Trabocco Pesce Palombo - Fossacesia, Abruzzo
A couple of weekends ago, the GLDHI and I went back to Abruzzo, this time ostensibly for a "wine tour" on the Sunday, which I'm probably going to write about at length, so hilarious was it. It probably won't appear on NSC though as there's no obvious place to post it.
On the Friday we went to have lunch at a trabocca (see image above) down the coast with our friends.
I say "with". The plan was that the GLDHI would make our way to the restaurant for 1pm while our two friends would go to the train station to pick up two other friends (I'll call them John and Sue - partly because I have to give them names in order for the next part of the story to make any sense, and partly because those are their names) who were doing the Adriatic coast train journey as a holiday (what a great idea).
It's probably easiest if I just transcribe the posts on the whatsapp group that we'd created for the GLDHI, Friend A, Friend B, and me:
12:56: GLDHI - Road to restaurant is blocked. We've parked in lay-by just South of the turning on the main road
12:58: Friend B - OK. Train is 15 mins late, so ETA 1:10 x
13:11: Friend A - Problem
13:12: Friend A - Sue didn't get off the train
13:12: Me - But John did?
13:12: Friend A - Yes!
13:12: Me - Umm. OK.
13:12: Friend A - Driving South to meet her. I'll keep you posted x
The GLDHI and I walk down into the restaurant, where I'm met (it was "I" because the GLDHI pushed me in front of her as we entered) by a very friendly Italian who spoke to me in foreign. In my best Italian I said "Errr. Inglese. table for sei. Friend A's surname." Mentioning Friend A's surname was both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because Friend A did have a reservation at 1pm, and the chap recognised the name - principally, I think, because Friend A is Italian. A curse because Friend A had booked for seven people, and one had pulled out last minute.
The chap leads us to a table for seven:
Him: Sette?
Me: Sei.
Him: (more circumspectly) Sette??
Me: Sei (It's always a good idea to be able to speak foreign fluently)
Him: Sei?
Me: Si. Sei. (rather pleased with the alliteration)
Him: OK. Six. I'll bring the wine and water. Still or sparkling?
Me: (sotto voce) *******. Frizzante, per favore
GLDHI: "por favor" is Spanish. "Per favore" is the Italian.
Me: I know. I said "Per favore".
GLDHI: No. You said "Por favor".
The waiter left.
He returned with a bottle of still, a bottle of sparkling, and a bottle of really pretty decent prosecco. We opened it.
At 13:45 the other four turn up. On the way to the table the waiter catches Friend A and they chat for a couple of minutes with a crescendo of amusement. Friend A is still giggling when he sits down. He looks at me mournfully and shakes his head.
Ever the diplomat, I turn to Sue. "Why did John leave you on the train?" A sharp inhalation of breath from Friends A & B; a sideways look at me from the GLDHI; a pause and then a rush of self-justification from John. Naturally, it wasn't his fault in any way that he stood in the door of the train vainly jabbing at the button to get the doors open with Italian women behind him leaning over his shoulder trying to reach the button to open the door. Naturally, it wasn't his fault that he turned round and told them to "Be patient!". Naturally, it wasn't his fault that the doors did eventually open, but only long enough for him and him alone to get off the train, before slamming shut, trapping the Italian women who were now apparently giving him the bird and screaming "Motherf*cker" (in English) at him. Sue said that she pretended that she was nothing to do with him, but wasn't sure that the Italian women believed her as she, like him, was English and, err, she had been talking to John moments before the door slammed shut.
There was no menu. There never is. They buy whatever fish the day boats bring in, cook it, and serve it.
I have no hope of remembering every dish - just no chance whatsoever. It just kept coming, and coming, and coming. And coming. I do remember tiny fried fish in a cone ("little cod fishes" said Friend A - they bloody weren't), and squid, and clams, and prawns of varying sizes, and mussels...perhaps now is a good time to tell you that Friend B doesn't eat shellfish or "other sea-dwelling creatures that have.."and here he puts his fingers in the air close to his face and wiggles them. "But squid isn't a shell fish.", I say. "No, but..." finger wiggling again... and octopus (finger wiggling), and sea bass (Friend B ate a lot of sea bass), and mackerel, and spaghetti vongole, and some other fish tartare, and ...no, I'm giving up.
None of it was what you'd truly call world class. All of it was exceptionally fresh, beautifully simply cooked and utterly delicious.
The waiter returns: "Fried fish now?" he smirks at me. Everyone says no. Everyone is utterly stuffed. Even Friend B who basically ate sea bass and mackerel, lots of times.
Basically unlimited fresh fish, literally unlimited still and sparkling water, unlimited prosecco and unlimited pecorino. Fixed price: 50 euros. Unbelievable.
We get back to Friends A & B's place. We sit down with a glass of Friend A's deeply impressive homemade Limoncello, made with 100% alcohol that you can buy in Italian, err, pharmacies. Tart, sweet, lemony, alcoholic. Very alcoholic.
John starts complaining about Southern Rail.
I lean forward.
The GLDHI whispers "please, no".
"There's one good thing about British trains. At least everyone knows how to operate the doors".
Silence.
Sue says "Well, John, just how did you manage to not open the door?"
