Ristorante Ciak la Lampara

When I went to Seattle, Blythe joked that our tour of the city was really just a food tour. Let's just say that's how I like to travel. Food is, in my opinion, one of the greatest pleasures of life, and one that I am quick to enjoy. My food preferences have broadened steadily as the years have passed, and now I can safely say that there are few things I dislike and almost nothing I won't try.

Since the Italian leg of my journey is really a family vacation, and we are in a rather sleepy spot, we have fallen into a nice routine of meeting for breakfast, venturing out to the beach, for a hike, or to visit another town before lunch, then relaxing on our own until dinner. Our days are really structured around meals, and these meals have been pretty spectacular so far. The seafood here is so fresh, and when you order grilled or baked fish it comes to the table "still looking at you" as my grandma said.

I have concluded that I like my food to still be looking at me. At least when it's fish.

We have been making our way around the different restaurants surrounding our hotel, as well as in some of the other towns. Every meal has been delicious - we have had mussels, prawns, clams, stuffed anchovies, grilled fish, baked fish, gnocchi, every shape of pasta you've ever heard of, pesto sauce, pomodoro sauce, insalata caprese, pizza, bruschetta, risotto, melon e prosciutto, focaccia, gelato, tiramisu, lemon tart, walnut tart... and wine. Many bottles of wine.

I could literally drown in the mere memory of all this delicious food, but one particular experience stands out from the crowd. The restaurant is called Ciak la Lampara, and the first night we went there they had newly opened doors after the flooding. The walls were barely painted, the chalkboards hanging everywhere were bare except for one huge message: "Yes, we're back!"

First of all, the way this had been working in Switzerland was the waiter would very formally add glasses, remove silverware etc. and bring the wine list, then take the order. Here, although he brought the wine list, our waiter insisted that we order one particular wine. It's very good, he said, very good. No need for you to even consider anything else. When he brought it he sloshed it into the glasses, not caring at all if he dripped a little on the tablecloth. I loved it, because that's exactly the way I pour wine - it seemed very homey. Then the food was served family style, and our lovely waiter served us from the larger plates. And promptly dropped half a dozen gnocchi all over the table, chair and floor. I was really starting to like this guy. I, myself, am one of the clumsiest people I know.

All this sets the scene. Very relaxed, informal despite the white table cloths, all quite friendly.

Then, we taste the gnocchi. It was covered in pesto sauce, a particular specialty of the region. It was meant to be a first course, but I was convinced I wouldn't even be able to finish my helping much less the food that was meant to come afterward. But that was before I tasted it.

Oh my.

The dumplings were perfect, the pesto the most flavorful and delightful I could ever have imagined, directly from the mortar and pestle to my plate. We not only polished off the enormous platter, I refused to let the waiter remove said platter until I had used bread to sop up every last drop of that delicious sauce. He was cool with it.

Next, the main courses. They brought my fish to the table all alone on it's white plate, looking quite glumly at me with it's little fishy eyeball. My mind immediately flashed to my last attempt to eat an entire fish in Ecuador, which ended badly both for me and the fish. But I needn't have worried. Our super skilled waiter, using only a large fork and spoon, proceeded to behead, skin, and de-bone my fish for me, leaving only the tender white meat behind. What I have described so far would have made this one of the more memorable dining experiences of my life (I cannot overstate the quality of that pesto) but the meal was far from done. The fish was unequivocally the most delicious I have ever tasted. The flavor was so clean, so fresh, and so unmarred by unnecessary condiment that I refused to put lemon on it lest I ruin that perfection. I wax poetic, but goodness me, that fish... I recently watched a TED talk about a chef and his love affair with a fish. He should try this fish.

But wait, there's more! My dad is quite fond of mussels, so of course they come out next. A huge, steaming tureen of mussels, enough to feed all three of us. It was my first time trying mussels, and I haven't been able to stop eating them since. Not that I would want to. Tiny little morsels of delicate flesh, sometimes with the odd grain of sand that just serves to remind you how little distance these creatures had to travel to arrive at your table. And the broth, so salty and rich, couldn't be discarded - my dad literally slurped it from his bowl. In the middle of the restaurant. If you know my dad, you know that is the highest recommendation he could give.

Another note about the restaurants here: I had a notion that if a restaurant was near a main drag and had its menu in multiple languages, it probably wasn't a good bet. I think Cinque Terre is an exception to this rule. It doesn't matter how many languages they write the menu in. Or how bad the translations are (angry pasta, anyone?). All these restaurants are great.

Last night, we had a lovely dinner. Delicious fish, pasta - the usual homemade Italian delight. Then, the waitress comes out, and in her very pleasant accented English recites the dessert menu. She says that the tiramisu is the best - the best in the square. In the whole town. No - in the world. And she says this with such feeling, such genuine pleasure in the memory of this dessert, that I am almost forced to order it.

Let me tell you.

This tiramisu may, in fact, be the best in the world. I have obviously not tasted every tiramisu in the world, but my experience has led me to believe that this would be a reasonable conclusion.

So, if you want the best food EVER, go to Italy. That's my advice to you.