I looked out my window this morning and stared down at Armando’s garden space. It was a lake. It’s been raining for ages.
What do you do when it’s like this (and it’s your birthday)?
You head the car toward the Ligurian coast, pass some swollen rivers the color of caffe latte. You get a little lost because you’ve forgotten your map. Then you end up in Lerici, where you can look across the bay of poets and see Portovenere clear as a bell.
You find an outdoor table at a restaurant where you can keep an eye on boats bobbing in the harbor. You order gnocchi with clams and arugula, a fish, a bottle of wine. You don’t care that tourists go there. You don’t care that after weeks without them starving pigeons are belligerently stealing bread from the tables like they owned the place.
Suddenly, it feels like you’re in Italy.
I’ve always felt, among all the food porn I’ve seen, I seldom see the symbol of a meal by the sea: The Aftermath. So here: