The Mediterranean Riviera: Rustic Roots, Refined Flavors
From Italy to the South of France, the region boasts a unique blend of simple yet sophisticated flavors.
I already felt the warmth of the morning spring sun on my face as we walked away from the train station in Monterosso. The trail ahead rapidly ascended. I began to sweat and was happy we filled our internal fuel tanks with delicious focaccia adorned with mildly caramelized onions.
This was my first weekend off in nearly four months of intensive, long days working in a demanding, high-end restaurant in Zürich. I felt relieved to get away for 4 days to explore Cinque Terre despite the likelihood of crowds flocking to this region for an Easter weekend hike. The long hours in the kitchen had left me craving not just a break, but a deeper connection with food. I wanted to experience the simplicity and sophistication of Mediterranean cuisine firsthand, to understand the roots of the dishes I had heard about.
As we continued our upward journey, climbing endless irregular rock steps, my mind focused on the excitement of my first Mediterranean hike. I smelled lemons and bay laurel. I detected rosemary hiding somewhere. My senses felt a connection to California – the home I left only a year earlier. I could see the remains of bunkers from the Italian resistance buried in the growth swallowing the rocky cliffs. It was a clear reminder that this region was not always peaceful and not California. I rubbed against a leafy green plant, and my nostrils were instantly filled with a familiar and mysterious sweetness. I picked a small leaf to smell it and heard, “La Ruta. Mettiamo le foglie nella nostra grappa.” This was the explanation from a hiker as he passed by. He was interested in explaining that they put the leaves of this plant called ruta in their grappa.
We continued our climb, negotiating sections of steps that challenged our youthful stamina. We passed farms along the trail – how did the people reach their homes, I wondered. The views over the Mediterranean were breathtaking – it was worth our time to take a minute and appreciate the utter beauty and wilderness along this trail. Further ahead – maybe a hundred meters – we rounded a bend, and I caught my first glimpse of the cozy harbor village of Vernazza. I was stunned. This is the Italian view most people dream of seeing. I felt fortunate and grateful in that moment. I also felt hungry.
We descended down the cobble streets toward the harbor. There was food everywhere I looked. Restaurants were the main feature of this small fishing village, and they were filled with tourists as noon approached. Some already found refreshments at a gelateria. Others walked out of a Panifici holding focaccia slices in an oil-stained napkin. I spotted a tiny restaurant along a hidden corner of the main street – it’s the kind of place that attracts me...tiny and authentic-looking. We asked if they had a couple of seats, and much to our surprise, we were ushered up a narrow staircase and into a dining area with about a dozen tables. They were all empty. We chose a table near the window, where we could see the nearby cove. The waiter arrived and explained there was only pasta with pesto or clams. We chose the pesto variation. I knew pesto came from this region, but I didn’t have high expectations because this town lived off tourists...and we were obviously tourists.
I could smell the pesto before it arrived. Large empty bowls were placed in front of us. The waiter arrived with a platter of spaghetti tossed beautifully in deep green pesto. The aroma of the basil was intoxicating. I could see green beans mixed into the pesto. The waiter expertly maneuvered two spoons with one hand to act as a kind of tongs, and filled our empty bowls, leaving more in the platter. The noise in the dining room increased as nearly every seat was filled. The locals knew this place. This felt authentic.
After finishing our meal, we continued our hike; we still had 8-10 kilometers of hills to navigate before reaching our destination of Riomaggiore. We passed incredibly steep vineyards, passed alongside lemon groves, and continued to marvel at the beauty filling our eyes. And there were tourists...many people filling the narrow trail. Everything in this region felt tourist-driven...and I was happy we took a minute to clear away the visual congestion and found a tiny slice of authenticity. I also couldn’t stop thinking about that pasta and pesto dish. How could something so humble...so simple...taste so damn good?
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Farinata
I first tasted farinata on a cold November evening in La Spezia, Italy, at La Pia, an iconic location with a 100-year history rich in tradition. This specialty restaurant has been producing some of the finest farinata along the entire Riviera – it’s where one goes to catch a bite of a crispy-edged and thin chickpea flatbread cooked in a blazing hot wood-burning oven.
The memory of that first experience is permanently etched in my brain. It ranks as one of my finest food encounters...and I wanted to know how to make one at home. After all, how hard could it be to mix chickpea flour and water, season it with salt and black pepper, and cook it in a round pizza-like pan bathed in olive oil and placed in a hot oven? What could go wrong?
