So, here’s the thing. My Smart Supper Club entry isn’t about one single meal, or dish, or even a specific restaurant. Is that allowed? Probably not, but let’s just roll with it. Because what I actually want to talk about is Italy. Or rather, the Italian way of looking at food.
This summer I was lucky enough to head off on an Italian adventure, travelling the length of the top of the peninsula. I started in fair Verona, floated around Lake Garda, climbed through the colourful cliffside fishing villages of Cinque Terre, wound my way through the rolling hills of Tuscany, and ended up, as all roads do, in Rome.
I’ve always suspected that in another life I should have been Italian. Technically I’m one-sixteenth, and I cling onto that like it’s proof. Mainly because carbs are the best thing in the world and nobody does them like the Italians. Honestly, gluten should be their national treasure.
The trip basically turned into a hunt for the best truffle pasta in the country. Verona kicked things off with a silky, rich bowl that had me hooked. Outside of pasta, Italy really showed off when it came to seafood too. There was a smoked trout salad on Lake Garda that cost next to nothing and tasted like perfection, especially with a four-euro Aperol Spritz in hand. That same evening, I had octopus so good I considered moving in with the chef. And can I just say, Italians do snacks very well. Every drink came with a huge selection, far more than just a token crisp or nut. Too many olives perhaps, but still, we need more snacks with drinks in this country, please.
Cinque Terre was, if I’m honest, a bit hit and miss. Beautiful, yes, but also full of tourist trap menus. One even had “Meatballs American style.” I gasped… Thankfully, we found one absolute gem called Fuori Rotta, where I had mushroom mousse with poached egg, fish ravioli with mussels, and finished with chocolate gelato and Piedmont hazelnuts. It was one of those meals you don’t forget. Refined touches on classics with beautiful ingredients throughout.
And then Tuscany. This was where the magic really happened. One night we were invited into a Nonna’s home for dinner. We sat with her family, a Texan couple, and a grandmother who honestly looked old enough to have seen Caesar himself. The wine flowed, the pasta kept coming, and before long we were deep in conversation about politics and Trump. It was fascinating, chaotic, warm and real, one of the most memorable meals of my life.
We also stayed at an Agriturismo on an olive farm, which meant olive oil tastings and a pasta-making class. My attempts at using a pestle and mortar continue to be tragic, but somehow I managed to roll out fresh pasta for a cacio e pepe that, while slightly lumpy, tasted like a dream. I’m sure if I tried to recreate it I could, but I will forever more say “I make fresh pasta.” PS, did you know al dente pasta is better for digestion?
After four dreamy, lazy, hazy days under the Tuscan sun, we left the olive groves behind and moved on to Rome, all hustle, bustle and more gelato than I could handle. Truffle crostini (I know, deviating from the truffle pasta), squid ink pasta, tiramisu after tiramisu. Every meal felt like another little love letter.
Because that’s the thing about Italian food. It isn’t just food, it’s how they show love. It’s poured into the ragu, sprinkled on the pasta, and toasted with every glass of wine. By the end of the trip, after countless plates of pizza, pasta, cheese, Aperol Spritzes and tiramisus, I was full. Full of gluten. Full of love. The very best kind of full.