My work is done. I go for a pee. And a long walk.
A couple of weekends ago, the GLDHI and I went back to Abruzzo, this time ostensibly for a "wine tour" on the Sunday, which I'm probably going to write about at length, so hilarious was it. It probably won't appear on NSC though as there's no obvious place to post it.
On the Friday we went to have lunch at a trabocca (see image above) down the coast with our friends.
I say "with". The plan was that the GLDHI would make our way to the restaurant for 1pm while our two friends would go to the train station to pick up two other friends (I'll call them John and Sue - partly because I have to give them names in order for the next part of the story to make any sense, and partly because those are their names) who were doing the Adriatic coast train journey as a holiday (what a great idea).
It's probably easiest if I just transcribe the posts on the whatsapp group that we'd created for the GLDHI, Friend A, Friend B, and me:
12:56: GLDHI - Road to restaurant is blocked. We've parked in lay-by just South of the turning on the main road
12:58: Friend B - OK. Train is 15 mins late, so ETA 1:10 x
13:11: Friend A - Problem
13:12: Friend A - Sue didn't get off the train
13:12: Me - But John did?
13:12: Friend A - Yes!
13:12: Me - Umm. OK.
13:12: Friend A - Driving South to meet her. I'll keep you posted x
The GLDHI and I walk down into the restaurant, where I'm met (it was "I" because the GLDHI pushed me in front of her as we entered) by a very friendly Italian who spoke to me in foreign. In my best Italian I said "Errr. Inglese. table for sei. Friend A's surname." Mentioning Friend A's surname was both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because Friend A did have a reservation at 1pm, and the chap recognised the name - principally, I think, because Friend A is Italian. A curse because Friend A had booked for seven people, and one had pulled out last minute.
The chap leads us to a table for seven:
Him: Sette?
Me: Sei.
Him: (more circumspectly) Sette??
Me: Sei (It's always a good idea to be able to speak foreign fluently)
Him: Sei?
Me: Si. Sei. (rather pleased with the alliteration)
Him: OK. Six. I'll bring the wine and water. Still or sparkling?
Me: (sotto voce) *******. Frizzante, per favore
GLDHI: "por favor" is Spanish. "Per favore" is the Italian.
Me: I know. I said "Per favore".
GLDHI: No. You said "Por favor".
The waiter left.
He returned with a bottle of still, a bottle of sparkling, and a bottle of really pretty decent prosecco. We opened it.
At 13:45 the other four turn up. On the way to the table the waiter catches Friend A and they chat for a couple of minutes with a crescendo of amusement. Friend A is still giggling when he sits down. He looks at me mournfully and shakes his head.
Ever the diplomat, I turn to Sue. "Why did John leave you on the train?" A sharp inhalation of breath from Friends A & B; a sideways look at me from the GLDHI; a pause and then a rush of self-justification from John. Naturally, it wasn't his fault in any way that he stood in the door of the train vainly jabbing at the button to get the doors open with Italian women behind him leaning over his shoulder trying to reach the button to open the door. Naturally, it wasn't his fault that he turned round and told them to "Be patient!". Naturally, it wasn't his fault that the doors did eventually open, but only long enough for him and him alone to get off the train, before slamming shut, trapping the Italian women who were now apparently giving him the bird and screaming "Motherf*cker" (in English) at him. Sue said that she pretended that she was nothing to do with him, but wasn't sure that the Italian women believed her as she, like him, was English and, err, she had been talking to John moments before the door slammed shut.
There was no menu. There never is. They buy whatever fish the day boats bring in, cook it, and serve it.
I have no hope of remembering every dish - just no chance whatsoever. It just kept coming, and coming, and coming. And coming. I do remember tiny fried fish in a cone ("little cod fishes" said Friend A - they bloody weren't), and squid, and clams, and prawns of varying sizes, and mussels...perhaps now is a good time to tell you that Friend B doesn't eat shellfish or "other sea-dwelling creatures that have.."and here he puts his fingers in the air close to his face and wiggles them. "But squid isn't a shell fish.", I say. "No, but..." finger wiggling again... and octopus (finger wiggling), and sea bass (Friend B ate a lot of sea bass), and mackerel, and spaghetti vongole, and some other fish tartare, and ...no, I'm giving up.
None of it was what you'd truly call world class. All of it was exceptionally fresh, beautifully simply cooked and utterly delicious.
The waiter returns: "Fried fish now?" he smirks at me. Everyone says no. Everyone is utterly stuffed. Even Friend B who basically ate sea bass and mackerel, lots of times.
Basically unlimited fresh fish, literally unlimited still and sparkling water, unlimited prosecco and unlimited pecorino. Fixed price: 50 euros. Unbelievable.
We get back to Friends A & B's place. We sit down with a glass of Friend A's deeply impressive homemade Limoncello, made with 100% alcohol that you can buy in Italian, err, pharmacies. Tart, sweet, lemony, alcoholic. Very alcoholic.
John starts complaining about Southern Rail.
I lean forward.
The GLDHI whispers "please, no".
"There's one good thing about British trains. At least everyone knows how to operate the doors".
Silence.
Sue says "Well, John, just how did you manage to not open the door?"
My work is done. I go for a pee. And a long walk.
