2012-13 Fulbrighters to Spain: Hola!

Fulbrights to Spain for the coming 2012-13 academic year – HOLA QUE HAY?!

No but really. I can hear you hovering. Spain’s sent that mystical fat envelope your way at last, hooray and enhorabuena!! However, now that the seemingly endless limbo has graciously come to a close, your inner anxious academic takes over once more, peppering the innocent consciousness with queries.

What I mean is, I see you – I’m a WordPress stats nerd, and I check out what folks search for that guides them in a tomato-y direction – and I know you’re nervous. A handful of you have actually written me emailed queries regarding what’s in store for the coming year, and I figure it’s highly likely there are more who have considered it.

This post is an open invitation to ask questions of me regarding my experience, as well as what you might anticipate from yours. I’m no expert, but I’ll tell you just about anything you’d like to know according to my own time spent in Spain.

Janel Torkington, A Professional Primer:
I graduated from Earlham College with a degree in Spanish Language and Literature in May of 2009.
I spent the following year adventuring around Thailand, then received word of a Fulbright award in April 2011.
I was a Fulbright English Teaching Assistant for the 2010-11 academic year.
I was assigned to one of the older bilingual high schools in Madrid, IES José Luis Sampedro.
Along with the other Fulbrighter at IES JLS, I took responsibility for the Global Classrooms (Model UN) project in my school.
I was nominated as one of two Fulbright representatives to accompany the top ten Madrid students to the international Model UN conference that year, which took place in downtown Manhattan in May of 2012.
I had such a positive experience my first year that I renewed at the same high school for a second term.
The second year has continued to be enormously rewarding, and I plan on remaining in Madrid for the time being.

I’d be more than happy to answer questions as I receive them in the comments, as well as through email (contomates [at sign] gmail [dot] com).

—

quicknote: probably a good time to re-mention the bit they ask you to put on the blogs – I’m in no way an official Fulbright rep, and my views don’t have to do with their official positions on anything whatsoever. That’s a good thing! You can ask me about stuff like the truth about oreja, how much hell finding a piso actually is, and where exactly to get your hands on elusive ground cardamom. Fulbright Inc. doesn’t have a heap to say about any of those.

New York Times Chocolate Chip Cookies

All that glitters golden and chocolate-studded is worth the wait – specifically, because the agonizing hours in the fridge are what allow the gelatinous eggs the time they need to deeply hydrate the pair of flours in this perfectly balanced cookie dough.

The scatters of crunchy salt crystals coax the palate wide, allowing the consummate toasty butter nuttiness to stop time dead in its tracks. Creamy dark chocolate serves as bitter foil.

These are Cookies. Enjoy them with Milk.

New York Times Chocolate Chip Cookies
barely adapted at all from the NYT.

2 cups minus 2 tablespoons/8.5 ounces/240 g cake flour
1 2/3 cups/8.5 ounces/240 g bread flour
1 1/4 teaspoons baking soda
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1 1/2 teaspoons coarse salt
1 1/4 cups/283.5 g unsalted butter
1 1/4 cups/10 ounces/283.5 g light brown sugar
1 cup plus 2 tablespoons/8 ounces/225 g granulated sugar
2 large eggs
2 teaspoons natural vanilla extract
2 bars dark or bittersweet chocolate, broken up into bits, perhaps with a hammer
Sea salt

1. Sift flours, baking soda, baking powder and salt into a bowl. Set aside.

2. Cream butter and sugars together until very light, about 5 minutes with an electic mixer, or with a fork until your hand feels like it’s about to fall off in protest.

3. Add eggs, one at a time, mixing well after each addition. Stir in the vanilla.

4. Add dry ingredients and mix until just combined. Incorporate chocolate. Press plastic wrap against dough and refrigerate for at least 24 hours (NYT claims 36 is optimal). Dough may be used in batches, and can be refrigerated for up to 72 hours.

5. When ready to bake, preheat oven to 350 degrees. Scoop 6 3 1/2-ounce mounds of dough (the size of generous golf balls) onto baking sheet. Sprinkle lightly with sea salt and bake until golden brown but still soft, 15 to 20 minutes. Transfer sheet to a wire rack for 10 minutes, then slip cookies onto another rack to cool a bit more. Repeat with remaining dough, or reserve dough, refrigerated, for baking remaining batches the next day.

I froze half my dough; results pending experimentation.

