See You in the Piazza

by Frances Mayes

  We’ll never dine closer to the sea.

  * * *

  OF ALL THE pleasures, my stand-out joy in Camogli is our visit to the ex voto collection at Santuario di Nostra Signora del Boschetto. I’ve never seen this church mentioned on a website or in a guidebook. A friend who stayed here for a couple of weeks told me about it.

  Ex voto means “from the gift.” These small paintings—naïve, primitive—on tin or wood almost always have PGR written on them, per grazia ricevuta, for grace received. If someone survived a terrible accident, divine intervention was acknowledged. The Virgin or a saint saved you from what surely was fatal. You commissioned a painting to record this miracle. Each one is a gesture of thanks. You seek out the person in town who can paint and you tell your story. You hang your ex voto in the church where you can visit and remember. When you simply recovered from an illness, you may have hung a tin liver or heart or foot but your ex voto shows a more drastic event. Grace.

  My daughter and I have collected ex votos for years. We’ve found around sixty, each one precious. We have many that we like to point to, and often to toast. Here’s to the bride, shot as she left the church. Here’s to the man who burned in the fireplace. Here’s to the family slumped around the table, poisoned, as the priest knocks on the door. We’re attached to these scenes of a woman in bed with her jaw tied in a kerchief, a child bloodied on the ground, a cart pinning down a man flailing his arms. Some are crude, some finely executed. They’re blunt. The perspective is flat. They manage to be both literal and metaphysical.

  This collection at Santuario di Nostra Signora del Boschetto brings me much closer to Camogli. Here are the tall houses I’ve admired, but a man is falling from the fifth story. Women are looking out from second- and third-story windows as he hurtles downward headfirst. Laundry hangs from other windows. The action takes place on only a fourth of the painting. The rest shows trees in the garden, another house, and Maria in the sky. I was reminded of Brueghel’s Icarus painting. The boy falls as his wax wings melt and the farmer plowing his field does not notice. Life goes on while you are in extremis.

  Others re-create ships tossed on high waves or listing in a storm, a large ship bearing down on a small one, and a man overboard being carried in the current. This is the flip side of the pristine paintings in the museum. I’ve been so obsessed with ship paintings, and models, and the sea itself. Now I witness the odd fact that these houses posed hazards enough for those not in peril on the sea. Many of the ex votos show a child falling off a wall. A boy with bloodied head sprawls on the floor while another child, who looks like a homunculus, rushes down the stairs toward him. Did he push the boy? I think so. Oh, Queen of Heaven, how can this happen? One man falls from scaffolding on a ship-building site. Falling. So many falling.

  The main artists were Domenico Gavarrone in the mid-nineteenth century and Angelo Arp after 1889. I wonder where they lived in Camogli. They’re known, but the norm for these little treasures is the anonymous local painter commissioned by someone with a powerful gratitude. Faced with the divine in every painting, the ex voto painters led enviable lives.

  This is a homey church. The caretaker sweeps and dusts and wants to chat. At the end of the display, tiny finches chatter and flutter in a cage. Who does not hope for miracles?

  We drive up into the hills above the Ligurian Riviera, surprised at how sharply they rise into real mountains. I think of deer as scarce in Italy, but one with two curling, pointed horns leaps across the road with a don’t-hit-me look cast at Ed. Another, strolling along the verge, gazes at us, spooked. Tall spires rising out of the forest tell us there are towns but we pass few. “This looks like northern Europe,” Ed says. “Even the bell towers look as though we’re in Germany.”

  “Could be anywhere. We could be in the Smokies.” But we’re not. We’re en route to Varese Ligure, chosen because it’s one of the Arancione Bandiere, the Orange Flag, sites. And because of a pasta tradition I’ve read about.

  For a country experience on a farm, we’ve chosen a simple agriturismo about sixteen kilometers from Varese. The road is hard to find; we’re deep into the wilds. Finally, a woman with a big dog greets us warmly and I’m already thrilled to see sheep and horses. We get out in a muddy driveway. Sharp wind hits hard. She takes us into an outbuilding fitted with two guest rooms. Nice enough. Simple. But cold.

  “We’ve just turned on the heat,” she explains. She points out the window where a man is gathering wood from a pile. “The furnace is wood-fed,” she says.

