that region. There are sagre celebrating everything from sardines to wild boar, chestnuts to lemons, and probably things we've never heard of too.

Marta, hostess of the agriturismo we were staying at, explained to us that a neighbouring village was holding a sagra degli gnocchi, and directed us to tiny, workmanlike Santa Maria on a warm summer's evening. We weren't really sure what a gnocchi festival might consist of, but when we arrived at seven the village showed no signs of preparation for it. A few people wandered about, but the streets were empty of stalls or flags or people dressed as potato dumplings, or anything else that might comprise a celebration. Perhaps it kicked off at midnight, we wondered. I imagined a surreptitious moonlit pagan gnocchi-fest in which offerings were made to the great potato god. Or maybe we just had the wrong day, or were in the wrong village.

We were about to leave, disappointedly, when we found it: a sign pointing down a lane leading to a field, at the gate of which two mannequins dressed in rustic costume were seated at a check-clothed table. An English-speaking girl gave us a warm welcome and explained the ropes – order from the menu, pay, keep the ticket and take a seat in the marquee, where our food would be brought to us. We passed a field kitchen in which steam rose from dozens of giant pots, watched over by ranks of ladies from the village, and smoke drifted from barbecues watched over by the men. Inside the giant marquee dozens of trestle tables and benches had been neatly arranged in rows, the end of each table adorned with a carved wooden number decorated with a few ears of wheat. We took our seats at a table near the entrance and waited expectantly. A few other people drifted in, chatting and laughing – couples, families, friends – and a band started to warm up on a stage at the far end of the marquee. The first part of our order arrived: two plastic bowls of steaming gnocchi, plastic glasses and an opened bottle of white wine. Next a paper plate of herb-scented guinea fowl which we ate greedily with our fingers. The band was in full swing now, as more people arrived and took their seats and the marquee was filled with happy chatter and bustling grandmothers, ferrying enormous quantities of food from the steaming, smoking kitchen.

We left as it grew dark, with what remained of our bottle of wine, feeling that we should leave the rest of the sagra to the villagers. And glad that we hadn't given up finding the place.

No website or phone number for the field, of course! But if you ever hear there's a sagra nearby on your Italian travels, try and go. You'll probably enjoy it as much as we did.

Hotel Posta dei Donini, San Martino in Campo, Umbria

2008-11-04T17:12:00.016Z

At first we hesitated to enter the gates, unsure whether we'd arrived at a hotel or a BMW showroom. The car maker's flags and signage adorned the entrance, and the badges on the cars in the car park were all the same - BMW. Turned out that the hotel had been hosting a training session on the then new 5 series for three months. No mention of that when we booked, of course. We felt a bit like gatecrashers, crunching up the drive in our hired Renault, and in fact for a while we were the only non-BMW technicians staying at the hotel.

Inside was all elegance and calm. The slightly cool reception from the staff and the fact that we were left to carry our own luggage up to our room on the second floor was partly made up for by our room – a spacious junior suite with exposed beams and wooden floors, and lovely furniture and fabrics. Beyond the shutters were wonderful views of the manicured grounds. The bathroom had an alcove bath and a showerhead as big as... well, your head!

Around the deserted pool we had our pick of white cane furniture on which to relax undisturbed as the heady scent of jasmine wafted across the grounds. But the BMW presence seemed to have distracted the staff from attending to its leisure guests. In other words, us. There were no pool towels. The bar was unmanned, until we pointed out to reception that we would quite like a cold drink. The attentiveness couldn't have been greater though when we ate that evening in the hotel restaurant, Panta Gruel. They were all over us like a rash.

The restaurant manager, Luigi, was clearly intent on practising his English and, as we were the only diners, was able to lavish his full and concentrated attention on us. The food and service actually turned out to be very good, if a little too nuova cucina for our peasant tastes. We ate lovely things like steamed asparagus and cheese fondue, maltagliata with rosemary, prawns, tomato and chickpea purée; pork fillet with risina beans (I'd never heard of them either) and warm apple and raisin salad. In small portions on huge plates. You get the idea.

To finish, I wanted to try a particular cheese, sairass, a ricotta seasoned in straw and served with chestnut honey. With a face like he had just kicked a football through the largest window in his neighbour's house, Luigi explained that they had run out. But brilliantly he thought of a way to compensate for this seemingly punishable offence: "I am going to serve you a plate of the most wonderful (strong emphasis on this word) cheeses in all of Italy!" Brave words. A plate arrived, generously groaning with six cheeses, each presented with an appropriate accompaniment, and a clear instruction about the order in which they should be eaten. I could publish a whole formaggio-dedicated blog, but suffice it to say that this was the best cheese plate I've ever tasted, and that the final cheese – one which had spent most of its life buried in the ground, apparently – left me speechless, watery-eyed and defeated, such was its intensity. Luigi shook my hand vigorously as we left the restaurant, impressed I think by my bravery.

I retired, to cheese-fuelled dreams of autobahns and ultimate driving machines.

Hotel Posta dei Donini, Via Deruta 43, 06132 San Martino in Campo, Perugia

Tel 075 609132

Posta dei Donini

La Dimora del Genio, Palermo, Sicily

2008-11-03T20:06:00.011Z

What can I tell you about this guest house on Via Garibaldi, on the edge of the Kalsa district of the city? I can tell you about the most striking, most memorable feature of my three night stay here. The sounds.

My room was on the second floor. The building opposite, like half of Palermo it seemed, was being renovated. Noisily. I got used to it. My window looked down on a little alley, where I watched – and mostly heard – the daily life of a Palermo family. In the little space outside their door they had chairs and a table covered with a patterned oilcloth. A shopping trolley, a stool and a plastic chair. And at least one scooter, though they came and went so frequently it was hard to tell. They might have had four. In this alley the adults met, sat and talked, and the children played hopscotch and dancing. The house next door was derelict, the roof a pile of rubble.

Throughout my time here, noise drifted relentlessly in through my window, like a soundtrack. The clink of hammer on chisel, the tap of hammer on wood. The whirr of a drill. A shrill sound, electrical, intermittent, which I couldn't place. It mingled with the laughter and shouts of the children, and occasional squeal of excitement or delight. A young man using the alley (regularly) to practise his moped riding skills. Shouts of men from one end of the alley to the other, loud and unselfconscious. The lower conversations of men standing on corners, planning... or plotting. Men singing. Women singing. Tap of utensil on pot. A dog barking. The moped again. The odd blast of incredibly loud music. Fireworks that sounded like gunfire.

On my last night here, there was some sort of party. Much talk and laughter, and the children were outside in the warm evening, shouting and playing, until midnight. Suddenly the proceedings were brought to an abrupt conclusion by two loud belches from the men. Followed by complete silence.

I could also tell you that the house is filled with old furniture and the owner's paintings, that the Bangladeshi housekeeper prepares excellent breakfasts and that the signora who owns the place, Paola Mendola, is hardly ever there. It's on the fringe of a fairly gritty part of town, which is fine if you've come to experience the sights – and sounds – of the real Palermo.

That soundtrack is going on even now, I imagine. Wish I could still hear it.

La Dimora del Genio, Via Garibaldi 58, 90133 Palermo

Tel 347 658764

La Dimora del Genio

Hotel Gardenia al Lago, Gargnano

2008-11-03T12:19:00.018Z

Agatha Christie would have felt at home here. Or one of her characters. At any moment, Hercule Poirot might have stepped off a boat and into the rose-filled garden, taken tea in the sitting room and pronounced the waiter the unlikely murderer of Lady Clementine, who had visited Lake Garda for the sake of her health, but found the trip was to be the death of her. I have a vivid imagination, sorry.

Elegant is the word. Not stuffy or pretentious, and no hip hotel either, in fact the Gardenia al Lago is just ever so slightly faded, but all the more comfortable and welcoming for that. We arrived in late afternoon rain, which had brought down a mist onto the lake and shrouded the far shore. But the welcome from the Arosio brothers was bright and sunny and as we sipped tea in the living room, rain running down the windows and weighing down the roses, we felt immediately at home here.

Our rooms (we were travelling with my elderly mother-in-law) were directly opposite each other, as we'd requested, at the end of a corridor. Each was spotlessly clean and beautifully furnished – gleaming wood, colourful floor tiles, newly fitted bathrooms – and had French doors opening onto an enormous sun terrace which in turn directly overlooked the lake. Well it would have done if we could have seen the lake that evening. The mist had thickened.

For the three nights of our stay we'd decided to take dinner at the hotel. Panoramic windows in the huge dining room also overlook the lake, creating the feeling of being on a ship (on that evening a fog-bound one). To be fair, the food wasn't stunning, but it was perfectly adequate and served with a friendly professionalism that made up for any lack of gastronomic adventure. Like everything else about the hotel, eating here was comfortable and relaxing, not demanding. Sometimes that's all you want.

Next morning the mist cleared slowly as we ate breakfast, and we saw for the first time the lake's other shore. A few steps along the quiet road outside the hotel brings you to the sleepy hamlet of Villa (where DH Lawrence lived for a few months in 1912), and where orange trees surround the tiny harbour. Oranges occasionally fell from the trees and plopped into the water. A little further on is the only slightly more awake little town of Gargnano, where you can catch boats to other places around the lake.

On the morning we left it was sunny. Signora Arosio, the brothers' mother, was in the garden, secateurs in hand, tending the roses and geraniums and bourganvilea. We had a brief chat in which I told her how beautiful the garden was, and how lovely her hotel. She wore an incongruous combination of a smart dress and pink Marigold rubber gloves, yet was the epitome of elegance - there, that word again.

And not in the least faded.

Hotel Gardenia al Lago, Via Colleta, 53 25084 Villa di Gargnano (BS), Lago di Garda

Tel 0365 71195

Hotel Gardenia al Lago

Antiche Sere, Turin, Piedmont

2008-10-28T20:26:00.029Z

You just know, the moment you cross the threshold of this backstreet osteria, that it will be good. The two wood-panelled dining rooms – one which you step directly into from the front door, and one tucked away at the back – are simply furnished. Starched lace curtains hang from the windows. The tables are laid with plain cotton cloths, and cutlery and glass tumblers denote each place setting. There are no pictures on the walls, no unnecessary adornment. Nothing to detract from the serious business of good eating.

