We were talking about Italy: where and when to sojourn. I confessed to so many gaps. It is years since I visited Genoa and I know that the Ligurian coast has innumerable hidden treasures. There are the well-publicised places, such as Portofino and San Remo, which I am sure are pleasant enough out of season. But for many months they are likely to resemble an eastern extension of Monaco.
Small is the key word. We are not dealing with the mighty names from Piedmont. In Liguria many of the local wine producers have tiny plots, sometimes only a couple of acres. They will supply the local restaurants which also draw on local ingredients and recipes: just as nonna made it. Visitors are welcomed. These people are confident in their own way of life. It is almost a prelapsarian existence, drawing on and delighting in the bounty of nature.
Liguria has an ambassador in London. He has no formal post, but he ought to be one of Italy’s cultural attachés – or certainly its vinicultural one. I have written about Nicola Bodano before, but it is hard to keep him off the page. Few if any of my friends bring such effervescent joy to the search for interesting wines: the desire and pursuit of the bottle.
At the beginning of the festivity, Nicola announced that there would be a departure from tradition. We would enjoy a vegetarian meal. A further innovation: for our aperitif, we had a vermentino. Nothing unusual in that, except that this was a vermentino nero. It worked well with an olive-soaked focaccia. Robustness followed. A crapiata materana is a glorious peasant soup, made with pulses, grains and olive oil, much beloved of skiers and other frozen persons.
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