Double Coconut Muffins

Upon her move to Berlin, friend Sevi bequeathed me her jar of coconut butter – an ingredient I’d heard whispers of online, but had yet to toy with myself. Sev uses it for her luscious locks, but of course I only want to know how I might best incorporate it into my kitchen.

Deb’s double coconut muffins are just the thing to counterbalance the nasty gray blanket that’s been suffocating the city as of late. While hail battered against the windowpanes this afternoon, my oven was emitting delicate buttery curls of coco-scent. You must be a coconut aficionado to adore these – duh, and sorry Janet – because they’re nothing less than an homage to the mellow sweetness of its flakes.

Next time I will add lime zest.

Double Coconut Muffins
adapted ever so slightly from smitten kitchen.

1/2 cup (110 grams) virgin coconut oil
3/4 cup (95 grams) all-purpose flour
1/2 cup (60 grams) whole wheat flour
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1/4 teaspoon table salt
1 cup (230 grams) full fat Greek-style yogurt at room temperature
1/3 cup (65 grams) granulated sugar*
1 large egg at room temperature
1 teaspoon (5 ml) vanilla extract
1/2 cup (90 grams) sweetened shredded coconut*
scant handful toasted coconut flakes

*Alternatively, if you can only find unsweetened shredded coconut, do as I did and increase the sugar to 1/2 c.

1. Preheat oven to 375°F. Either grease 10 muffin cups with butter or coconut oil, or line them with papers, or bust out those silicone cups you’re always so thankful you have.

2. In a small saucepan, warm your coconut oil just until it melts. It should still be on the cool side.

3. In a medium bowl, whisk together the two flours, baking powder and salt. Stir in 1/2 cup shredded coconut. In a separate bowl, whisk together egg, sugar, coconut oil, yogurt and vanilla. Stir into dry ingredients until just combined.

4. Divide batter among prepared muffin cups then sprinkle the top with coconut flakes. Bake about 20 minutes, until a tester inserted in the middle comes out clean. Transfer muffins to a rack and let cool.

Lieu: Afternoon Degustation with Daniele Scelza

Whether roaming Barcelona or New York, perched on the Amalfi Coast or lost in the middle of the Basque countryside, we love to degust. MP’s expertise was proven once more with our recent foray into two-star territory at the impossible-to-book Diverxo in Madrid; its innovative interweaving of Spanish and Asian gastronomies lived up to its daring “butterflies in the stomach” motif and then some.

Word on the digital street regarding the less-than-a-year-old Lieu: get yourself there, the sooner the better – it’s absolutely ripe for a star. Trusting in the judgement of Chowhounders/TripAdvisors over those stuffed shirts at Michelin (kidding, please give me a job), we snag Easter Sunday lunch reservations at the chef’s table.

Chef Daniele Scelza emerges right away as we sip our perfunctory multi-million-bubbled cava, which utterly beats the pants off any of the prosecco we had in Italy. We talk personal history: his multi-faceted origins, late start in the world of cuisine, and family enclave tucked into a forest town not far from where we’ve just been on the Amalfi Coast.

We’re brought olives, two test tubes of light citrus cocktail, and a pair of chorizo magdalenes, plus two seasonal menus we’re invited to peruse. Our intention to check out the degustation menu has already been announced, but Chef Daniele suggests that we give the menu a glance anyway. After all, he says, even apart from allergies or flavor preferences, there can be ingredients that bring with them a strong association with memories – either positive or negative – you never know. I love this; it suggests to me that we will have the opportunity to build such powerful associations with what lies in store.

We give the list a cursory skim, but don’t sink too deep: Diverxo has taught us the pleasing power of surprise. We already feel at ease at Daniele’s table, and happily hand over the reigns.

Just to the right of the chef’s table is Lieu’s glass-walled bodega. After MP’s magic glass of Cepas Viejas at Poncelet, we’ve nosed out that the Bierzo region of Spain tends to produce intoxicatingly aromatic wines with a robust jamminess that we adore. This comment leads Daniele to select a bottle of 2003 Tilenus Pagos de Posada – bullseye.

I make a mental note to turn up as many Bierzos as the city has to offer; they’re infinitely more interesting to my palate than your standard basic Rioja.

The curtains part with an elegant, airy zucchini carpaccio. The earthy olive oil and pine nuts just barely keep this dish’s toes on the ground, while the mint aioli and crunchy stray flecks of sea salt insistently pull it skywards. The humble paper-thin squash might as well be the most delicate of aged cuts here, so exacting and thoughtful is the treatment.

