We’re heading to the north of Sardinia today, specifically to Costa Smeralda. In true Italian style, the most direct path is not a straight line, but rather a serpentine that has us touching all four edges of this rectangularish isle. The lower curve of the route has us escaping through the industrial ports of the city on modern highways, traffic falling away as we sweep past into the commercial agricultural regions. The landscape on the center of the island is beautifully rolling hills broken up by the occasional bity village, different than we have encountered anywhere else on the island.
We set San Teodoro as a waypoint, a sleepy beach town for
the next few weeks until the summer tourist invasion. Once in the village, we score some much-needed
cappuccino then seek stop in the information office just two blocks away. When asked for the “must-dos” here, the woman
behind the desk told us about a few places in town, then surprisingly
recommended we head to Capo Coda Cavallo, a village 30 minutes north, for the
lookout point and the restaurants. The
fun of being our age is that we know good advice when we hear it. The view from the lookout is stunning.
Just past the lookout is a swank seaside vacation condo
development with the promised selection of eateries, all overlooking the sea
from this high vantage. We breakaway
from the view to look at the menus from the various establishments when Tony
approaches us, hand outstretched to take our picture, the opening volley to his
pitch to get us into his restaurant instead of the others. His smile is huge, his complements flow like
house red, and he speaks as if the whole of existence is centered around his kitchen. We know the type. We came to love them in Rome, the hucksters in
front of every lunch café, on a mission to seat you before someone else
can. To this day, Mandy thinks if my
grandfather never left Benevento, I’d probably be one of these guys. And Tony is a master of his art. Tony, making us feel like old friends, seats
us at the best table overlooking all of God’s creation and recommends a bottle
of local white that’s just slightly more expensive than the rest. It’s part of the unspoken deal, his
recommendations will be perfectly on point, but you’re going to spend up a
bit. The wine is superb, the best we’ve
had this trip and, in a setting like this, a bargain a €45. We hear the specials, and he gushes over the
pasta with octopus ragu, which we order along with a whole grilled fish. A damned fine way to spend an afternoon.
We arrive at our accommodations around 3, the Hotel Cala di
Volpe, part of the Marriott Luxury Collection.
The word “luxury” has become so overused in recent times, I didn’t give
the moniker a thought until we pulled in and realized how woefully lacking our
Citroen C3 was in this valet stand. In
this case, luxury means just that. It
needs no adjectives, no additional hype.
As Mandy checks us in, I wander to the gift shop beside the desk, a
Prada boutique stocked with this season’s latest in costal offerings. Maybe it’s Mandy’s Marriott status (or maybe
they treat everyone this way) the desk clerk personally walks us to our room,
explaining along the way that this is her second favorite room in the hotel. When she opens the door, we understand
why. Understated chic, air and light and
space, and a balcony that’s every bit as big as the room itself. Unpacked, we look down at the pool and decide
that we’d be happier right here. Turns
out, the loungers on our patio are, without a doubt, the most comfortable that
have ever blessed our butts and a few hours disappear in a blink.
Showered and dressed, we walk the hotel a bit before the
drive to dinner. I am stunned by the
views from the lobby bar windows. They
look like every tacky mural that has ever been plastered on the wall of a
Formica tabled Italian restaurant.
Except they’re real, and they’re spectacular.
For weeks, I have been looking forward to our dinner tonight at Agriturismo Rena, a true Sardinian farm-to-table. The 20 minute drive winds us out of the she-she beach town and into the farmlands. We know we’re in the right place because the name is right there, hand lettered on a rock with an arrow. We bounce up the ¼ mile long rutted dirt driveway and are greeted by a spotted dog, his tail wagging so hard he’s kicking up dust. We walk up to the building, which may have been 100 years old or 400 years old, and try to figure out which unmarked door to go into. We finally knock-and-enter and to our left is the dining room with it’s 10 long tables, occupied by only one other couple with their 2 year old. No one greets us, but there’s two place settings at a different table, so we sit. Preset are some cheeses, a squat pitcher of red wine and a few other appetizers. Five minutes goes by, and still no one has addressed us, so we just start eating. After another five minutes, a woman, maybe 35 comes to our table and, without a word, puts down more food, a plate of cured meat and some salad dishes. The food is amazing, but the situation is crazily odd. We kick up a conversation with the other couple and that normalizes things some. The woman finally talks to us when she brings the pasta course, also out of this world, and we learn that everything tonight, came from within the fence. The meat comes from animals raised here (that pig was delicious), the veggies grown here, the cheeses made from the resident cows and sheep and goats. All-in-all it’s a very authentic experience and makes me remember dinner at my grandmother’s when she was mad at me. Just because she wasn’t talking, didn’t mean her heart wasn’t in that food.
No comments:
Post a Comment