We arrived at seven, to be beckoned smilingly in by one of the three slim and handsome young women who run the place. Had we booked? No. Then we could have a table, but only until nine thirty. That would be fine. But now, she said with charming assertiveness, we must go for a walk, because the restaurant did not start serving until eight. Having walked a mile to get here, and sensing that this would be worth the wait, we obeyed and patiently sipped beer for an hour in a bar down the street.

Offered a choice of tables when we returned, we opted for one in the front room, better to watch the comings and goings. The menus, written on thick orange sugar paper, proposed just a few dishes for each course. At our hostess's advice I ordered a modestly priced Barbera from the list of mainly local bottles. First came an unexpected appetiser from the chef – a salami of pork and boiled potatoes, soft and pink, with a texture something like a sopressa, but coarser, and earthily raw when spread onto the crusty bread of which we had a basketful, and followed by a mouthful of wine.

It was partway through my next course, gnocchetti with sausage, and after a further couple of glasses of wine, that the word sublime came to mind. It was simply the most appropriate description of the moment's experience. The gnocchetti melted away in the mouth, the sausage sufficient, though there was barely half a sausage-worth of meat, to lend fennely flavour and knobbly texture, and a scant juice. Outside it was black. Inside, the restaurant had now swelled with diners, mostly Italian and seemingly known to the hosts, and was warm and bright, filled with a heady mix of contented chatter and smiles. At regular intervals more hopeful customers entered, to be told the restaurant was full. How about tomorrow? Sorry, fully booked. We'd been lucky to squeeze in at all. The three women moved about the restaurant, taking orders and serving food and wine, with a warmth and attractiveness that was as easy on the spirit as on the eye.

Next, a thick slab of pot-roasted veal, succulent and tender, and rosemary roast potatoes. Then panna cotta and Piedmontese bonnet. We were invited to try a special Slow Food dessert (we were here for the Salone del Gusto) – mandarin ice cream from Sicily, served with a glass of local Asti. Then coffee. And a grappa. It was heading towards the appointed hour of nine thirty, when we would turn into pumpkins if we hadn't vacated our table. But I couldn't have eaten or drunk another thing anyway. We paid a ludicrously good value bill (the ice cream, the Asti and the grappa were complimentary) and I shook the hand of the handsome dark-haired woman in thanks. I wondered about a kiss, but decided it would be presumptuous.

We walked the mile back to our bed and breakfast, still surrounded, it seemed, by the warm, happy glow of the osteria. A bit like the old Ready Brek ad.

Osteria Antiche Sere, Via Cenischia, 9, 10139 Torino

Tel 011 3854347

Can't find a website of their own, but I'm sure those three young women are too occupied serving customers to worry about such things. Who needs a web site anyway, when you serve such good food to so many people? (This picture, by the way, is not of the osteria: I was too busy eating to think about a photograph. It's just a little piece of Torino that I glimpsed and liked.)

Ristorante - Pizzeria Casin dei Nobili, Venice

2008-10-28T19:33:00.015Z

Casin dei Nobili's emblem is a mildly saucy rendition of two nubile young things, and signs at the bar cheekily refer to matters like how much half an hour costs and warnings not to manhandle the girls until you've paid the madam. None too subtle hints at the building's history.

Nubile young things are still employed here, but now they bring menus, wine and food, and a welcoming smile that's a refreshing change in a city with its fair share of sullen waiting staff. Our own NYT was especially cheerful and keen to practice her English. At one point her enthusiasm got the better of her and a plate of food destined for the next table dropped from her hand to the floor with a crash. No matter. She still smiled.

We shared a plate of warm seafood antipasti – octopus and squid and prawns and other things – then whole bass baked with thinly sliced potatoes and a crispy, salty, lemony fritto misto. All excellent. We skipped dessert, but couldn't resist a liquirizia with our coffee. We've come to know these licorice-cough-medicine drinks as 'Berties', for reasons which some of you will fathom, and I think they've become mildly addictive.

We left some time later, the happier, warmer, slightly fuzzier and fuller, and feeling distinctly less nubile than when we'd arrived.

Ristorante - Pizzeria Casin dei Nobili, Venezia, S. Barnaba, Dorsoduro 2765

Tel 041 241 1841

It's reassuring somehow that a restaurant can drum up so much custom without having its own website (or one that I can find).

Taverna del Duca, Amalfi, Campania

2008-10-11T08:23:00.025+01:00

It's just coincidence that this restaurant in Amalfi is called the same as the one in Locorotondo mentioned in the last entry in this blog. There are probably hundreds of Taverna del Ducas across Italy. Like there are hundreds of Dog and Ducks across England, I suppose.

Anyway, it was here at this little restaurant that I ate a dish I'd not encountered before, and would be disappointed to see on the menu after a Tuesday. It was schiaffoni alla ragu della domenica, or pasta with Sunday sauce, and I enjoyed it, appropriately enough, on a Monday. Like many a Monday supper in our own home, the dish presumably relies on leftover roasted meat from Sunday. Whilst we have cottage pie with yesterday's roast beef or shepherd's pie with yesterday's roast lamb, they have pasta with Sunday sauce. I couldn't tell you whether the meat was beef or pork, but it was delicious, with the occasional caramelised burnt edge of roasted meat and a deep ragu of tomatoes and herbs and maybe red wine that spoke of long, slow cooking.

So why the picture of a guitar? Well, the service here was what you might call relaxed. Not sloppy or tardy, but casual. Our food was brought to us by a middle-aged chap with longish, thinning hair and a toothless smile, wearing a worn out jumper and jeans. Part way through the evening, he picked up a guitar and started to sing to the assembled diners. Except he sang so softly that no one could hear him. When he accompanied his playing with a kazoo (played just as inaudibly), it became bizarre. Ladies and gentlemen, meet Pepe.

Turned out that Pepe was a true wandering minstrel. On discovering we were English, he proceeded to regale us with tales of how he had worked in London as a young man. At the Café Royal, no less. And the Ritz. He punctuated his little tales with an occasional (soft) strum of his guitar. He told us how the people he had worked with had cropped up again in his life, unexpectedly, in other parts of the world. Strum. Like the boy from Naples who worked with him in London, before they went their separate ways, until he bumped into him in a park in Paris several years later. Strum. It was a small world. Strum. If truth be told, we couldn't get rid of him. Until he told us that he had a wife and five children to support and that he just worked in the trattoria to help out, they didn't pay him, and times were tough... we gave him a few euros, and he was off to the next table. Strum.

Next morning we wandered past the restaurant on our way down to catch a boat from the harbour. There was Pepe, setting up the parasols. He waved, as if surprised to see us. It's a small world.

Ristorante La Taverna del Duca, Piazza Spirito Santo, 26 - 84011 Amalfi

Tel 089 872755

La Taverna del Duca

Taverna del Duca, Locorotondo, Puglia

2008-10-03T12:40:00.025+01:00

The town of Locorotondo pretty much does what it says on the tin. As you might expect of a town with five o's in its name, it's a round place that sits, like other towns in this region, atop a small hill that rises like a bump from the plain below. A neat and tidy town of bleached stone and whitewash.

Tucked away in the old part of the town, not that there really is a new part, La Taverna del Duca keeps itself to itself. From the outside it's just a door and a sign - no windows, no menu. Inside, the dining room of just half a dozen check-clothed tables is open to the tiny kitchen in the corner, dominated by a large wood-burning oven.

The no menu theme continues inside too. When we arrived, the owner, chef and waitress – yes, that's all one person – beamed us a welcome, directed us to a table and asked us in Italian what we would like to eat. We asked if she had a menu. Patiently our hostess, a woman in her early forties perhaps, with large and intense dark eyes, explained in single words, each one emphasised by pressing one forefinger against the other, that there was antipasti... pasta... carne... We agreed to the antipasti, so we were off the mark. And pasta, yes please. And the carne, why not? We really had no idea what we were about to receive.

The woman smiled and retired to her kitchen, quickly returning with a basket of roughly-hewn bread and a chipped ceramic jug of white primitivo wine. Then a plate of olives. Then a couple of plates of antipasti. Then a couple more. And more. There were smokily grilled peppers, small balls of burrata which burst into cold creaminess, sweet buttery ham, a purée of beans and a dish of humble cauliflower that was revelatory. While we ate our hostess busied herself in the kitchen, at intervals poking her head inside the wood-fired oven to check the progress of whatever was inside. Next, the pasta. Huge bowls of orechiette in a simple but delicious fresh tomato sauce.

Then an earthenware dish was brought to the table bearing a bubbling piece of braised meat: "stinco!" she proclaimed proudly. Stinco, we discovered, is shin of pork. At the lightest touch it collapsed off the bone into the wine and vegetable sauce that bathed it. Nothing accompanied it, and nothing was needed. When the shin had been picked to the bone and the wine jug was empty, Antonella (for by now this is how we knew her) insisted that we try her cake. When I declined she patted my stomach, as one might pat a drum to check its taughtness, then smiled and insisted I had a grappa instead. 'Piccolo, piccolo' I protested, weakly. A huge glass of grappa arrived. She laughed and patted my stomach again. Finally, coffee. Full, glowing, and very, very happy, we said our thank yous and farewells.

And were back next evening.

Taverna del Duca, Via Papadotera, 3, 70010 Locorotondo (BA)

Tel 0804 313007

This is one of the best places I have eaten in my life. Really. If you're within a hundred miles, make the detour.

La Stalla, Assisi, Umbria

2008-10-01T15:30:00.020+01:00

I have a great idea for a restaurant with a difference. Find an old barn. Sweep it out (not too assiduously – a few strands of straw are all to the good). Paint the walls with grafitti and furnish the place with wooden tables and chairs, the older and more rickety the better. Cover the tables with gingham cloths and adorn with rustic cutlery. Now, and this is really important, construct an ancient log-fired grill in a suitable corner, one where the logs burn down to embers which can be used to cook food on huge grills above. You'll need plenty of logs. Big ones. Let the fire blacken the walls and the beams of the ceiling over time. Use the grill to cook all kinds of tasty foods, and serve simply, with jugs of wine, to the hoardes of appreciative diners who will beat a path to your door.

