Driving around the Italian countryside, our stomachs begged us to stop to dine somewhere. Given it was Sunday and way past lunchtime, I had doubts we would find anything open; this is Italy, for God's sake.
At a few stops, we were greeted with a closed sign or someone to point us to a possibility on the other side of the mountain. An hour or so later, we drove up to Villa Inglese. The door was open, but the waiter told us they were closed. Looking at her watch and then at us, we got the subtle hint: we are not rule followers.
But, after a polite conversation, with Laurie who never meets a stranger, the waiter told us a simple pasta could be made and a bottle of wine served. Little did we know that we had stumbled upon a Michelin-worthy restaurant that wasn't fussy or fancy.
A simple pasta that is putting it lightly, a beet salad, cheese, homemade bread, and a deconstructed tarte Tatin in five bites but packed with flavor that each bite was worth ten.
I would drive over that mountain again and again.
But above all was the owner and chef Ben, a charming, easy laugh, fantastic storyteller, rich vocabulary, wine connoisseur, local folklore, and food enthusiast, he was the cherry on the cake!
…
In his kitchen, not far away from his garden and local producers,
Ben gathered these flavorful ingredients:
- Finely sliced beets, like shards of amethyst marinated in
- Red wine reduced to a shimmering syrup
- Chestnuts, cut as thin as parchment scrolls
- Pomegranate seeds, crimson gems glistening
- Roquefort sheep cheese crumbled like fallen meteorites
- Tiny cubed apples, a hinted sweetness
- Fresh beet greens and added surprise.
- Magic called a salad.
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