Plenty. Bake it too fast, and it turns into a cracker with a burnt top. Bake it too slowly, and the interior will be greasy and perfectly dreadful.
My Ligurian chef friend, Claudio, came to the rescue once again. He already taught me the secrets to making a perfect Ligurian-style focaccia and airy amaretto. Now, he went to work with his Ligurian baker friends to develop a method of making farinata at home. The secrets are predicated on using exact measurements (a scale is mandatory) to create a lump-free batter that rests for a minimum of 4 hours, using a pan that produces a farinata with the correct thickness, using top and bottom heat in a home oven, and adding the oil at the right time. None of the tasks are difficult to master, but discipline in doing them precisely as outlined is essential.
We left our tiny bungalow in the small coastal village of Tellaro in the extreme southern part of Liguria early in the morning. I was in an unpleasant mood – a toxic mixture of feeling nervous, fidgety, and cranky. I had decided to quit smoking the night before, and this time, I felt determined to see it through. Silvia wasn’t so sure, but she persisted with understanding and patience.
We drove north toward Genoa, then continued along the coast as it curved to the west and slightly south toward France. We passed along massive plantations of flowers and large olive groves as we made our way through Savona, Imperia, San Remo, and Ventimiglia. The cliffs and rugged coastline returned after entering France. We were headed up, before winding our way down slightly and being presented with the first view of Monaco.
The first glimpse of Monaco reveals opulence on a scale I didn’t know existed. I saw a navy of superyachts filling the harbor. It’s disconcerting to encounter this level of rich for the first time. We made our way down toward the city. Entering the conclave from this direction takes you directly onto the Formula One track through town as it winds toward the harbor. We felt out of place in our convertible 1980s Ford Escort.
After several hours of Gucci overload, we decided it was time to eat something.
The French Riviera, of course, is home to many classic culinary gems. There’s fougasse, socca, salade Nicoise, pissaladière, soupe au pistou, bouillabaisse, and...ratatouille. Finding one of these classics amongst the glitter of Monaco wasn’t going to be simple – especially in the pre-smartphone era.
Luckily, we were grossly underdressed to enter the famous casino for a quick photo, so we carried on walking through the town. Our hunger...perhaps our instincts and sense of smell...eventually led us through a narrow street and down a flight of stairs, where we found ourselves in front of a small bistro that looked just as out of place as we were feeling. It seemed like a perfect match. The food in this small eatery was just as simple and humble as the décor. The people were friendly, although the cigarette hanging from the lips of the host was not welcoming.
We made ourselves comfortable and ordered a glass of red wine and a portion of ratatouille – the specialty of this Provencal bistro.
Our wine arrived with a basket filled with warm, sliced bread. The aromas reminded me of my mother’s homemade bread. I started to relax. Next came a small plate of marinated black olives –garlicky and filled with flavors of wild thyme and orange zest. A few minutes later, the waiter placed a small platter of grilled polenta slices on the table – a reminder we were not far from Italy. Seconds later came our ratatouille. It was chunky. I could see pieces of aubergine, onion quarters, and slices of red pepper – all draped in a tomato essence. I couldn’t wait to put that first bite into my mouth. My foul mood vanished...it gave way to my desire to eat...to taste...to cherish every bite. Silvia was relieved...and I was pacified...for a few minutes at least.
Ratatouille
There are thousands of ways to make a tasty ratatouille, but I imagine very few of them rival this version in terms of taste. There’s a rich and deep flavor emanating from the fresh summer vegetables. Each element can be tasted individually and melts into a sweet tomato background perfumed by parsley and thyme. It makes you feel like you’re eating the adult version of this famous Provencal classic.
I cook the vegetables separately, then combine them into the same pot to stew for the final cooking. This method works exceptionally well because it allows you to vary the size of the vegetable cuts and keeps everything cooking without worrying about one element turning to mush. I also use a small amount of oil in my preparation…which makes this version less greasy and much healthier.
Serve ratatouille alone, with brown rice, or over some polenta. It keeps well for 5 days when refrigerated in a sealed container.
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Wow. Such a beautiful piece
So many tasty dishes! I'm obsessed with basil so the pesto pasta sounds delish. And polenta! I always forget about polenta. I'll try and include it with lunch this week!