It's a great idea, but sadly (or happily) not an original one. La Stalla, a mile out of Assisi on the road, well, track really, to the Santuario delle Carceri, has been doing it for years. I had read about the place. I'd checked it out one lunchtime, and booked for that evening. (Some places are better in the dark. La Stalla is one of them.) But I hadn't been prepared for that evening's experience. Crikey, this was good.

It was smoky, in an appetising way. The cooking on the huge grill seemed to be no-one's responsibility in particular, but anyone who passed (sometimes we weren't sure if they were even members of staff or just passers-by) checked and turned the food. A sort of communal cooking. We ate sausage and quail, lamb and beef, all grilled to perfection. Nestled amongst the glowing ashes were dusty grey orbs that turned out to be baked potatoes. Lightly dusted off, then slathered with olive oil and sprinkled with salt, their flesh yellow and melting, they were the best baked potatoes I've ever tasted. Small earthenware dishes were placed on the grill too – cheese, baked with wine and herbs.

The tables are communal, and part way through the evening a single, elegant middle-aged lady graciously joined us and enjoyed a joint of chicken grilled, as everything else, on this enormous indoor barbecue. She smiled and acknowledged us, as if we had somehow joined the La Stalla club. Perhaps we had. The volume in the restaurant increased through the evening, as diners enjoyed the food and wine. The grill glowed like a furnace. Extra logs were added and the fire was stoked. More food was added to the grill. This was the kind of place you could settle in and stay long, long into the night.

For several days afterwards the smell of smoke lingered on my jumper and made me smile.

La Stalla, Via Santuario delle Carceri, 24, 06081 Assisi (PG)

Tel 075 812 317

Loads of reviews. No site of their own. The smoke probably stops them from seeing the computer screen. Just go. Go.

Da Baracca, Amalfi, Campania

2008-09-29T19:37:00.024+01:00

It's usually a good sign when a restaurant owner stands outside his establishment and welcomes his guests. It means he's also happy to stand up and be counted when they come to leave. The owner of blue and white Da Baracca, set in a tiny square back from the main Amalfi drag, stood next to a sign that proudly proclaimed 'since 1945' (think that meant the restaurant, not him, but it was a close-run thing) and gestured us inside.

Eating here was akin to stepping off shore for a while. Appropriate, I felt, in a place that once rivalled Pisa and Genoa in its maritime republic days. The owner gave us a captain-like welcome aboard. The waiters – swarthy, dark-haired young men of impeccable politeness – wore their shirt sleeves rolled tightly above their elbows, like sailors, and busied themselves on deck, bringing menus. Once seated, and when the restaurant tables had all pretty much filled, we set sail.

Though not exclusively fishy, the menu is mostly so. Certainly all of the most interesting dishes have maritime connections. As we read the evening's offerings, the captain brought us a platter of spankingly fresh fish to inspect, boldly claiming that he serves 'the finest fish in all of Amalfi!'

I started with what turned out to be one of the best dishes I've ever eaten in Italy. ('Dishes I've eaten in Italy' raises the bar from the outset, so believe me, this was good.) And like all the best dishes, it was simple. Homemade pasta with swordfish. Tender morsels of swordfish with black olives and capers and slivers of parmesan, tossed through short pasta. (Who said parmesan should never be served with fish? Not the Amalfitani!) There was some chilli in there too, or perhaps it was chilli oil, because the dish had a warmth to it wavering between gentle heat and fierce kick. Utterly superb. Next, an Amalfi classic, apparently – anchovy pie. Not really a pie, but a timbale of little roasted potatoes surrounded by roasted fresh anchovies, accompanied by a plate of grilled peppers. More superbness, and tiny tiny anchovy bones to crunch.

We chose a modestly-priced white wine from just-up-the-road Ravello, and we couldn't have partnered the evening's food better if we'd had a bottomless budget. At the end of the meal one of the happy sailor band brought each of us a complimentary glass of ice-cold liquirizia, like frozen cough medecine, while a guitar player strummed and sang into the night.

Yo ho ho ho, a pirate's life for me. (That's not what he sang. It's just how we felt.)

Da Baracca, Piazza dei Dogi, 12 (84011) Amalfi

Tel 089 871 285

I can forgive the restaurant for not having a web site of its own when their food and hospitality is this good. They don't need one. Thanks to Google images for the pic.

Il Polivere, Ficulle, Umbria

2008-09-28T07:13:00.009+01:00

Are you sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin. Once upon a time there was a pharmacist from Naples and her doctor husband who loved their jobs but wanted a place in the country to retire to when they got older. After much searching, Marta and Michele found an old tumbledown farmhouse set on a hill deep in the Umbrian countryside near Orvieto. It was called Polivere – the place of the free – because in Roman times slaves were granted their freedom here.

Marta and Michele set about renovating the house. They made cool tile floors and mellow stone walls. They built a swimming pool fed by natural spring water. And they planted a vineyard of merlot and sangiovese vines. The surrounding woods were filled with birds and deer and wild boar and, because you could only reach the house by a long and dusty track, Il Polivere was a place of perfect peace.

Marta was so happy that she wanted guests to enjoy this magical place too (and the money would help to pay all those bills), so she opened the house as an agriturismo. Time passed, until an English couple came to stay at Marta's for a few nights one summer, and found it so beautiful that they nearly cried when they had to leave. Each morning they sat in the garden eating breakfast and listening to the birdsong, while puppies played on the lawn. In the afternoon they swam in the pool and relaxed in the sun. And in the evening, when they returned from having something to eat, they sat outside in the darkness sipping Marta's home-made fennel liqueur and wondering how easy it might be to buy a farmhouse in Italy.

Two years later the English couple returned to Polivere, this time with their grown up children, who helped to harvest the grapes. This time Michele was there too, and they tasted wine and talked and ate fresh tomatoes under the clear skies of a summer night. And they all cried when they had to leave.

Like all good stories, this one has a happy ending. Marta is still there, and still welcoming guests, and the place is as beautiful as ever. If you go, though, a word of warning: watch out for the tears when it's time to leave.

Must be something in the air that affects your eyes.

Il Polivere, Strada Chianaiola, 2, 05016 Ficulle (Terni)

Tel 0763 838761

Il Polivere

Medio Evo, Assisi, Umbria

2008-09-26T19:46:00.007+01:00

Assisi can be an uncannily peaceful place. Or it can be maddeningly busy, as we found one hot summer's day. The sight of so many nuns, monks and priests in one place can be a bit disconcerting. We had expected things to have calmed down in the evening, but at 7pm Assisi still groaned with tour groups, the car parks below the town full of supercoaches, the streets jostling with tour parties.

We found respite from all this, though, at the restaurant Medio Evo, where we dined in relaxed but refined peace. It was a bit of a surreal evening. For one thing, the otherwise elegant restaurant had a trickling fountain on one wall that would look cheap in a Little Chef. For another, we were the only diners until a party of elderly dinner-suited Italians arrived and took a table, then proceeded to photograph each other repeatedly. We never actually saw them eat, just take photographs.

We did eat, and what we ate was simple but very good. Chicken in a lemon and sage sauce, with some roasted potatoes, then a wonderful cheese selection. Good wine too. Attention is clearly paid to selecting quality produce and ingredients, and the service was knowledgeable and attentive without being overbearing. When we emerged from this oasis of calm back into the Assisi streets it had grown dark, and the crowds had thinned. Enough for us to take coffee sitting outside at a bar in the Piazza del Commune, beneath a clear and starry sky.

Something of the Assisi magic had returned to fill the empty spaces left by the crowds.

Ristorante Medio Evo, Via Arco dei Priori 4 Assisi

Tel 075 813068

Ristorante Medio Evo

Cumpa' Cosimo, Ravello, Campania

2008-09-26T09:01:00.021+01:00

Here's one of those restaurants whose reputation goes before it. Online reviews rave over it, mostly, and pay special homage to its owner and figurehead – Netta Bottone, a formidable black-haired lady of seventy-something who seems as much actress as cook. You might gain a different impression from the reviews, but let's be clear – country trattoria full of locals this ain't.

We ate lunch here, having wandered around a Ravello bathed in Autumn sunshine, alternately sleepy then busy as busloads of tourists arrived and departed. In the interval it seemed that most of them had found their way to Cumpa' Cosimo. I imagine that lunch is the restaurant's busiest time, as Ravello, swelled with tourists during the day, quietens down in the evening, left only to its inhabitants and those staying in the town itself. So dinner here may be a calmer, if less atmospheric, experience. At lunchtime there's a slight feeling of pastiche about the place, and it's all a bit production-line: inevitable if you're feeding hordes of tourists with a bus to catch, I suppose.

We were shown through the packed and noisy restaurant to a dining room at the back. Our order was taken by a distracted waiter and served by a surly one. But the food was actually pretty good. To begin, the floral-aproned owner theatrically brought us a 'complimentary' plate of tomatoes, mozzarella and grilled vegetables. Then we ate a meaty, fennely sausage topped with provolone cheese and a cannelloni with tomato sauce. And drank a small carafe of red wine. All accompanied by Godfather-like music from a mandolin player squeezing between the tables.

One of Signora Bettone's antics deserves special mention. Instead of presenting a bill at the end of your meal, she asks each table what they had to eat and drink, then does an eyes-skyward mental calculation and pronounces the total with a shrug in a 'well it should be more, but let's just call it this amount' sort of way. Charming eccentricity or a ploy to confuse you and increase the value of your bill? Up to you. In any event, the signora doesn't seem the type to argue with. And anyway, we'd enjoyed our lunch.

I did see her sneak a look at the bill in her pocket, though, just to be sure she'd got it right. Add businesswoman to cook and actress on her CV.

Cumpa' Cosimo, Via Roma 46, Ravello

Tel 089 857156

Lots of reviews, but strangely no website of its own that I can find. No camera with me either when we visited, so thanks to Google images for the Ravello pic. No, that's not Netta Bottone, but maybe one day she'll have a statue of her own.