The second appetizer, a mushroom foam spooned atop a base of sweet woodears and accented with olive oil and chives, makes it clear that we’ll be proceeding ever so gradually from light tastes to heavier ones. We love this approach in cheese courses too. It’s the most intentional I’ve seen this kind of progression in a degustation menu, and it successfully creates enormous intrigue as to the kitchen’s next move.

This “false ravioli” is the closest Lieu gets to what I’d categorize as molecular gastronomy. The transparent agar sheets house marinated cherry tomatoes and basil leaves sitting on parmesan cream. The waitstaff pours in a bath of cold tomato water, its pale red color a mask for an intense tomato punch: a prelude to spring.

I use cherry tomatoes almost exclusively during the fruit’s off-season, and it’s validating to note top chefs sneaking in ‘mater based dishes this way as well.

Fourth is a pork terrine draped with lentils in a vinaigrette, accented with frissé, radish shavings, and drops of mustard sauce. The combo conjures a multilayer pungent bitterness, softened by the velvety terrine. It’s dark, mild, and excellent, despite its focus on my least preferred selection of flavors.

The fish course is baked hake resting on sweetly acidic sofrito, surrounded by a thick cream of saffron rice. The microgreens and toasted grains add textural intrigue while the saffron quietly sings.

The final savory dish blows it out of the park with seared foie doused in an intense citric glaze. The darker dots on the plate are reminiscent of maple; upon inquiry, Daniele explains that it’s a reduction of sherry. He pulls a bottle out of the bodega and offers us a glass each to sample the original – the complex sweetness serenades with notes of ripe cherry and woody vanilla, so seductive that I neglect to keep track of the name.

The first dessert course is an ice cream based on the classic tocino de cielo (heaven’s bacon); its richness is offset by the zing of passionfruit sauce.

The final sweet plunges the palate back into demanding flavors, a medley of barely-sweet chocolate paired with icy red wine crystals. Deb‘s already taught me the enormity of this combination; here Daniele executes a haute version.

Midway through cocoa bliss, Daniele emerges once more from the kitchen to talk impressions, inspiration. He transmits such obvious affable energy – reminds me in ways of recently-met Luigi of Hosteria Il Pino in the playful attention to detail.

What’s impressed us most about Lieu’s degustation menu is that the entire procession of courses is so clearly designed to please by way of celebrating the ingredients. Upper echelon cuisine sometimes gets a bad rap – and sometimes deservedly so – for being little more than self-congratulatory show-off techniques. This can come at the expense of giving eaters, to put it simply, a delicious dining experience.

Not one of Chef Daniele Scelza’s dishes comes across as pretentious or boastful. The techniques employed in terms of design and execution are obviously gifted, and that makes the accessibility of the experience that much more impressive. Sitting at the chef’s table was also a joy; food nerds that we are, we love the opportunity to further connect with what’s on our plate.

I end gleeful, and high-step it outside under the impish Spanish sun.

Capri Questing; a Praiano Coda

The Amalfitana dawn brings with it the urgent desire to explore. I put on my walking shoes with the intention of doing the loop around town that MP and I have trekked a few times, but not fifteen minutes in, a split in the path presents itself. It takes me over/sideways/under, but mostly simply up through bits of Praiano that lie generally unseen, tucked into the side of the cliffs.

I end up diverting from the paved path at some point, which finds me overlooking the very valley that terminates in our own Marina di Praia. Here I sit silent a good while; the sun is soft and the day clear. It feels like a gift.

“What should we do today?”
“Let’s go have lunch on the Isle of Capri.”

It takes some doing. First is a bus ride to Sorrento, a slightly bitter pill to swallow after the huge portion of yesterday spent bashed about in the aisleway. This time, however, we snag seats – and the trip post-Positano turns out to be glorious (as much as bus transport ever gets, anyway). The driver follows the coastal road all the way, taking us over mountains to the effect of absolutely breathtaking panoramas, one after another.

Sorrento looks honestly intriguing; Janet spies some tempting leatherwork, and there’s a moment where we contemplating ditching Capri plans altogether. I’m headstrong about pressing on, however – ticking the Isle of Capri off my life list somehow rose to quest status this morning, and it’s imperative that I set foot on its sands.

Does the Isle of Capri have sands? I do not know, but I intend to find out. [[cue magnifying glass]]

As such, we beeline for the port.