  I put my hand on the radiator. Ice.

  We still have a couple of hours before we drive out for dinner. Nothing to do but crawl into the refrigerated sheets under two layers of blankets.

  Ed grabs a damp quilt out of the armadio. “It’s colder inside than it is out. She said we are the first guests. This building has been unheated all fall. It’s not going to warm up.” We try to read. My nose is dripping.

  “Let’s drive into Varese and find a drink before dinner. It’ll be warmer when we get back.” He dives into his jeans.

  * * *

  THE NARROW ROAD dips and curves. Black dark. We are soon in Varese Ligure. Deserted. On a back street of the village, we find the Albergo Amici, whose restaurant is mentioned in our guidebook. We order an aperitivo in the high-ceilinged, empty dining room. A waiter sits by a stove reading a magazine. It’s warm. “Why didn’t we stay here?” Ed wonders.

  “It looked dated on the website. I could take dated easily at this point.”

  Ah, dinner. The redeeming hour! Who cares if no else is here? When Ed asks the waiter what she recommends, she says, “I croxetti.” The little crosses. And yes, this is what we came for.

  I’ve read about this Ligurian pasta formed into flat disks and stamped with a floral or geometric design. Formerly noble families had their stemme, family crests, carved into the small wooden rounds. The first molds probably were crosses of the Knights Templar and the monastic orders who pressed crosses into the dough, just as they were slashed into bread about to be baked. “Now the forms are rare,” she tells us, “but you can visit one of the last makers in Liguria. Right near the church.”

  The pasta is tossed with a light pine nut sauce. In a mortar, the nuts are crushed to a paste with garlic, herbs, olive oil (or a little butter). Some add a dash of milk to thin the consistency but here I don’t detect that. The taste is rich, though surely the recipe comes from the cucina povera, the poor kitchen.

  * * *

  WE MAKE OUR way back in the Stygian night. We’ve left a light on in our room. Otherwise the farm is dark and we must use the flashlights on our phones. “Uh-oh. No one stoking that wood furnace,” I surmise. And, yes, the room has not warmed a single degree. The bed feels damp and frosty. Ed speaks of winter in Minnesota, when he shared an unheated room with his brother. Heat was supposed to seep up through a vent to the upstairs. It didn’t. We burrow under all the blankets. “They know it’s freezing, otherwise they wouldn’t have left so many covers,” I reason.

  * * *

  WE LEAVE WITHOUT showering the next morning. As we load the trunk, the owner comes out in a light sweater. It must be warm in her house. She blithely hopes we enjoyed our stay and ever-polite Ed thanks her, but I say, “We were very cold.” The smell of manure is strong.

  “Let’s go.” We speed out of there. I refrain from giving her the finger.

  * * *

  BACK IN SWEET Varese Ligure, it’s market day. We admire the circular plan of the streets lined with houses painted pistachio, coral, pink, ocher. The castle is also rounded; the humpback of the six-hundred-year-old bridge is a half-moon. And the form of the croxetti molds is round, too. We find Pietro Picetti at via Pieve, 15. He doesn’t seem to mind being interrupted. He shows us historic molds and ones he makes. They’re small, somewhere between a Ritz cracker and a hamburger bun. The carved stamp fits into a holder that you use to cut the disks. At
the lathe, he demonstrates his carving skill. He allows us to buy a grape-cluster design carved into pear wood and finished in beeswax.

  The appealing town is built along the gentle river Vara. The houses on either side must be snapped up the second one goes up for sale. The market spreads along the main street. Behind the stands, there’s a nice linen store and a fabulous bread and pastry shop where we buy focaccia with pesto and pastries with ham and cheese. The bar at the end of the street is teeming with locals who’ve paused for a hot drink while shopping. One of my favorite things about cold weather in Italy is a busy bar on market day. Everyone bundled, the smell of wool just out of storage, the banter among men, and the efficiency of women accomplishing their shopping. I love to linger, feeling a part of this ritual but also separate. “Americani,” we answer when asked if we are German or French. It’s moving to me, how often the Italians say they love America.

  We watch people buying honey, sweaters, jeans, and glowing autumn squashes and pumpkins at the market. I know that each person has a wooden form for making croxetti at home.

