Travel

A fascinating journey can be made driving through the narrow, winding streets of Verona and onto the busy auto strada. Past AGIP gas stations and tessellated pylons contrasting with the verdant countryside and the endless rows of vines upon which tiny grape buds soon would appear. Almond and cherry trees with pale green leaves beginning to decorate their elongated arms, and ancient farmhouses painted in faded pinks and umbers seemed not to have changed since Romeo and Juliet pranced in the sun stroked fields. In the distance smoky purple hills, unperturbed by the comings and goings of travelers and my group of voluble giornalisti, watched over peaceful vistas, till we arrived at the Villa Quaranta.

Set in sculptured gardens, this lovely Villa became a wonderful setting for a very special dinner orchestrated by the chefs of five restaurants from the surrounding areas of Venice, Treviso, Padua, Verona and Vicenza, together with many wine producers of the Veneto. Before the grand scale dinner began, a classical concert was performed by members of the New Italian Percussion Group. A most unusual concert using bottles as instruments: long, tall and thin bottles; fat, round and bulbous bottles; bottles made from green, blue and plain glass and goblets of red and white wine on multi-level shelves producing varied musical tones, all blending into a cacophony of sound.

Paris is one of those cities that gets into your system and stays with you. There is something magical. Magical about the lifestyle, the fashion, the ease of movement, and the food.  The food is simple, perfectly crafted, and delicious. I ate my share of eclairs, croissants, baguettes, steak-frites, souffles, crepes, ice cream, and croque monsieur’s. I ate whatever I wanted, when ever I wanted. Boulangeries are in abundance and sneaking in for an eclair or a mille-feuilles is a temptation I wasn’t about to pass up.

I went to Paris, research in hand, and a small, green journal filled with places I didn’t want to miss. I vowed I would conquer all corners of the city and find these little treasures, pastry shops, chocolate shops, and cafes. My list was long, too long. So, each night, before I went to bed, I prioritized, plotted and planned which part of the city I was going to attack. I was on a mission. I was able to cover almost everything: Pierre Herme, La Maison du Chocolat, Le Grande Epicerie, Cuisine de Bar, Laduree, Berthillon Ice Cream, Luxembourg Gardens, Musee d/Orsay, and E.Dehlerrin, but my expectations were too grand. However, what I did see, do, taste, and experience was perfect.

The first time I ate at Coco Lezzone in Florence, it was at the invitation of film producer Dino De Laurentiis, who knows a thing or two about Italian cooking:

(1) He created the gourmet Italian DDL Foodshow Emporiums in New York and Beverly Hills about 20 years ahead of their time,

(2) His lovely granddaughter Giada, with many of her family’s recipes and great charm and skill, has become a best-selling cookbook author and very popular Food Network chef, and,

(3) He is Italian and always has been.  

We were in Florence because that’s where Hannibal was being filmed, and Dino asked my wife Elizabeth and me and some others working on the film to join him at Coco Lezzone for dinner.

We knew nothing about Fado other than that our friend, Mark Miller, who had lived in Lisbon for a year and basically planned our recent trip to the city, said it is "a must". He promised great food from a host and hostess who will treat us as family and sing traditional Fado songs. "It will be a long night," he warned, "but still you must go to Sr. Fado." He then added, with a touch of a smile, that he should make the reservations. Sr. Fado is hard to get into but over Mark's year living in Lisbon, he and the owners had become close. He called. We were in.

Sr. Fado is owned by Duarte and Marina Santos, though "owner" hardly describes everything they do. It might be better to say that Duarte and Marina Santos are Sr. Fado. Duarte is the front man, meeting the guests, serving the food and bussing the plates. Marina is the cook. Eating at Sr. Fado is like spending a perfect night in what could be a modest Portuguese home, while eating traditional Portuguese foods and hearing its traditional music.

When we entered the restaurant we were greeted with both warmth and a touch of skepticism. "Do you have a reservation? The restaurant is fully booked," was the first thing we were asked by Duarte. (As the night progressed we more than understood his cautious approach as we saw Duarte turn away at least a dozen walk-ins before the last reserved tabled filled, at which point he simply locked the door.) Yes, we had a reservation, we assured Duarte. In fact we were the friends of Mark's. "Mark's friends!!" he beamed. "Marina, Mark's friends are here" he called into the kitchen. Then the hugs.