The next ferry departs in half an hour. Tickets secured, we settle in dockside for a quick cappuccino.

The cappuccino is more like a crappuccino – wasn’t aware that bad coffee even existed in this country – but the matched set we spy during the wait almost makes up for it.

MP’s spidey-sense tingles, and she gets up early to “secure our seats.” Midway through her leisurely walk to the dock, she makes a break for it after spying a teeming throng working its multitudinous way towards the boat as well. She edges them out, but only just – we manage a few of the less choice center seats, adrift in a sea of sunhats and shutterbugs.

It matters not. The Isle awaits.

It’s a bit of a strange place – possibly quite beautiful up around the true center, but we get the impression most day-tripper tourists never make it that far. The port area is replete with tchotchkes and hawkers, fanny-packs and money belts, shiny gimmicks of every variety.

The taxis here are convertibles.

One tour group is led into an Authentic Ferrari Shop, which I’m guessing is a Typical Cultural Experience of some variety.

In the morning scurry after deciding upon our destination, I reserved a few seconds to scribble down the names of the top-ranked TripAdvisor restaurants for Capri on the back of a business card. In extremely broken Italian, I ask a vendor if she knows where any of them are. The first one on the list is L’Approdo, which she explains is “sempre dirito” (straight ahead). Mission accomplished.

We’ve reserved a spot at Bar Mare for our final Praiano dinner destination, so we make every attempt to go light on lunch. A cherry tomato-rocket salad, peppery steamed mussels, and a prosciutto-funghi pizza will just about do it. Plus a jug of house red, of course (although MP and Janet find it rather sour, to me it tastes of Spain).

And that’s it for Capri. There’s a ferry that heads back to Amalfi instead of Sorrento, but the only option is to leave at 4.35 – that only leaves enough time for a gelato. The breakneck speed is rough.

Mine is lemon and the best.

This time we are determined to get proper seats. A vantage point is essential for blog fodder.

When the ferry pulls up to port, MP very nearly gets into an altercation with a small pushy child over who ought to be first in line.

MP triumphs, of course, and we snag the catbird seats.

The child is devastated.

Crushing his ferry dreams proves utterly worth the karmic hit, though – we could not possibly have chosen a better afternoon to travel by sea. The sun loves us and the water is glass.

We realize we can get off in Positano instead of Amalfi, leaving us with a much, much shorter follow-up bus ride.

The walk up to the Positano fermata SITA takes us by heaps of studio spaces, and we keep a vague eye out for Paolo’s, just in case. It still feels serendipitous to actually encounter it, though, and we poke inside for a peek and a word with the agent.

My Italian is enough to net us some answers to a few pending curiosities, but very nearly insufficient to prevent scheduling an unintentional meeting that evening with the artist himself. Luckily I catch the verb “aspettare” (to wait) somewhere in the agent’s final confirmation sentence, and glean that she means, “he’ll be waiting for YOU” — ahhhh, ma no no, signora!! Domani, maybe!

The bus gets us there, and it’s the last bus ride for us this trip, and that merits a celebration.

Prosecco and blogging on the terrace. Now you know how we manage to publish every day.

Those who don’t have pending blog duty squeeze in some quality reading.

In between blog duty, literature, bubbly, and nu-disco grooving, we gussy (MP’s a little late to the party; she does manage footware before we leave the villa).

Bar Mare’s reserved our table for us. We’re offered menus, but decline – what’s good tonight, Salvatore?

“You start with seafood antipasto, then let’s see.”

Have you ever before seen a girl so excited by bivalves, crustaceans, cephalopods, and carpaccio?

The shrimp are the best thing. The Best Thing. The flesh is so sweet, and encased in a brilliant red paper-thin shell. All partake gleefully of the brains.

We slow-roll it, picking absolutely every last morsel from the plate.

The cold seafood is followed by warm, an arrangement of two different species atop a bed of rocket and blanketed by a wafer of crispy eggplant. The cherry on top is a fat and juicy shrimp, head tragically removed but tail intact. Olive oil is everywhere, along with notes of lemon.

It is the Amalfi coast in a dish – the best of the land and the sea, prepared with enormous care by some of its finest residents.

We’re honored to be here, honored to be able to pay homage to the many gifts we’ve discovered here in the best way we know – through immense pleasure and praise.

Topped off by a little something sweet, of course. Mamma’s take on the traditional Amalfitana pear-ricotta cake is sublime – obviously.

