Some years ago, a little sojourn to Genoa enabled me—and my partner Luc and our friend Brian—to experience the famed pesto alla genovese in its natural habitat. The results were a little surprising.
On this occasion, I had organised one of many jaunts to Italy with Luc and Brian that had a characteristic meandering itinerary across the country, well the top half at least. On that particular trip, I wanted to make sure that we spent a fair deal of time in Liguria, taking in the historic port city of Genoa.
We were staying in the exquisite Le Nuvole Residenza d'epoca, right in the historic and wonderfully gritty, occasionally even scary, historic centre of the famed city. Now, if I weren't clear that the focus of this particular site is food, I would go on a whole tangent about this unique boutique hotel located within a 16th-century palazzo, lovingly restored and skilfully renovated with stylish contemporary touches by a young local couple who offered us and all of the guests amazing hospitality.
But, I shall curb my default tendency to digress.
We arrived rather late in the afternoon and a little disorientated, struggling to find our way through the labyrinth of narrow medieval alleyways after the cabbie stopped abruptly and told us he could take us no further: no vehicles beyond this point. Cursing at the searing summer heat as our very modern luggage wheels were in vociferous disagreement with ancient cobbles, we pressed on and eventually found ourselves in the beautiful, tiny piazza on which Le Nuvole stands.
"...we'd all had this short, twisted twiglet of a pasta before, though pretty rarely outside of noted Italian restaurants beyond Italy..."
Perhaps seduced by our beautiful accommodation, and certainly weary from a long trip, we all agreed that dinner should be somewhere close at hand. So my nerdy planning and research was not ignored (for once).
That evening, when it started to cool, we headed for Ombre Rosso, an eatery located in a 13th-century house in a nearby, even older, street.
Styling itself as "Food, Wine and Books" (Cibo Vino E Libri) with a focus on traditional regional cuisine made with locally sourced ingredients, it was exactly what we wanted. While the interior was beautiful (and, no doubt, a welcome haven in the winter) we opted for their beautiful little garden located directly opposite the tiny entrance; across the cobbled pathway that was probably considered a "road" during the Middle Ages.
We got the whole friendly spiel from one of the owners on the kitchen's philosophy; sourcing local produce for very traditional dishes in the hands of an exciting young chef accompanied by selected regional wines. The talk went on for a bit despite that look in our eyes that implored, "Yes, we're ready to order." And more importantly: "Aperitivi?"
How could we possibly come here and not order the house dish showcasing pesto alla genovese? I don't remember the other delicious dishes we ordered, but we were all intent on trying the pesto known around the world in its home region.
"...that taste of home—or an exotic taste of somewhere else—that generations of seafarers over the centuries would have savoured on arrival in the port..."
It arrived promptly. There were a couple of surprises. For a start, it was served with triofe. Sure, we'd all had this short, twisted twiglet of a pasta before, though pretty rarely outside of noted Italian restaurants beyond Italy. But here, as in numerous other places in Liguria, al dente really did mean al dente. It was almost certainly something to do with the recipe of the pasta itself compared with the dried versions offered in Italian delicatessens elsewhere. It was certainly fully cooked, but somehow it remained much more chewy than many other pastas.
And then there was the famous pesto itself. This was no anaemic thin coating around the pasta as is so often presented as "how it should be" by snotty serving staff in upmarket osterias elsewhere, but a veritable sauce, bordering on a soup. It was dripping in the freshness of the basil that tasted like it had been ground by the chef mere minutes before it was brought to our table.
Maybe it was the surrounds, but above all else, I was struck with how ancient this delicious dish seemed. Unlike the slick machine-made versions that fill supermarket shelves the world over, this delicious pesto did not have the sense of something compounded into the unified taste that we receive as "pesto". Rather, it seemed layered with each of the individual flavours (of the basil, pine nuts, cheese etc.). All were distinctly discernible albeit within a beautifully interdependent whole.
Sitting there, making light work of the decidedly good local wine, the name of which I was too stupid to note down, I suddenly had a sense of the historic lineage of this dish. It was that taste of home—or an exotic taste of somewhere else—that generations of seafarers over the centuries would have savoured on arrival in the port, grateful for something filling and filled with fresh green promise after weeks of surviving on salted meat, dry biscuits and whatever could be stored at sea.
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