Derek Lee

"My Most Exciting Food Experience"
An Accidental Meal on The Isle of Capri

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The year was 1996. We were young and had been married for less than a week when we found ourselves cruising along the bright azure waves of the Mediterranean Sea, with the hot August sun turning our skin bronze and our hair buffeted by the salty ocean breeze.  This was our fourth stop of our honeymoon tour of Italy, and we had just boarded a hydrofoil in Naples, bound for the Isle of Capri, taking seats in the upper deck to enjoy the view.  After the roughly 90 minute ride, with Naples disappearing in the haze behind us and the island growing ever closer, we stepped off of the boat into a scene that was prettier, more majestic, and more akin to paradise than any destination had a right to be. We were greeted by the bustling waterfront that is the Marina Grande, punctuated by crowds of tourists and locals darting in and out of the colorful facades of shops, restaurants, and cafes.  Having never traveled abroad before, the scene was larger than our eyes could take in.

Later that evening, my wife and I would find ourselves strolling through the narrow streets of Anacapri, the town located at the peak of the island, far above Capri and accessible only by licensed bus drivers who, over the years, have developed the singular talent of negotiating narrow hairpin turns uphill at 50 miles per hour.  One gaze from the top, though, with its perspective of the legendary Blue Grotto and the bird's-eye view of small boats crisscrossing the entrance to the marina, makes every minute of the hair-raising ascent worth it.

Before long, our walk was interrupted by the pangs of hunger, and we decided to take our chances with the very next local dining establishment to cross our path.  We wandered a bit, but since it was still early for dinner (by Italian standards), we encountered one closed restaurant after another.  Finally, on the pavement in front of us, we spotted a small sandwich-board sign that read simply "Trattoria Il Solitario".  There was no other evidence of the restaurant to be seen anywhere - no entrance, stairway, or menu to be found.  There was only a black gate, leading down a long and winding garden path flanked on all sides by lush greenery.  Seeing no other available dining options, we ventured forth.

We made our way along the walkway, the waning sunlight dappling through the leaves of the trees, the sounds of the street fading to a low hum behind us.  After what seemed like a good long while, the tunnel of foliage ended to reveal a large family seated around an even larger circular wooden table that was laden with food.  Spanning multiple generations, they were all conversing loudly in Italian - one bounced a baby lightly on her knee as she carried forth in what was surely a very steadfast opinion.  Upon seeing us emerge from the path, though, all conversation ceased, and every head turned to look at us.  On our journey to find a restaurant, had we instead stumbled into someone's dining room?

I have no knowledge of the Italian language, not today and certainly not fourteen years ago.  My wife and I tried our best to intimate that we were sorry to have interrupted their family meal, but as we started backing away, the grandmother jumped up out of her seat.  Grabbing me by the arm and speaking rapidly in Italian, she hustled us further into the space and sat us down at a table beneath a canopy of vines.  It was only after being presented with menus that we realized that we had found the trattoria after all.

The menu featured a very strong emphasis on seafood.  Wanting to experience the freshness of a daily catch that had no doubt come off of a trawler at the Marina Grande only hours earlier, we each ordered the linguine alla vongole, better known to us as linguine with clam sauce.  While we waited for our food, the grandmother returned to the table bearing a small bottle of wine and a basket of bread.  She told us, as best as she could, that the house wine was made by the family from grapes that were grown on the island.  The bottle bore a handpainted label of a vintner surveying a glass of red wine, freshly poured from a straw-wrapped bottle resting on the table in front of him.  We filled our wine glasses and took a sip of the dark-hued liquid - a distillation of the sun, the soil, and the family's tradition.  It was extraordinarily good for a house red.  The first bottle went quickly, and by the time the second had been uncorked, our meals had arrived.

The linguine alla vongole was an overwhelming plate of sensory and culinary overload.  The steam rising from the dish was scented with the perfect combination of ocean brine, garlic, freshly pressed olive oil, and lemons.  Nestled on top of the pile of pasta and seafood were four large shrimp, left intact to preserve the heads.  When cracked open, the shrimp yielded a freshness and purity of flavor unmatched by any shellfish that we had previously enjoyed at home.  The flavor of the clams permeated the dish, so every bite of pasta tasted of the sea.  We spent a better part of the next hour picking the meat out of the clams and shrimp, devouring the pasta, and chatting with the owners and a couple from Boston at the neighboring table, who were happy and relieved to meet other travelers that spoke the same language.  It was one of the best meals of our trip, and a fond memory that has served as a benchmark for many of our meals to come.

Today, the empty wine bottle from that night sits on a shelf in our bookcase, along with the guidebooks that we used for our trip to Italy.  Looking at it again as reference for this entry instantly transports me to that island, where I am reminded again that even old standby dishes can be new and exciting when prepared by old hands and a measure of wisdom, care, and respect for local ingredients.