All Over the Map - Laura Fraser [48]
On my last visit, all I wanted to do on the islands with the Professor was what the Italians consider an art, far niente—do nothing. Giovanna isn’t content to far niente on the islands; she wants to explore all the tastes, sights, and activities I missed before. “Zampetta, zampetta,” she says, meaning “A little paw here and a little paw there, and we’ll try everything.” Va bene.
For several days, Giovanna and I explore the beaches and hills of Panarea, then eat our way around Lipari. At one, we have an exquisite caponata; in another, a fish stew made with tomatoes, capers, and dried bread. Yet for all those good meals, a corner of my hunger remains unsatisfied. I haven’t tasted pasta with fennel fronds and sardines yet. Nor will I find the dish I want on Lipari. For that, we would have to go to Filicudi.
As we check the hydrofoil schedules for the next day, I am reluctant to return to Filicudi still, but I am more afraid that I will never taste that fennel pasta at Villa La Rosa again.
When we get to the island, to my relief, nothing has changed—its rocky beaches and hills terraced with ancient stone walls are still there. We rent kayaks to explore the island and, carefully navigating a jellyfish soup, come across a blue grotto. Occasionally, on some invisible cue, two thousand tiny, silvery fish arc into the air. We paddle back, ravenous, and hike the steep path cutting up the side of the hill, to Villa La Rosa perched above.
“Magnifico,” Giovanna says when we pause to catch our breath and stare out at the sea. Finally at the villa, we sit at a cool table on the airy, colorful terrace. The waiter warns us that they have only two pasta dishes that day. One with almonds—I hold my breath—and maccheroncini ai finocchietto. “It’s made from the wild fennel growing around here,” the waiter explains. Ahh.
The aroma arrives first, the sardines of the sea mixed with the fennel fronds of the island. With the plate in front of me, I pause, my desire mixed with a fear of disappointment. But the pasta is perfectly al dente, with grated bread crumbs on top and a few raisins peeking out; the fennel fronds and sardines have a wild, simple taste that satisfies me to the soul. I offer Giovanna a bite, but she refuses. “That is your pasta,” she says. “And this is your island.” Of the seven, she herself would pick Panarea.
I am in the very restaurant where I realized my affair with the Professor would come to an end, when he told me I was the perfect woman for vacation and left “not forever” unsaid. But right now, no trace of sadness lingers. The Professor and I had a wonderful time, and now I have the good luck to be back with a dear friend, having that same exquisite pasta, made from the same fennel fronds growing all around outside, perfuming the air. Even the wine tastes like the dry, herbal breeze. After the pasta comes grilled totano, a tender, savory giant of a squid stuffed with crunchy, olive oil–baked bread crumbs. And then a couple of perfect apricots from a tree. There should be a plaque up at Villa La Rosa, for the best lunch I’ve ever eaten.
I’m content here with my friend, the atmosphere, and our lunch; content for the first time in the year since I was in Samoa, in the two years since I turned forty. La bella vita continues in life if you let it, whatever the circumstances, and you