Stella Maris, Amalfi, Campania

2008-09-25T19:24:00.012+01:00

Everything in the town of Amalfi draws you to the sea. The main road through the town runs precariously alongside it, the bus terminus overlooks it, and from the harbour a myriad of boats ply the coastline. Even the roads high up in the old village tumble inexorably down to it. They say that if you drop a lemon anywhere in Amalfi, it will end up in the sea. Actually they don't say that at all, I've just made it up. But you get the idea.

Inevitably in such a tourist town, restaurants, pizzerie and bars cluster around the sea too, displaying their menus in English and German, as well as Italian. Our instinct tells us in such situations to move back, leave the tourists to it and seek out smaller, more traditional and authentic, and probably less expensive, eating options deeper in the town. But you have to be careful, or sometimes your instinct can simply make foolish food snobs of you.

The Stella Maris is a case in point. It's a largish place set on stilts above a dark, gritty beach, dotted with sunbeds and umbrellas. There's a small interior restaurant, a larger covered terrace and an open terrace of flapping canopies. Four of us arrived early in the evening. Well, more late afternoon, really, but after an early start and a long day, the first of this particular trip to Amalfi, we just needed good food and then comfortable beds. Maybe a walk through the town in between. We set our culinary expectations to average. But we were wrong.

We ordered a bottle of wine, which came with a basket of bread and a bottle of water, and quickly disappeared. As did any worries or misconceptions about the quality of the food, when our meals arrived. A mixed fry starter – with crisp pieces of fish, potato and fish croquettes and seaweed – was excellent. So was a tagliatelle with scampi, cherry tomatoes and rocket. And the fritto misto di pesce included especially delicious pieces of delicate octopus. The food was well-cooked and presented and generously portioned, the service laid back but efficient.

At first I thought the owner was a little on the surly side. But by the end of the evening we were chatting wholeheartedly and he was our new best friend. We watched the sun set over the bay of Amalfi and felt the temperature drop as darkness enveloped the plastic-shrouded terrace of the restaurant. A complimentary limoncello staved off the cold.

Prices were a little steep. But not as steep as the subsequent climb through the town to our hotel, swaggering like pirates, awash with octopus and prawns and seaweed and wine.

Stella Maris, Viale della Regione, 2-00100 Amalfi

Tel 089 872463

Stella Maris

I didn't get a chance to take a photo, so thanks to the restaurant's website for the picture above.

La Piazzetta dell'Erba, Assisi, Umbria

2008-08-05T17:55:00.011+01:00

Approached on the road from Torgiano, Assisi appeared above fields of sunflowers and corn, its pink stone refecting the morning sunlight, though dark clouds were already gathering ominously above the hills behind the town.

We parked in one of the out-of-town car parks and walked, well climbed, the short distance into the town, entering at Porta Molano, which opens onto Piazza Santa Chiara, offering glorious views onto the plain below. St Francis didn't look on us as kindly as he might have that morning, as with a rumble of thunder the dark clouds rolled over the town and the heavens opened, delivering torrential rain. For around half an hour we huddled beneath a dripping shop canopy as the rain turned the street into a small river. Even the nuns got wet. But once past, the town quickly dried and we walked its length, through the Piazza del Commune and on to the Basilica di San Francesco.

Our lunch choice was at the opposite end of town, back near where we'd started, so by the time we arrived at the Piazzetta dell'Erba after one o'clock, we'd worked up an appetite. We ate inside a brick-vaulted, busy dining room, served by a young waitress with unbelievably thick-lensed short-sighted glasses which magnified her eyes to fairy tale proportions. "All the better to serve you with." A selection of bruschette included the most pungent garlic I've ever experienced (made more potent, I think, by the peppery olive oil), and we also tried a delicious plate of pears with pecorino cheese, walnuts and honey. Then penne al fattore and morsels of tender lamb grilled on skewers, washed down with half a carafe of red wine. The restaurant was quite full but, as tourists, we were in the minority of diners that lunchtime.

This is the kind of place that you find all over Italy and wish you could find more frequently in Britain. Family run, serving good, simple food based on what it can source locally and cook well, and aimed primarily at local people – if a few tourists walk in, that's all to the good. It's not about awards or 'gastro' this or that or fancy presentation. Just excellent food.

And all at a reasonable price.

La Piazzetta dell'Erba, via San Gabriele dell'Addolorata 15b, Assisi

Tel 075 815352

Another one that's internet shy. Doesn't matter when the food's this good.

Pizzeria L'Oasi, San Martino in Campo, Umbria

2008-08-05T08:17:00.015+01:00

Sometimes the simplest of places are the most memorable, don't you think?

We were staying at the Hotel Posta dei Donini, tucked away in San Martino in Campo deep in Umbria (see separate post). A lovely hotel, but quite formal, especially in the evening. So if you wanted to relax and avoid dressing for dinner (I always want to relax and avoid dressing for dinner), then you had to leave the hotel. And if you didn't want to drive, your choices were limited. San Martino is a sleepy, workmanlike place that you can walk around in about five minutes.

But we struck gold when we found the Pizzeria l'Oasi. It looked like just a house, with a canopy on the side where otherwise a garage might have been. We were warmly welcomed and eagerly served and, despite being the only non-locals in a place probably unused to many tourists, made to feel very much at home. Seated outside in the warm evening, alongside Italian couples and families, we enjoyed great value, delicious pizza and even better value vino alla spina.

On our final night in the village, our hotel filled with elegantly dressed Italians attending a wedding. The hotel was clearly out to impress, so we left them to it and headed out once more for our by now 'local' ristorante pizzeria. It was Saturday night and the place was buzzing! We shared a pizza primavera, a plate of really delicious fries to which they seemed to have added vinegar as well as salt (perhaps they had been researching British tastes in an effort to make us feel even more at home). When we asked for the bill the owner brought us a gift – a small candle in a glass jar of oil – "to remember our visit". He explained that he was Jordanian, hence the name of the restaurant, and had been in Italy for ten years. Long enough to learn how to make a damn good pizza, obviously.

We said our goodbyes and wandered back to the hotel to find the wedding party in full swing, yet oddly quiet, and the hotel grounds scattered with sharply dressed guests. We retired to bed, somewhat scruffily by comparison. That night I dreamed of eating pizza by a Jordanian oasis, while oil lamps flickered in the desert night.

Must have been all that free-flowing vino.

Pizzeria l'Oasi, Via 1 Maggio, 6 San Martino in Campo, Perugia

Tel 075 609754

No web site that I can find, and hardly any other reviews, so you'll just have to take my word for it!

Hotel Marina Riviera, Amalfi, Costa Amalfitana

2008-08-03T18:55:00.029+01:00

He cut a rakish figure at the arrivals barrier at Naples airport – slightly built, wearing jeans, a white shirt and dark blazer, sunglasses on his head, pushed back into his greying hair. And holding a paper sign with our name on it. He was our taxi driver, pre-booked to transfer us to our hotel in Amalfi. He loaded our luggage into the boot of the silver Mercedes and we were off.

At first the journey was one of straight, fast roads, as we left Naples and sped southwards. Our driver told us that he had grown up in this part of Italy, but had left some years ago and gone to America, where he had been (he said) a taxi driver in New York. I sat beside him, and as he told his story, he tapped my arm repeatedly for emphasis. After a while he'd had enough of New York, and had decided (he said) to come back to the place he grew up. Now everyone here called him Americano (he said).

After about forty five minutes, we turned off the main road. "Now I'ma gonna takea you ona the mosta beautiful Amalfi drive" Americano promised, in his best Robert de Niro accent. He tapped my arm harder, perhaps to emphasise the delights that awaited us. The road narrowed and became increasingly twisted, until it was impossible to see around each upcoming bend. Americano continued to drive with the same one-handed nonchalance that he had used to negotiate the autostrada, and now occasionally answered his mobile too, sometime talking for several minutes. Sheer walls of stone sped by on our right, whilst the road edge fell away in a scrumble of scree to the deep blue Mediterranean on our left. Periodically Americano would beep and wave to passing motorists, though they never acknowledged the greeting. Disconcertingly, he would tap my arm at the the most difficult point of manoeuvre, to tell me some tale or other. Oh, and he had a particular, almost psychopathic, dislike of oncoming German coaches.

At last we made it to Amalfi, and the more relaxed charms of Marina Riviera. Situated directly on the road that winds through the town, we nevertheless stepped into an oasis of calm and delightful hospitality. Cool tiles, white walls, simple furniture. Our two adjoining rooms had small covered balconies which looked out over the harbour and the town beyond. The breakfast room opened onto a sun terrace with the same view, and breakfast itself was very good, with all manner of sweet and savoury morsels with which to start the day. After dinner in the town, drinks on the restaurant's elevated terrace in the warm evening air, watching the lights of the offshore boats, was a perfect ending to the day.

At the end of our short stay, Americano took us back to the airport. En route we stopped for petrol. I can see him now, standing at the open car door, petrol pump in his hand, waving at the passing motorists, and puffing on a lighted cigarette...

Hotel Marina Riviera, Amalfi (SA), 84011 Via P. Comite, 19

Tel 089 871104

Hotel Marina Riviera

Al Nono Risorto, Venice

2008-07-30T18:54:00.016+01:00

Fegato alla Veneziana sounds more romantic, doesn't it, than liver and onions? But that's what it amounts to, and they serve up a fine plate of it in the cosy dining rooms of Al Nono Risorto, just over the bridge from Campo San Cassiano. We stumbled upon it at first, then it became our 'neighbourhood restaurant' when we stayed a week in winter in an apartment at the edge of the square.

The restaurant comprises a series of dining rooms. The first, straight off the street, has a high ceiling, a bar and terrazzo floor tiles reminiscent of a French brasserie. Other rooms are smaller, and lower. When the restaurant is busy it's all bustle and noise and the staff of bright young things, some of whom seem more interested in how they look than what you have ordered, can be distracted. On one occasion when the restaurant was heaving and breaking the sound barrier I ordered fegato but was brought a steak (and a pretty raw one at that).

But don't let that put you off. This place has atmosphere. Enter into the spirit of it all and you'll enjoy it (as long as you don't have sensitive ears). We also ate pizza and pasta and chicken and seafood and other dishes that were excellent and extremely good value. The restaurant owner sat inside the door and checked every bill as diners came to pay – and rounded each one down. Well he did ours anyway. Nice touch.

We've only eaten here in winter, when the adjoining canopied garden was tired and closed, but I can imagine that it's a lovely space in which to eat in the warmer months. On winter evenings the light from the restaurant casts a warm glow onto the pavement outside, making it almost imperative to stop and read the handwritten menu taped to the window.

If you pass and hesitate, go in. You won't be disappointed.

Al Nono Risorto, Santa Croce 2338, Sottoportego di Siora Bettina, Venice 30121

Tel 041 524 1169

Here's another place without its own website. They obviously attach more importance to food than technology, which is fine by me. You'll find plenty of reviews out there though.

Antica Osteria della Valle, Todi, Umbria

2008-07-29T20:23:00.026+01:00

If you imagine Umbria to be one big rural idyll, as I once did, the southbound E45 towards Todi comes as a bit of a surprise, flanked by industrial and retail units. I suppose not every Umbrian can be a farmer or an olive grower or a vineyard owner any more than we can all be sheep farmers or farm shop owners in Britain. The complete rural idyll is something of a myth, even here.

But as we headed south, there were increasing glimpses of the gentle Umbrian countryside – densely wooded hills, groves of shimmering olive trees and row upon row of vines, dripping with grapes, awaiting the Autumn harvest. That was more like it. And suddenly there was Todi, a proper hill town, doing what hill towns do best – perching on top of its hill.

Todi itself is a rather unremarkable town when compared with Umbrian neighbours Assisi or Orvieto, but it's a pleasant enough maze of steps and slopes and squares. In the broad piazza, where we stopped for coffee, a road crew was assembling the most enormous stage, with a lighting and sound rig that would do justice to The Rolling Stones. We never found out what this was for, but whatever it was it was going to be loud. Perhaps it was The Rolling Stones.

Persistent searching of the town rewarded us with the discovery of the recommended Antica Osteria delle Valle, where we stopped for lunch. The streetside restaurant was simple and inviting, with a shady canopy above just a handful of outside tables. The day's menu was handwritten and taped to the window (usually a good sign). The attractive young waitress, who may have been the owner's daughter, or may have been here temporarily from eastern Europe, spoke English with a markedly strong, strangely Transylvanian accent. She offered help with the menus. "For eny help viz ze menu you only heff to esk me. But plees, mek sure zat you finish your meal before sunset... oh, look, you heff cat yourself on ze knife... here, let me see..." Sorry, I watched a lot of Hammer horror films as a child. Somehow, Ingrid Pitt has made a lasting impression.

We started with the recommended antipasto della casa – crostini with fondue cheese flavoured with truffles, then a selection of bruschette and some other items which we couldn't identify, but which tasted good nevertheless. Then the pasta della casa – strangozzi with fresh tomatoes and truffles, and I had the beef fillet. The strips of meat were beautifully cooked, meltingly tender and served with rocket, lemon and olive oil, with a scattering of juniper berries on top. The odd whiff of two-stroke from a passing scooter added a certain non so che.

Curiously, there were no mirrors in the toilets...

Osteria delle Valle, 19 Via Ciuffelli, Todi

Tel 075 8944848

The restaurant doesn't appear to have its own website, unless it only comes online after sunset...?

California Park Hotel, Forte dei Marmi, Tuscany

2008-07-26T14:48:00.013+01:00

Despite my hopeful expectations, the girl on reception didn't greet our arrival by singing the words 'welcome to the Hotel California'. Spoilsport.

I've no idea what California has to do with this lovely hotel, but I suppose there is a certain 'west coast relaxed' feel to its location – in beautifully landscaped grounds just a couple of hundred metres from the beach. Our room was in a two-storey villa a little way away from the main hotel, near the swimming pool and surrounded by manicured lawns and shady trees. We had our own spacious terracotta-tiled terrace, bordered by jasmine and hydrangea.

This is the kind of hotel where you can't help but relax. We woke later each morning we were here, and did less each day. But the highlight was undoubtedly the food, especially the seafood. Dinner was served in a bright airy restaurant with a vaguely nautical feel. On out first night here we had pasta with scampetti, which was extremely good, then gilthead bream and an excellent veal chop. It was dark when we emerged from the restaurant to enjoy coffee and liqueurs on the terrrace, served by a mature lady with a striking resemblance to the actress Honor Blackman. There were a few families staying at the hotel while we were there, and the sounds of children enjoying themselves in the garden, squeakily making animals out of balloons late into the evening, was a slightly surreal but rather pleasant backdrop to Honor's refined service.

Ms Blackman was in fine form on our last night here, as I found her in the bar tasting varieties of limoncello offered by a handsome young Italian girl whose mother apparently made the stuff. Honor made her selection and put the chosen bottle behind the bar. 'I will reserve this for my best guests...such as this gentleman!' she flattered huskily. We never saw sight of the bottle again.

Our final dinner was again outstanding. Crostini with clams, then a wonderfully flavourful tagliatelle with morsels of langoustine and zucchine flowers. Pasta with aubergine, then roast chicken, which really did taste like chicken! Finally fresh fruit and pecorino cheese.

The taste of that langoustine tagliatelle will stay with me for a long time. Perhaps the song was right. You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.

California Park Hotel, Via Colombo, 32, I-55042, Forte dei Marmi (LU), Riviera della Versilia

Tel 0584 787121

California Park Hotel

Villa Liberty, Siena, Tuscany

2008-07-25T21:06:00.014+01:00

We reached Siena in the mid-afternoon and, despite having no directions (we'd accidentally thrown them away back in Florence), found our hotel - the Villa Liberty - quite easily. It was situated on a broad, tree-lined avenue on the town's outskirts, about ten minutes from the centre, and we could park right outside. Small and homely, the Villa Liberty was comfortable and clean and definitely up to the job of accommodating us for one night. It also had the tallest ceilings of any hotel we've stayed in, and an unusual shower which sprayed water randomly across the whole bathroom.

We found the Piazza del Campo broad and sunlit, but overall Siena seemed a dark town, with dark buildings and alleyways that somehow seemed to hold on to its medieval past more than most. We'd missed the Palio by just days, and even managed to miss a procession with music and horses and costume that took place on the very afternoon we were there.

Weary and a little footsore, we found a promising trattoria on the way back to the hotel. Here I committed the cardinal sin of the travel reviewer, because I didn't make a note of its name. My spaghetti puttanesca (chef's recommendation) to start was fine, as was the Caprese salad. My vitello alla griglia was good too - a huge, thinly batted escalope of veal with a side dish of cannelloni beans. Swordfish all'Amalfi (odd when we were such a long way from that coast) was still swimming, but had swapped the Mediterranean for a rich sauce of tomatoes and capers. The bottle of Chianti was very good, but so it should have been for the price.

So really it was all okay. But the menu seemed all over the place and written to please a common denominator - the tourist. Maybe we were just being grumpy that evening, but sitting in the restaurant we noted that as each set of guests was talked through the menu and proposed the 'chef's recommendations', the same poor fish was removed from the window display and paraded around the restaurant as sea bass, which it plainly wasn't. When it came to dessert, a sample dish of tiramisu circulated the room like an experienced, if slightly worn, party host.

We wound our way back to the hotel as the evening sun cast a dramatic glow over the old town. While Helen took a shower I enjoyed coffee and whisky in the comfortable lounge, where I was joined by two Dutch ladies. Unfortunately my Dutch is limited to brief business dealings with a client in Holland, so I only knew how to say 'good morning', 'good afternoon' and 'happy Christmas', none of which seemed appropriate to the occasion. I downed my whisky and retired to bed.

Too late I remembered that they might have liked the joke about the sad fate of the Dutch girl with inflatable shoes. Think about it.

Hotel Villa Liberty, Viale Vittorio Veneto 11 - Siena

Tel 0577 44966

Villa Liberty, Siena

Al Miralago, Gargnano sul Garda, Lombardy

2008-07-24T19:52:00.018+01:00

The boats were in, the nets were still wet, but the fish had gone. I'd walked the mile or so north of Gargnano that hot Sunday morning, past the imposing Villa Feltrinelli, where Mussolini spent several years during the war, past the old lemon greenhouses now bereft of lemon trees, looking for... well I wasn't quite sure what I was looking for exactly, except that they were called Franz.

I'd read in a book at the hotel where we were staying that there was a fish market in Gargnano, and thought that, like most fish markets, it would be photogenic. The young owner of the hotel explained that 'Franz' fished Lake Garda each evening, when the weather allowed it, and that their most prized catch is a member of the salmon family called coregone, more prosaically known as common whitefish. They sold the catch each morning beneath the arches of the town hall in the village. He told me where I would find them and even offered to ring them to tell them I was coming. I told him that wouldn't be necessary.

It turned out that Franz was the nickname of the Dominici family of fishermen. I don't know why. I found them in a cluster of old stone buildings tucked away down by a tiny church on a little inlet to the lake, the trappings of their work strewn around. By mid-morning their working day was over, and there was nothing to photograph but their nets.

It was blisteringly hot as I walked back to the village. The earlier mist over the lake had burned off, leaving the water deep blue and the air gin-clear. It was silent, apart from a distant church bell and the occasional scuttle of lizards at the roadside as I passed. Gargnano, which had been quietly drowsing in the sun when I passed through earlier in the morning, had now sprung into life as villagers strolled the streets and met and chatted, or stopped for coffee or drinks, in relaxed Sunday tradition.

We decided to have lunch. From a handful of restaurants directly overlooking the lake we chose Al Miralago, because the place looked spick and span and friendly, but also because their menu offered lake sardines, which I wanted to try. Comfortably seated in the shade of a huge canopy we watched the gentle Sunday activity of the little town over cold beer and prosecco and a basket of bread. The lake sardines were plump and juicy, and grilled to a crisp on the outside. Like sardines from the sea, only earthier.

I wonder if they were caught by Franz?

Al Miralago, Lungolago Zanardelli 5, 25084 Gargnano BS

Tel 0365 71209

Al Miralago, Gargnano

Ristorante U'curdunn, Locorotondo, Puglia

2008-07-23T19:40:00.014+01:00

I've always thought that gracious hospitality comes naturally, perhaps innately, to Italians. So it's probably not surprising that even the youngest citizens seem to be proficient at it.

