I’m starting to feel like a regular at the Aristide café in Manarola and, in fact, breakfast is something I look forward to every night as much for the food as for the experience. Sitting at my little table out front, I watch the people pass by and listen to the rolling r’s and long l’s of Italian floating along musically around me, punctuated softly by the clinks of spoons in espresso cups.
Unfortunately I revealed myself as American the first day by ordering an omelet and though I like to blend and adopt the local customs, old habits die hard. Coffee and a pastry might be how the Italians start the day, but I need a bit more substance.
After breakfast, we (me, Seth and Marzia) traveled to Monterosso by boat, which seemed the most appropriate way to get there considering its reputation as a fisherman’s village – not to mention it was a the perfect opportunity to get a seaside view of several other Cinque Terre towns along the way.
Monterosso is larger than Manarola, with a livelier atmosphere and evidence of Genovese influence in the way that some buildings, including the church, have black and white marble stripes. The warm weather called for a gelato, which we enjoyed as we wandered the streets on the way to our next outing.
Could there be a better way to spend the day than in a lemon grove with one of the locals? He led me around his land, between the trees spotted with bright yellow citrus fruits, past his chicken coop and basil garden. Along our walk he explained his passion for his work, both in a restaurant in town and in the lemon grove. His jobs were inextricably tied, in a traditional Italian manner; he tended to the lemons and brought them into town where he used them to produce limoncino or to garnish a plate of fresh fish.
Lemon is a key ingredient in many Cinque Terre dishes, from the antipasti to the dolce. Citrus trees flourish in the Mediterranean climate and the flavors pair well with seafood. I have a particular fondness for lemons, (they are, in fact, part of the reason I got to come on this trip) and because they thrive in California, too, I cook with them often. The scent always manages to bring me briefly home to my parent’s backyard where we dine on summer nights beneath our lemon tree.
After wandering through the lemon grove, it was time for a much less pleasant task – preparing anchovies to be salted and stored. A crate of dark, shimmering anchovies was set in front of me, their wide eyes staring blankly at me. I was instructed to push my thumb into their gill and, with a quick jerk, rip the head off, pulling the spine and organs out with it. I’ve never done anything like this before and, though slightly horrified, I was determined to give it my best.
I pretty much destroyed the first fish. The splinter-like bones stabbed into my thumb and blood dripped all over the table (most likely the fish’s, maybe mine too), but I had to get the first step right before I could move on, so I tried again. Once I did this, I had to use my thumbnail to slit the anchovy in half down its belly and then pick any bones out of the flayed body. Not quite like baking cupcakes, but I managed to prepare about 3, by which point my agile instructor had perfectly set out a dozen. Needless to say, I way relieved when he told me it was time for dinner.
Lessons on Dry Stone Walls, Ravioli and Wine
Two Fisherman named Beppe and a Ride on the Monorail
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