The town hung above us like a mirage conjured from the mist, ancient white buildings glittering in the sun. From our car it looked like a giant wedding cake. “Can we go up there?” my son, Nick, asked. “Please?”
The sea had just come into view, a great sweep of blue running beside the coastal road that twists from Rome to Naples. We were on our way to lunch at one of Italy’s greatest restaurants, but I figured a little detour wouldn’t hurt. I had no idea when I parked the car that this stop would change my life.
We began climbing the stairs leading up to the ancient town of Sperlonga, which has been attracting Italian travelers since the time of Tiberius (who built his summer villa here on the Tyrrhenian Sea). It was incredibly serene—not yet tourist season—and snatches of lilting Italian floated out of open doorways. We turned a corner and almost ran into a man carrying a wicker basket. Nick was 10, and curious. “It’s filled with fish,” he reported, edging in to take a closer look. “Let’s see where he’s taking them.”
The man kept climbing, passing colorful bougainvillea cascading down whitewashed walls, until he reached the centro storico, where he stepped through an archway. Following, we found ourselves in a simple restaurant, tables set beneath bottles of wine perched precariously on uneven ledges.
“Signori.” A man in an apron gestured toward one of the tables. I backed away; lunch was waiting down the road.
Flavors of central Italy, 2017
Louise Palmberg
Louise Palmberg
Louise Palmberg
Nick gave me a pleading look. I shook my head; he knew the rules. Restaurant critics don’t eat at random—especially when they travel. Every meal is carefully planned, tables reserved long in advance. Wasting a lunch in a foreign country is simply not done.
But just as I was thinking of the dark, elegant restaurant where we were meant to dine, the fisherman with the basket beckoned, lifted up the covering of leaves, parted the seaweed, and displayed the contents. Silver fins glistened. Shells gleamed. Lively langoustines waved their antennae.
“Please,” Nick whispered.
I looked around. The restaurant did not look promising; there was not a single customer. I was shaking my head when Nick took matters into his own hands and simply sat down. I glanced at my watch and admitted defeat. It would be fine; the food would be terrible, and we’d finish with plenty of time for a late lunch at the fancy establishment down the road.
The apron-clad owner, who had been watching the exchange, unfurled an enormous smile and headed for the kitchen, fisherman at his heels.
Travelers have long flocked to Italy for the food, 2017
Louise Palmberg
Louise Palmberg
Fresh anchovies, split and dressed in oil and vinegar. Squid salad with sliced tomatoes. Raw scallops, splashed with lemon juice. Oysters, tremblingly fresh, lovely as orchids. Tiny shrimp with sea beans. Stuffed squash blossoms. The dishes kept arriving until there was not an empty inch on the table. Undaunted, the owner pulled up a second table and covered that one with at least a dozen more little dishes of delicate seafood.