  En route to Cinque Terre, Portofino, or other seductive Ligurian destinations, travelers usually bypass this ancient city by the sea. Why does no one go to Genova?

  We have checked into Locanda di Palazzo Cicala, across a small piazza from the black-banded façade of Cattedrale San Lorenzo. Our room feels loft-like and airy, simple, too: tall windows, white sofa and chairs, and two huge beds, also dressed all in white. I hardly can stir myself to go out; this is a perfect place to read and plan. Ed, frowning at a map, says, “Prepare to be lost,” and out we go.

  We’re near a zone of butchers, produce stands, and cramped shops selling olive oil, lentils, legumes, and slabs of dried cod. At one frutta e verdure, I see a scrawled sign: Le signore che palpano la frutta saranno sottoposte allo stesso trattamento da parte del fruttivendolo. The women who palpate the fruit will be subjected to the same treatment on the part of the fruit seller.

  We’re starving. A tiny trattoria lures us in for a feast of chickpea fritters, grilled vegetables, and branzino, sea bass, with lemon. Wine at lunch contributes to read-away-the-afternoons, but today we share a carafe of effervescent house white.

  * * *

  THE CENTRO STORICO, historic center, quickly overwhelms us—a warren of narrow lanes called caruggi. They twist, turn, dead-end, branch. A maze! Each is lined with shops of claustrophobic density and heavy aromas, bins of clothing, musical instruments, bolts of African cloth, and button and ribbon displays. Albanese, African, Romanian, and Arabic voices ring out, music spills into the streets, and shoppers push into fishmongers, stalls selling plastic housewares from China, shoe repair shops, tailors, and brightly lit stores gleaming with cheap watches and electronics. Not like Naples, not like Palermo: I’m in a souk! This is the largest medieval center in Europe. We’re lost and might as well like it. At least there’s no traffic, only the zing-zing of bicycle bells.

  * * *

  WE SURGE INTO a lather of old-world cafés with bentwood chairs and painted ceilings, hip new cafés serving green juices and French-looking pastries. Art galleries—I’ve never seen as many anywhere. The fast food tempts me at Antica Sciamadda and Antica Sà Pesta, specializing in tasty torte, a thick pastry filled with cheese and chard or other vegetables, and farinata, huge golden moons of chickpea batter poured onto a metal disk and run into a hot pizza oven. How can anything this simple be so good? Take it and go. How many focaccia, pastry, and snack shops? Hundreds!

  We’re drawn to Pietro Romanengo fu Stefano, where they’ve made chocolates since 1780. Glass and wood cabinets could as well be displaying emerald brooches and diamond necklaces. The two women meting out these treasures, though, are as serious as if they’re serving subpoenas. Even Ed’s enthusiasm cannot elicit a smile. He selects candied nespoli (loquats), sugared lemon and orange peels, marron glacé, and dark chocolates. We walk out, untying the box before we’ve closed the door.

  Uphill, down to a glimpse of water, radiating streets, a scary lane with drunks leaning on walls and prostitutes hanging out of doors and windows. Dark alleys, slices of bright sunlight. Sun-baked, wiry men from Morocco, paler ones from eastern Europe, exceptionally tall Africans, veiled women, and others wrapped in bright prints. Wash hanging on racks. This is a raucous port where you don’t know what to expect where, or when. Even the Italian sounds foreign, a clattering dialect harsher than the more rhythmic Tuscan we’re used to.

  * * *

  I RESERVE A table at La Forchetta Curiosa. Atmospheric, full of regulars who’re greeting the owner with hugs, this is the true-blue cozy osteria. Wild salad greens with squid, linguine with broccoli and anchovies, rolled branzino with pistachios—and what’s that: totani ripieni di boraggine e crema di patate al limone? Calamari stuffed with borage, lemon, and potatoes. That’s for Ed, no doubt.

  I’m surprised to see cappon magro on the menu. I translate this as lean capon but when the waiter sets one down on an adjacent table, I see that it’s more interesting than a skinny chicken. Magro refers to Catholic days without meat. Cappon mocks the chickens the rich were enjoying, while fishermen’s families made do with what the sea offered. Pieces of hardtack are soaked in salted water and vinegar, then layered into a pyramid with seafood, olives, vegetables, and eggs. Often topped with a lobster, it’s served with caper and anchovy sauce. The genius of la cucina povera.

