I felt more like sacking out like this portly cat, which was acting like a dog in this land of the back-to-front but we pressed on until a grinning local pointed us to El Pirun a local word for a wine jug apparently. Marco loves wine and bugger me if he didn't look like Jack Riepe's younger brother.
Happily he didn't wait the tables but his pouty young assistant did, bored and in the manner of a teenager who would rather be out getting laid, a worthy occupation no doubt, but still she managed not to spoil our meal.
A prosciutto plate and trofie, local squares of pasta with pesto, Liguria is the originator of this sauce and here they added green beans and potatoes to the sauce.
Then we shared a baked fish in olives, olive oil, lemon slices and potatoes and rosemary.
Washed down with a local dry white before we had a pudding so good my wife ordered her own after tasting mine.
Panna Cotta, a light custard, in this case covered in white chocolate sauce and whipped cream. By now the pouty waitress was smiling and so were we so all that was left was to go downstairs and sit around with an Australian woman and her Italian friend and taste Marco's wines.
Which we did including his five year old local wine called sciàchetrà (pro: sha-kay-trà)
The rest of the Cinque Terre consisted of a train ride to Monterosso, the larger town at then other end of the cliffs which we decided was too busy and too big to worth visiting again.
But it does have the biggest sandy beach,
And eight dollar draft beers.
And I am too old to pay that much to see this.
So we crowded into an appallingly packed station filled with noisy Hitler Youth
Swarmed the next train, elbows out, ain't mass transit a joy?
And found Nirvana in the little town of Vernazza.
On a windy afternoon we sat and watched the harbor.
And watched people watching the harbor.
And a little light shopping and so,
Home to bed.
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