Ешь, молись, люби

Chapter 36

           ThenIrattlealongthecliffsandbeachesofSicily’sstupendousandhard-edgedeastcoastuntilIgettoTaormina,andthenIhavetofindataxiandthenIhavetofindahotel.ThenIhavetofindtherightpersonofwhomtoaskmyfavoritequestioninItalian:"Whereisthebestfoodinthistown?"InTaormina,thatpersonturnsouttobeasleepypoliceman.Hegivesmeoneofthegreatestthingsanyonecanevergivemeinlife-atinypieceofpaperwiththenameofanobscurerestaurantwrittenonit,ahand-drawnmapofhowtofindtheplace.

           Whichturnsouttobealittletrattoriawherethefriendlyelderlyproprietressisgettingreadyforherevening’scustomersbystandingonatableinherstockingfeet,tryingnottoknockovertheChristmascrecheasshepolishestherestaurantwindows.ItellherthatIdon’tneedtoseethemenubutcouldshejustbringmethebestfoodpossiblebecausethisismyfirstnightinSicily.SherubsherhandstogetherinpleasureandyellssomethinginSiciliandialecttohereven-more-elderlymotherinthekitchen,andwithinthespaceoftwentyminutesIambusilyeatingthehands-downmostamazingmealI’veeatenyetinallofItaly.It’spasta,butashapeofpastaI’veneverbeforeseen-big,fresh,sheetsofpastafoldedravioli-likeintotheshape(ifnotexactlythesize)ofthepope’shat,stuffedwithahot,aromaticpureeofcrustaceansandoctopusandsquid,servedtossedlikeahotsaladwithfreshcocklesandstripsofjuliennedvegetables,allswimminginanolivey,oceanybroth.Followedbytherabbit,stewedinthyme.

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