“You like wine, eh? Wine is good for you. As good olive oil is good for your stomach, good wine is for your blood.”
We swung around another curve in the road that snaked its way along the coast line.
“You like seafood, yes? I have a place for you to eat.”
He stopped the car by the attendant at the sharp bend on the edge of the cliff. The man waved him back into the parking spot.
We descended the stairs. The ornate wrought iron railing lead us below the rooftop patio, through a garden of local plants and flowers. The steps opened onto a lower patio that overlooked the sea.
The sun shimmered on the surface, but we were cooled by a steady breeze. Seated at the colorful ceramic tile tables, we filled our glasses with still water and some ordered beer and wine. The pasta was cooked to perfection, the tiny clams open and inviting us to consume them.
I soaked up the sauce with a few crusts of bread. I don’t know how long we were there. Waiters were nearby, but came only when summoned. There was no rush. Eating in Italy is a sacred ritual, not an afterthought. We paid our bill and made our way out of the cool haven of the veranda to the hot blacktop and road overhead. My companion turned to her friend.
“That might be the best pasta, I’ve ever eaten”
A discussion ensued in the van.
“Because it was fresh”
“It was cooked perfectly”
“The care in preparation”
Of course it was everything, and perhaps the understanding that some things should not be rushed.
An Unmapped Route: A Hiker's Blog 