Like the young chap at this restaurant in Locorotondo, who was sweeping the pavement terrace outside when we arrived one evening fifteen minutes before eight o'clock. He would have been maybe nine, ten at the most. When we asked him if the restaurant was open, he first replied that it wasn't, yet. Then, as it dawned on him that if we went away to wait somewhere we might not come back, he put down his broom and, with a deferential bow and wave of his hand, showed us into the empty restaurant and to a table for two by the window. He brought us menus which he opened with a flourish and got as far as pouring us water before a fully grown colleague took over, and sent him back to finish his sweeping. I think he would comfortably have looked after us all evening.

In the more experienced hands of one of the restaurant's elders we enjoyed a selection of antipasti that included a cold salad of the tenderest octopus, delicious grilled vegetables and creamy, creamy burrata. There was also tripe, popular in these parts, in a fat, cigar-shaped roll, which had the texture of a belly button and the taste of a burp.

The place had a homely feel about it, and the service was friendly too. It felt like we'd come to share their food in their dining room rather than eat in their restaurant. As we left, the young lad was standing at the front door. He nodded and bade us arrivederci. He was learning fast.

Maybe one day he'll be running the restaurant.

Ristorante U'curdunn, Via Dura, 17, 70010 Locorotondo (Ba)

Tel 080 431 72 81

Ristorante U'curdunn, Locorotondo

Hotel Marconi, Venice

2008-07-22T13:06:00.009+01:00

There's really only one way to arrive in Venice in style. Within minutes of landing at Marco Polo airport we were bouncing across the lagoon, the wind in our hair, the summer sun (and broad smiles) on our faces, in a sleek and beautiful boat. Varnished wood, polished brass, soft yellow leather seats. But we stood, to catch every glimpse of the approaching skyline.

Finding a chink in what appeared an impenetrable façade, our boatman turned in stealthily, as if to take the city by surprise, creeping slowly into Venice along a narrow, silent, sunless alley of still green water. Suddenly we emerged into broader water and burst into a scene so bright and intense and animated it was as if we'd been thrust onto the set of an epic film – scene painting by Canaletto, choreography by Busby Berkley. Just beyond the Rialto bridge we docked and our luggage was lifted up onto the pavement directly outside our hotel.

The Marconi was elegant, welcoming and relaxed. A tiny reception and lounge, directly off the fondamenta, were elaborately decorated and furnished, and adorned with original paintings. Our room on the first floor had beautifully plastered and painted walls, solid wooden furniture, a wooden bed-head hand-painted with garlands of flowers, and Murano glass light fittings. The floor, as throughout the hotel, was a marvellous terrazzo. Our room was at the rear of the building, and the view from our window, or lack of it, was the only disappointment - we looked directly onto a matrix of scaffolding tubes and planks. But it hardly mattered.

Breakfast at the Marconi was taken in a ground floor room at the back of the hotel, and the breakfast buffet offered an excellent selection of ham, cheese, scrambled eggs, spicy sausages, bread, pastries, cakes, yogurt, fruit, juices, tea and coffee to start the day. The room was pleasantly furnished but with strangely frosted orange windows, which cast a sunny glow into the room but obscured any view of the outside, other than occasional vague shapes moving nearby. One such vague shape became clearer as it moved towards us, just outside the window behind me, sat on the window ledge and then proceeded to remove its jeans and pull on a pair of shorts.

I think we had just experienced an Italian builder's bum.

Hotel Marconi, Riva del Vin, San Polo, 729 - 30125 Venezia (VE)

Hotel Marconi, Venice

L'Asino D'Oro, Orvieto, Umbria

2008-07-21T20:13:00.015+01:00

We'd eaten here before. The first time, a lazy lunch, outside in the little alleyway, of traditional dishes with a twist – like lasagne made with bread instead of pasta. Our return visit to L'Asino D'Oro found chef Lucio Sforza firmly in residence.

It was a warm and busy September Saturday evening. Light and easy-going by day, the old town took on a different, darker personality as night drew in and we picked our way through its arteries to Orvieto's medieval heart. It was no surprise that by 8.30pm, when we arrived, all of the restaurant's outside tables were either occupied or reserved and we were invited to sit at one of only two tables inside.

The room was starkly bare. Pale ceramic tiles covered the walls, which were adorned by two ancient mirrors. The floor was dark wood, the colour of old tobacco. The tables were laid with the same practical paper tablecloths as outside. The only other furniture in the room was a tired blue dresser. Whilst the view through the open doorway to the warmly lit terrace outside was enticing, this room, with glimpses past a dark wicker screen into the kitchen, felt like the inner sanctum.

Signore Sforza spent more time front of house than in his kitchen, roaming from table to table asking, 'Va bene?' and cutting a formidable figure in long black apron and chef's clogs, with cropped grey hair and gaunt, stubble-covered jowls that barely moved when he smiled.

Just one of the dishes I ate was worth the cost of the entire meal: cinghiale dolce e forte – wild boar in a 'sweet and strong' sauce. There was no prettiness about its presentation. Half a dozen pieces – quite large chunks – of wild boar, smothered in a thick sauce so dark it was almost black, and dusted with cocoa. It smelled sweet, with a hint of warm spices. The boar was fork-tender, falling apart in delicious soft strings. There may have been roasted peppers somewhere deep down in the rich and complex sauce. There may have been cinnamon and vinegar. There were definitely pine nuts and chocolate. There were hints of a mole poblano, and again of a rendang... but only distant hints. This dish had firm Umbrian roots and was inextricably the product of Sforza's magic touch. It was quite simply the most delicious thing I had eaten for a very long time.

I also ate a timballo of aubergines and peppers and a dish of chicory and biettone on a bean purée which were good, would have been very good if I hadn't tasted the boar. That wild boar with its wild flavours.

Funny to think that a restaurant this good can get away with calling itself the Golden Donkey.

L'Asino D'Oro, Via del Popolo, 9, 05018 Orvieto (TR)

Tel 0763 344406

Sadly, I only seem to be able to find 'the same old' review websites referring to L'Asino, and as far as I know they don't have their own site. So you'll just have to go there.

STOP PRESS... ACTUALLY YOU CAN'T GO THERE NOW. WELL YOU CAN, BUT LUCIO SFORZA WON'T BE THERE ANY MORE. HE'S MOVED TO ROME AND OPENED A RESTAURANT THERE CALLED... L'ASINO D'ORO.

Hotel Levante, Torre Canne, Puglia

2008-07-20T20:34:00.009+01:00

This leg of our southward journey from Ancona was, as we'd suspected, long. We left the mountains behind as we departed Marche and passed through the hilly green terrain of Abruzzo. The landscape deflated and flattened as we reached the northern tip of Puglia. Buildings changed from warm stone and terracotta brick to white render. Oak trees gave way to palms.

Just at the edge of the Gargano peninsular we detoured off the A14 to pause, stretch our legs and eat, and found ourselves in the slightly worn little lakeside town of Lesina. We might just as well have driven a stagecoach into Dodge City. The streets were deserted, save for a couple of dusty, curly-tailed dogs basking in the sun. When we did see people, they were weathered and dark, black-haired and nut-skinned. It felt noticeably hotter here. The place looked like it saw few tourists, and felt like the sort of town in which you could disappear, if need be, for a few weeks, maybe more. Maybe forever.

We bought bread and cheese for lunch, then wandered down to the waterside of Lago di Lesina, a long but narrow stretch of water that separates the town from the Adriatic. A grey concrete promenade ran along the lake edge to the north, with grafitti-covered benches at intervals. Scraps of litter blew around the promenade wall as we ate, looking out across the choppy grey expanse of the lake.

As we pushed even further south, the coastline was intermittently scruffy, then smart. And then in Torre Canne we found the Hotel Levante and stayed for three nights. It wasn't quite what we'd expected, after the rural neatness of Marche and Umbria. The town was a bit ragged in parts, pleasant in others. The hotel was pretty smart on the whole, but any character or charm it may once have possessed had been knocked out of it by the pounding of package holidays. The restaurant was pleasant enough, but the menu promised the kind of ubiquitous food that's the stuff of tour groups. This may be extremely unfair, because we never ate here, to both the hotel and the tour groups.

As we settled in, we realised that the hotel had its good points too. The pool and grounds were good, there was direct access to a private beach, along which you could walk to the town and back, and our room was big and comfortable, with a large sun terrace, perfect for enjoying the makeshift lunches of produce we'd bought from the market. And it was a great location for exploring the region, and especially nearby restaurants.

Smart Hotel Levante we quite liked in the end. Scruffy Lesina we liked from the start.

Hotel Levante, Via Appia 20, Torre Canne (72010), Puglia

The hotel doesn't appear to have its own website, but this link gives most information:

Hotel Levante, Torre Canne, Puglia

Caffé Meletti, Ascoli Piceno, Marche

2008-07-18T09:16:00.006+01:00

Most Italian towns, it seems, have a culinary claim to fame. Nestling in the shadow of the Sibillini mountains, the town of Ascoli Piceno has two: its large olives, stuffed with meat, breaded and deep fried (olive all'Ascolana) and its anisetta, a clear, aniseed-tasting digestif, best enjoyed sitting on the terrace of the grand Caffé Meletti, overlooking the pastel-stoned Piazza di Popoli. Not to disappoint the Ascolians, we tried both.

At a canopied stall at the edge of the square we bought a plentiful paper cone-full of olives and one of suppli di riso to eat as we wandered. The olives were salty and strong, with a crisp coating of fine crumbs. The suppli, crunchy and subtly cheesy. Street food of quite a refined nature.

From our vantage point on the Meletti's terrace we sipped anisetta (and dusted off the crumbs) as we watched a scene that, in essence, has probably not changed for hundreds of years – a piazza polished smooth by a million footsteps. Caffé Meletti is one of those Italian institutions that's oddly out of proportion to its location. Inside, its polished wood and brass and tiles seem more in keeping with a cosmopolitan city than a mountain town. I can't help wondering how, before tourism touched here, it was sufficiently frequented to stay in business. Maybe the locals drank a lot of anisetta?