  I decide on ravioli with pesto and creamed potato. Are babies of Liguria fed a tiny spoon of pesto for their first non-milk meal? Is it the most enduring memory of family feasts? I don’t want pesto often, but in Liguria, it’s unctuous and fresh. I’ll have some of everything, please.

  Perusing the desserts, Ed says, “What is caglio?”

  “Let’s ask.” And so, we get to meet caglio, aka prescinseua, aka quagliata. The owner gives us the story: a soft, somewhat acidic local cheese, not easy to find, as it is perishable and production is small. It’s made from milk of cows grazing for centuries in the hills above Camogli.

  “Is it only for desserts?” Santa Madonna, no. It has been used by Genovese on focaccia, in fillings of vegetable torte, in nut sauces for pasta, in pesto, stuffed inside vegetable fritters, and baked with anchovies. The owner serves a white bowl of bright berry sauce over what looks like ricotta or buratta. Tart berries and the slightly sour cheese remind me that Italian desserts often shock with their faint sweetness. A happy end, memorable place, memorable dinner.

  * * *

  AS WE WALK around town, we check menus posted outside restaurants. Seeing ingredients not usually on Italian menus—ginger, saffron, mustard, and curry—reminds me of the far ports reached by Ligurian trading ships. A window display of patterned cotton draws me into Deca. I meet Gabriella, who tells me that her hand-printed cotton bedspreads and tablecloths are called mezzari. The word comes from the Arab mizar, meaning to hide or cover. Gabriella shows me the carved wooden stamps used to ink the designs. Imported into Genova from India in the 1600s, mezarri became fashionable among noblewomen, who wore the fanciful designs as mantillas and wraps. As silk later became available, the rich abandoned the mezzari and the cloth was taken up by lower classes, eventually becoming part of the folk clothing of Genova. Women wore the prints as shawls. The designs (especially the tree of life, with branches, exotic animals, and fruits) were believed to bring luck to brides. Workers and sailors, she tells us, wore cotton workpants dyed the bleu de Gênes, blue jeans. This “blue of Genova” came from indigo plantations in India. I buy three mezarri for summer parties under the pergola. When I set my table at Bramasole, I will remember the women of Genova.

  * * *

  ED AND I walk down to the sprawling Antico Porto, recently revived under the auspices of native son, architect Renzo Piano. He’s designed Il Bigo, a giant white derrick that raises you up for a view of the harbor. It mimics working cranes of the port. His, too, is the famous aquarium that draws all the schoolchildren of I
taly, and a hands-on science museum. In a revised cotton warehouse, we find a bookstore and Eataly, a good place to slow down and browse the plethora of Italian foods. The elaborately boxed panettone for Christmas are arriving, at least a hundred brands of this traditional brioche-type bread dotted with raisins and candied fruit.

  This is the first sighting of other November tourists. A few Dutch and English people are eating focaccia and pizza, or stocking up on risotto, olive oil, and jars of pesto. At the far end of the warehouse, we find a table at Il Marin, with a panoramic view. Everything is perfection. I get to try the classic Ligurian tortelli with pesto, green beans, and potatoes. Ed prefers raw fish, and lobster with endive. The menu is adventurous: frog with Jerusalem artichokes, finanziera dal mare, a dish made with the quinto quarto of fish. Quinto quarto, the fifth quarter, usually refers to meat offal, specifically what’s left after the prime cuts. I assume this fish dish contains the heads and other usually discarded bits. Ed is attracted to the scallops with little green beans and something called taccole. He tells me, “The word translates as ‘jackdaw.’ ”

  “Surely not. That’s some kind of crow.” But after quinto quarto of fish, I’m ready to believe anything.

  * * *

  GENOVA IS UNLIKE any other European city. Spokes from here wheel around the Mediterranean and beyond. They lived like kings and queens, those merchants of the seas, in opulent palazzi lining Strada Nuova. Who decided in the sixteenth century that they would all build along a new street? “Who’s frescoing your house?” must have been the aperitivo banter of the time. The area around what is now via Garibaldi was Europe’s first housing development. Fact: One hundred and fifty palazzi remain; forty-two are designated UNESCO World Heritage sites.