Search Salon

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Recently in Salon Travel

Daily Planet
For sale: Denmark's Tivoli Gardens
Mickey Mouse and Michael Jackson are potential buyers.
By J.A. Getzlaff
[03/23/00]

Travel Advisor
Bali's day of silence
Our travel expert offers tips on a Balinese holiday, flying with hamsters and car-rental insurance.
By Donald D. Groff
[03/23/00]

The odyssey of "Genghis Blues"
The tale behind the Oscar-nominated documentary is as extraordinary as the Tuvan throat-singers it celebrates.
By Jennifer New
[03/22/00]

Monster mush?
The Alaskan Iditarod is supposed to be about huskies having fun, but that's not what animal rights groups think.
By Sally Eckhoff
[03/22/00]

Daily Planet
Swedish politician moonlights as a porn star
The Leftist Party may oust him for his controversial extracurricular activities.
By J.A. Getzlaff
[03/22/00]

Complete archives for Travel

- - - - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - - - - -

When we disembarked at Stromboli -- an island famous for its ever-erupting volcano -- it was lunchtime, and since there is nothing to do in Italy at lunchtime but eat lunch, I decided to eat with these guys.

Pasquale said he'd already found out which was the best restaurant in town, the pizzeria, Da Luciano, just up the street from the port. Pasquale and Fabio greeted the crusty owner effusively, and asked him where he was from. Luciano said Napoli, and Pasquale practically embraced him. "We're Southern Italians, from Puglia," said Fabio. "We'll feel right at home."

They made their way to a table on the terrace as if they owned the place. I was glad to be sitting with them, and not with the long table of Germans next to us. I figured I'd have a better meal.

Put down the Crampon - Hand me a Bottle!

Pasquale opened his menu with relish. He ordered the works: salad, pasta, swordfish. He asked if anyone was having wine, and I said maybe, but just a drop, since I had to climb the volcano. Fabio frowned. "Today? Why do you have to climb the volcano today?" I explained that I had to leave the next day, and absolutely had to climb the volcano.

"Molly," said Pasquale. "Don't act so German. You need to relax for a day or two before you can even think about climbing a volcano." I spread my arms in a helpless gesture and ordered a salad, and then a plate of the pasta Stromboliana, homemade tagliatelle with roasted eggplant, capers and fresh ricotta.

When the waitress arrived with steaming plates of creamy, fragrant pasta, I inhaled the earthy aromas of the eggplant, ricotta and capers. "This looks delicious," I said, pouring everyone another glass of wine.

"Of course," said Pasquale, already into his third or fourth bite. "Especially compared with what you eat in America."

I told him it's true, you can't just walk into any old restaurant in the United States and get a good meal the way you can in Italy, but you can still eat pretty well if you know where to look. It's more of an art in the United States, I said.

My hometown, San Francisco, has great food, I went on. In New York, they've turned food into architecture, trying to make it as tall as possible and dribbling colorful sauces all over the plates, but they think nothing of the taste. In San Francisco, though, we have good produce, the best ingredients, and we have Italians, Vietnamese, Cambodians, Salvadorans, nouvelle cuisine -- it never ends. If you come visit sometime, I told them, you'll see.

"No," said Pasquale, lifting his head up from his plate. "The food in America is terrible." He sliced a flat line in the air with his hand, discouraging any argument. "This I know for a fact."

I said that there are probably almost as many Italians in the United States as there are in Italy, so how bad could it really be?

Fabio stared into my eyes with his sleepy blue ones. He said one word, slowly. "Mc-Don-ald's."

Next page | "You eat pasta with ketchup on it"