I would, if I lived here. It would help to wash down all those olives.

Caffé Meletti, via del Trivio n. 56, 63100 Ascoli Piceno

Tel 0736-255559

Caffé Meletti, Ascoli Piceno

La Locanda di Desideria, Carnaiola, Umbria

2008-07-17T18:49:00.004+01:00

Sometimes you sit in a restaurant and wonder, don't you, if you've made the right choice? This time the choice had been made for us by the owner of the agriturismo where we were staying. She insisted that we eat well that evening and took the liberty to book, on our behalf, a local trattoria in Carnaiola, the next village. (Easy to see across the wooded valley, less easy to reach by road!) The food there was very good, she assured us, as the chef was a Marchigiano who had moved to the area. Chefs from Le Marche are renowned across Italy for their kitchen skills.

Our arrival was observed by curious, giggling children, who seemed not used to seeing visitors from outside their village, let alone anyone as alien as English people. A sign outside the dour stone building said simply 'cibo e vino' – food and wine. The down-to-earth theme was to continue throughout the slightly surreal evening.

The trattoria's owner stood expectantly, and perhaps a little impatiently, at the door and welcomed us with a simple, knowing enquiry – "inglese?" He had a touch of the Marco Pierre White about him; an edge of unpredictability off which he might topple at any moment. You pay attention to people like that. We were led to a small table inside an empty, cavernous room, where the chef's wife sat on a sofa, breast feeding their baby. Their blonde-curled toddler son wandered up and chattered to us at length, oblivious that we couldn't understand him. A swallow flitted around the vaulted ceiling of the restaurant, perching at intervals on the iron tie-rods that held the ceiling together, seemingly unable to find its way out.

The restaurant remained deserted, apart from us, all evening, though we later realised that Italy were playing a World Cup match that night. The menu we were offered was frugal in its choice – first pasta, then meat. But less frugal in its delivery. We ate delicious ravioli in a sauce of pistachio nuts and poured red wine from a chipped jug. The chef and his family sat at the next table and enjoyed the same food. Except they finished first.

Then the meat. A single, huge, pork chop on an old plate. Nothing else. Tender and succulent, simply grilled with a light touch of fennel and garlic and served with its meagre cooking juices. I'd like to say there was a wedge of lemon on the side of the plate, but I don't think there was. I'd also like to say that I've never had a pork chop so good. I can taste it now.

As we pushed back our empty plates, the chef said goodnight and disappeared out of the front door. A motorbike growled into life and he was gone. To watch the rest of the match, probably. We never saw him again. His wife cleared our plates, then settled on the sofa with the children as we finished the wine. I think she forgot we were there. The baby had fallen asleep in her arms, and then she and the toddler, exhausted, fell asleep too, leaving us the problem of how to ask for the bill and exit the restaurant.

I'll leave you to work out how we did it. The swallow was still there when we left, by the way.

Locanda di Desideria, Via Piave, 25 Carnaiola - Fabro (TR)

Tel 0763 839452

La Locanda di Desideria, Umbria

Osteria Santo Spirito, Florence, Tuscany

2008-07-16T15:21:00.007+01:00

There's something quite romantic about stepping off a boat virtually straight into a train station then waiting with your cases on a sleepy, sunny platform for the train to arrive. We left Venice, and hauled through the grafitti-clad stations of Ferrara and Bologna, then through a series of tunnels carved through the hills, some of them plunging us into darkness for five minutes or more, until we finally emerged into the brightness and heat of Florence.

That warm autumn evening we left our hotel and crossed to the south side of the Arno. It was still light when we turned into the faded Piazza di Santo Spirito, but the sun was sinking quickly, warming the buildings on one side of the square and casting long dark shadows on the other. We passed a bar where workmen gathered outside in the remnants of the sun, enjoying a drink at the end of their working day. A young boy was kicking a football against the base of a statue, and a makeshift stage heralded the beginning, or it could have been the end, of some event or festival. Washing hung from the upper windows of the buildings, and voices and music and the smells of cooking wafted into the square.

At the far end of the piazza we found the Osteria Santo Spirito – an unassuming, vaguely bohemian little place. Inside, the walls of the tiny dining room were painted blood red. Outside a few tables spilled into the square on a makeshift terrace next to a newspaper stall that was closing for the evening. We took a table outside.

Within half an hour the place started to fill and by the time we had finished eating it was packed, humming. And no wonder. The food was very, very good. Sweet prosciutto wrapped around wood-smoked mozzarella, served with the wildest, pepperiest rocket I've ever tasted; a superb risotto with pesto and prawns; wonderfully fresh sea bass and, later, a beautifully presented chocolate cake. All was served on enormous, old, colourfully hand-painted and severely chipped plates.

A special bonus was that amongst the waitresses, in faded jeans and Santo Spirito tee shirts, one looked uncannily, exactly like a young Sofia Loren – almond eyes, high cheek bones, coquettish smile... this place had a lot going for it. I decided we might eat here again the next evening.

We did and, whilst it was still good, somehow the edge, the magic wasn't there. If you've had a great meal, don't eat in the same place again the next day is the lesson I suppose. Worst of all, Sofia wasn't there. Gone to join the film industry, no doubt.

Osteria Santo Spirito, Piazza di Santo Spirito, 16, 50125 Firenze

Tel 055 2382383

(Last time I checked, the restaurant's website was still under construction, but location details are up there. Just checked again to find it's one of those annoying hosting pages. It might have changed by the time you try it.)

Osteria Santo Spirito, Florence

Il Laghetto (Marcello's), Portonovo, Marche

2008-07-15T21:54:00.005+01:00

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

Il Laghetto, Portonovo

Castello Chiola, Loreto Aprutino, Pescara, Abruzzo

2008-07-14T19:45:00.004+01:00

The mountains became mightier and snow-capped as we drove south. Road signs for Loreto Aprutino were elusive and intermittent, and we got caught up in the tangled mess that is the outskirts of Pescara. But eventually we reached the hilltop and followed a steep cobbled road to where honey-coloured Castello Chiola, our destination for just one night, watched over the town.

Here was quite simply the largest hotel room we have ever stayed in. You could pace about the room for hours and not pass the same piece of furniture twice. I mean, this was one big bedroom. When you occasionally passed a window, the views over the town and the still-snow-capped mountains were splendid. Outside, a small pool on the sun terrace was icy cold, but once the feeling returned to my lips I was able to describe it as 'refreshing'.

We didn't eat at the hotel, thinking the dining room and the menu too grand for what we wanted that evening – a simple, relaxed supper. The town isn't exactly awash with restaurants, but just yards from the hotel we found a door in a wall behind which we enjoyed excellent food at the most modest of prices. A simple antipasto of bruschetta, then pasta and beautifully tender grilled meats were served to us by a gum-chewing waif of a girl. At the end of the evening, the staff of the restaurant were gathered in another part of the room and smiled and nodded graciously as we left.

We returned through the keep to the hotel, and reached our room. Just half an hour's walk across the dense carpet, and we'd made it to the bed.

Castello Chiola, Via degli Aquino, 12 65014 Loreto Aprutino (PE)

Tel 085 8290690

Castello Chiola, Abruzzo

Nonnamelia l'hostaria, Orvieto, Umbria

2008-07-13T19:52:00.008+01:00

Orvieto is officially a slow town. A 'cittaslow' as the Italians call it. You can feel it in the streets.

The initiative was founded in Italy (of course) as a spinoff of the now well-recognised Slow Food movement, which itself began as a reaction to the entry of McDonald's into Rome in 1986. Cittaslow is a valiant bid to promote a better way of life, to improve the environment and to resist the intrusion of large franchise stores, and therefore the erosion of individuality. British towns are now being invited to join the more than 30 Italian communities which have taken up the challenge of resisting the frenetic, ever-quickening pace of living and trying to improve the quality of life.

Anyway, the point is I was reading about all this while sitting in this lovely restaurant on the Via del Duomo one lunchtime, waiting for our order. The front doors of the restaurant throw open to the street on warm days or evenings, the dining room is filled with quirky wooden furniture and even quirkier chandeliers, and the young staff is on the ball. The food was pretty good too. We ate here twice. The suckling pig was good, as were the lamb cutlets and the beef straccato. We know the restaurant makes its own bread, because we stumbled inadvertently into the kitchen and found them doing so. The service, as befits a 'cittaslow' was unhurried, but efficient, so that we always had bread or wine or water to accompany conversation between courses.

So it was with some incongruity, in this relaxed restaurant in this slow town, that an American family bustled in that lunchtime anxiously looking at their watches, and the mother, most anxious of all, and apparently concerned that they might miss their rail connection, demanded of the waitress, "How quickly can you make us a pizza?"

Nonnamelia L'hostaria, Via del Duomo, 25 Orvieto

Tel 0763 342402

Nonnamelia appears not to have a website, but you'll find some reviews if you search.

Villa Maria, Ravello, Campania

2008-07-12T20:24:00.005+01:00

It wasn't the most salubrious of arrivals, our first night in Ravello. We had flown through thunderstorms above Rome and waited for two hours for our luggage at Naples airport before being driven at breakneck speed through heavy rain southwards to the Amalfi coast. To be deposited unceremoniously in Ravello's wet and deserted square and left to pick our way through the town's black, cat-filled alleyways to find our hotel: the Villa Maria.

Late, bedraggled and damp, we were shown conspicuously to a table in the elegant dining room, filled with people who seemed mostly to be finishing dessert. The waiter handed us menus and pressed us to order before the kitchen closed for the evening. I don't remember what we ordered – pasta I think. But we weren't in the mood to enjoy it. Tired and irritable, we quickly finished our meal, skipped dessert and coffee and retired to bed. We drifted to sleep to the sound of rain spattering our window, thinking of the clear skies and sunshine that we hoped the next day would bring.

It didn't. At breakfast the view from the enormous windows of the dining room was shrouded by a dense curtain of mist and rain. The plastic canopy over the dining terrace blew wildly in the wind, and the waitress shrugged and shivered in exaggerated reaction to the cold. Breakfast itself was brighter. There were fresh juices, rich coffee and herbal teas, home made biscuits, freshly baked bread, pastries and cakes. There was Parma ham and salami and cheese. And delicious, really delicious fresh fruit. Things were looking up.

Heartened, we borrowed umbrellas from the hotel and set off to explore Ravello. By late morning the rain had stopped, the sky was clearing and the sun appeared, quickly drying the pavements. The square came to life, as canopies were raised and tables and chairs were arranged outside cafés. The hotel now took on a brighter air too, and over the next few days we came to feel completely at home here. Our room was quite small and simply furnished, but adequate. The public rooms of the hotel were elegantly furnished, with beautifully tiled floors and tall windows.

The hotel's piatto forte is undoubtedly its outdoor dining terrace, a beautiful vine and bougainvillea covered area with stunning views down towards Amalfi and the Mediterranean. And the food...? Simple dishes, simply cooked and simply presented. And none the worse for that. It's the quality of the ingredients (many of them from the hotel's own organic vegetable garden) that matters here. We enjoyed delicious grilled lamb cutlets, home-made pasta, fabulously fresh fish, vegetables simply dressed with olive oil and lemon juice, amongst other delights. All served with charm and professionalism and a genuine respect for local ingredients.

From a very comprehensive list of Italian wines, we were invariably steered towards a local, inexpensive option. (Perhaps they thought we looked cheap!) That a wine made half a mile up the hill in the next village should perfectly partner a dish of fish caught half a mile away in the other direction off the rocks of Amalfi seems completely logical to me.

Villa Maria, Ravello, Costa d'Amalfi

Tel 089 857255

Villa Maria, Ravello

La Pergola, Capri

2008-07-11T08:51:00.002+01:00

It was a steep and sweaty climb from hectic Capri harbour to La Pergola restaurant. But it was worth it. We sat outside in the sunny garden – a vine-shaded terrace where rosemary and basil grew untidily beneath an old lemon tree. Far below us, past the tumble of rosy-roofed houses, olive and lemon groves and vines, the sea was smooth and blue, crossed with the white trails of boats arriving silently from the mainland. We could easily see the port of Naples on the horizon and Vesuvius beyond. Even in the shade the air was hot and still. I imagined that the Romans who first colonised this island must have enjoyed days like this.

The tables were laid with crisp linen. Glasses sparkled in the sun. We were, at first, the only diners and, apart from the occasional chink of cutlery on plates from the restaurant as tables were laid for lunch, and the drone of bees relieving the rosemary flowers, we sat in hot and drowsy silence.

A waiter brought us menus and bread, and we ordered. Water arrived, and wine, and the heady aroma of frying garlic wafted through the heavy air. And then the pasta: bowls of fine spaghetti, slicked with golden olive oil and pungent garlic, flecked with specks of dried chilli. And dancing with flavour.

Funny, isn't it, how such simple ingredients can create such powerful memories?

La Pergola, Via Traversa Lo Palazzo, 2, 80073 Capri (Napoli)

Tel 081 8377414

La Pergola, Capri

Santa Maria degli Ancillotti, Sterpeto, Assisi, Umbria

2008-07-10T16:50:00.004+01:00

Leave Assisi by the road to the north-west, past fields of sunflowers if it's in summer. Travel on through the one-horse towns of Tordibetto and Palazzo. After about seven kilometers turn sharply right, signposted Sterpeto, and follow a steep track through silver olive groves until you can go no further. You will have reached the gated kingdom of Santa Maria degli Ancillotti, and you will more than likely be greeted by its 'prince', Alessio Villa.

Alessio reigns over this agriturismo with his family. Father Paolo tends the roses and the chickens, and cures his own salumi. Mother Rosanna bakes bread and cakes and takes care of the fresh pasta, sauces and puddings. Wife Innis busies herself in the kitchen so much that you may never see her. The family is completed by dogs Benito, Attila and Jenny.

We spent three nights here in the early summer. On our first evening, invited to join our fellow guests for a barbecue supper, my heart sank at the prospect of an evening in the company of a bunch of complete strangers. In fact, I was wrong. In the early evening our little band of about a dozen of us, a somewhat motley collection of European stock, gathered awkwardly together on the terrace as the sun sank below Monte Subasio. A large table, big enough to seat us all, was simply laid with plates and cutlery, tumblers and candles. Alessio's family sat on the terrace too, but at a separate table.

Bottles of wine were opened and poured, and the barbecue was lit. First came panzanella. Then more wine. Then, as Alessio periodically turned the barbecue grill with theatrical flourish, came the meat – fat sausages packed with herbs and fennel, meaty pork ribs, and finally steaks, cut thin and lean, all accompanied by a conveyor-belt supply of red wine. As darkness fell and the wine took effect, our little party became closer, a happy band together in this outpost in the Umbrian hills. At some point during the proceedings, for reasons which I still can't remember, I arranged with the elderly German guest sitting beside me that we would go swimming at 7.30 next morning. More wine. And there may have been grappa. We ate, drank and talked late into the chilly night.

Next morning broke bright and clear, save for a drift of white mist hanging over the Assisi plain. The dew still clung to the roses and the dogs stretched themselves in readiness for the lazy day ahead when, at precisely 7.30am, the elderly German lady, in swimming hat and towel, padded across the grass to the pool... and was surprised to find that I was already in the water. Well, I couldn't let the British side down, could I?

For the rest of our stay Alessio insisted on plying us with food. Roasted duck one night (his "mother's favourite dish"), roast rabbit the next (his "wife's favourite dish") were delicious and plentiful. But it was Alessio's breakfasts that were the real stars of his food show. Beneath the canopy of the loggia, the morning breeze wafting the fresh flowers on each table, we were offered freshly squeezed juices that were alive with flavour; the brightest, yellowest of eggs from the farm's own hens, scrambled into deliciously soft mounds, or set with mushrooms and herbs into a soft-centred omelette; home-made yogurt whipped to the lightest, airiest of textures. And coffee, deliciously chewy bread and home-made jams and honey.

Alessio was very good at keeping us within the borders of his kingdom, but charming with it.

Santa Maria degli Ancillotti, loc. Sterpeto, 42 06086 - Assisi (Perugia)

Tel 075 8039764

Santa Maria degli Ancillotti

Fortino Napoleonico, Portonovo, Marche

2008-07-09T17:17:00.004+01:00

The first glimpse through the trees that line the coast road high above the Baia di Portonovo is breathtaking. A densely wooded hill drops to a sweeping cove where a brilliantly white shoreline curves around an azure bay. It might just as well be the Caribbean as the eastern coast of Italy. Did Napoleon find this view stunning too, or simply strategically important? I wonder, because it is here that in 1811 he built a fort to defend this stretch of the Adriatic coast and to prevent the British from coming ashore to draw fresh water from the lagoon which lies just back from the beach. Crafty chap, Napoleon. But I doubt he'd have imagined that this garrison of six hundred men would one day be a stylish hotel and a fine base for a few nights, or longer, on the part of the Marche coast known as the Riviera del Conero, just a half hour drive from Ancona.

Built in a contrasting mix of terracotta brick and dazzling white stone, plundered from a nearby convent apparently, the single story fort sits solid and squat just a step from the sea, on a small headland dividing two bays. A sense of history pervades the place. The perimeter structure which houses the bedrooms surrounds a sunny courtyard in which breakfast can be taken in fair weather. It's not hard to imagine it once filled with drilling soldiers. The hotel's lofty restaurant was once the officers' quarters. What must once have been a lookout platform is now a blustery al fresco terrace. The same reason that attracted Napoleon – the uninterrupted view – now attracts newlyweds to hold their receptions here.

We splashed out on a suite – cool stone floors, enormous bed, leather sofa, lovely bathroom. Two narrow slits of windows, still with their original lead frames, pierced the two-foot thick walls and squinted over the Adriatic, which lapped at the walls below. At night, the open windows sucked in the sound and smell of the sea.

Portonovo is little more than a sleepy scattering of restaurants and bars strung together by a network of dusty tracks through the trees. Occasionally they emerge into coves of dazzlingly white rock and surf. But the sleepiness is shrugged off on summer weekends and during the Italian holidays, as the beach and the restaurants become packed and the only road in and out is jammed. (A bonus though is the porchetta van that sets out its stall at the top of the cliff!) Come Monday, it's all quiet again.

Service at the hotel was attentive but discreet. Breakfast was plentiful and good. We didn't eat dinner here (though the food is reputedly good), but headed for the fish restaurants strung out along the beach, a stroll away, and weren't disappointed. Wandering back to the hotel one evening in the warm blackness, the woods that line the path to the Fortino sparkled with tiny points of light. At first we thought the hotel had strung fairy lights through the trees.

Then we saw that they moved, and realised that they were fireflies.

Fortino Napoleonico, 60129 Portonovo (AN)

Tel 071 801 450 51

Hotel Fortino Napoleonico

Starting point...

2008-07-08T20:12:00.006+01:00

My first trip to Italy was a visit to Pisa on a school trip at the age of 16. My wife's first Italian experience was also as a teenager, on a family holiday in Rimini. Neither were especially salubrious experiences. But when we first travelled to Italy together to celebrate a milestone wedding anniversary, staying in Venice, taking the train to Florence and then touring Umbria, we were captivated.

Since then we've visited this wonderful country many times, usually staying in places of character and tradition and looking for small, more authentic places to eat. Occasionally I've made a solus 'me and my camera' trip. Slow Food's publication 'Osterie e Locande d'Italia' has been a pretty reliable compass on many of our trips, pointing us to some places we wouldn't otherwise have found and helping to guide us through some of the menus. Like any guide, it's not foolproof, and there has been the odd disappointment. But on the whole our travels to this wonderful country have been richly rewarded with beautiful landscapes and architecture, graceful people, warm hospitality and delicious food. I can't think of anything more a traveller could want.

If you stumble across our blog, I hope you find these little anecdotes of our travels helpful. I haven't gone into detail such as how many bedrooms a place has or how far from the town such and such a restaurant is – you can get that from other sites and publications. This is more about our experience of the places. (Please note that the posting date isn't the date we were there, but the day I've posted the write-up: our trips have been over the past couple of years, and I'm working through my notes!) Most of all, I hope you enjoy Italy as much as we do.