This time, we have -cello options. From left to right, limoncello (my choice), strawberry-cello, lemon-cream-cello (Janet’s choice), melon-cello, and pistachio-cello (MP’s choice).

Because too much is never enough, Salvatore brings us a slice of apple cake.

And because we linger even longer, something truly special emerges: choco-cello. Think liquid dark chocolate custard, spiked bountifully with alcohol.

We’re giddy and grateful. we’ve been patrons at many outstanding restaurants this trip, but Bar Mare was unquestionably the right choice for our final night in Praiano.

Grazie mille – we can’t wait til the next one.

Agerola to Nocelle: Walking with the Gods

Il Sentiero degli Dei connects the valley town of Agerola with the teeny mountainous section of Positano called Nocelle. Our plans today take us directly westward from one end to the other, our steps accompanied by local guide Ana. There are various side routes one might take were one inclined to sweat profusely, but we decide that the three hour trek will likely prove satisfying enough.

The sky-high pathway is not recommended for those who suffer from vertigo.

Stomaching the sheer drop is rewarded with the most far-reaching, spectacular views of the Amalfi coast that one could possibly ask for. We hit it on a particularly clear morning, and can easily see all the way out to the Isle of Capri in the distance.

Much of the land along the path is terraced; some traditional locals still use it for cultivation – meaning they walk the path multiple times a day, every day.

There are a few intact “summer houses” – one apparently rented out to a trio of German hiking fanatics – but most of the scattered dwellings up here have long been abandoned.

Civilization seems impossibly far away.

But wait — what’s that just there?

There’s something quite pleasing about staying in a landmark.

Guide Ana bubbles over with enthusiasm and expertise, explaining bits and pieces of history, regional customs, linguistics, geological curiosities, and the uses of wild herbs.

Ubiquitous pebbles of pumice are the result of volcanic eruption. They’re a nutrient-laden gift from Monte Vesuvio that enriches the soil here, making it possible for the huge diversity of plants to take root.

All sorts of herbs sprout determinedly from cracks in the stone walls; many are edible or medicinal. We sample wild rocket and dandelion greens. Ana also points out rosemary, thyme, heather, and asparagus.

The walk is lengthy but certainly not grueling. There’s a handful of steep steps, but mostly downhill, and the path is extraordinarily well-kept. Memories of my time spent on El Camino de Santiago flit through my head; walking this way invites a rhythmic peace found through step after step surrounded by natural wonder.

Nocelle is a miniscule neighborhood in the far reaches of Positano; as far as I can tell it’s home to a scant handful of residents plus exactly two restaurants.

Trattoria Santa Croce is a functional oasis for walkers, ourselves included.

We’ve noticed exceptional ceramics at every restaurant we’ve tried thus far – Ana explains that custom dictates a distinct plate for each dish and diner. Obviously, this includes a jug of house red.

We open with a plate of charcuterie and cheeses. The fresh ricotta is remarkable, and we do remark, and repeatedly.

Porcini e provola: smoked provolone cheese, locally grown porcini mushrooms, slices of boiled potato, and fat heaps of fresh pasta. MP’s favorite.

Spaghetti alla puttanesca (literally “whore’s style” – tee hee): bits and pieces of seasonal fish caught in the bay below, cherry tomatoes, garlic, olives, capers, parsley, and a chile flake or two. My favorite.

Tiramisu, tiramisu, tiramisu, tiramisu. Janet’s favorite.

Post dolce, limoncello, and espresso, we are faced with a pressing decision: take the SITA bus from up here at Nocelle, or walk down into Positano by way of a 1,000 step staircase? We rally around the fatal combination of booze, sugar, and caffeine, and announce that we will give it a go.

It helps also that it’s the most beautiful afternoon yet. Nocelle’s craggy walls are replete with blooming flora.

The walk is 95% downhill from this point, winding its way alongside a roadway. It takes a good twenty minutes to reach the famous staircase, during which we enjoy fly-bys of lush stepped gardens. Ana points out leafy fava bean plants, which have just come into season.

When we do reach the stairs, I’m prompted for a “before” photo. Then, descent.

The 1,000 stairs feel pretty much exactly like what you would imagine. An “after” photo is not requested.

Toll taken on our joints, we’re overjoyed to catch the SITA bus at the bottom precisely on time, even though it means standing in the aisle and gripping on for dear life around the coastal curves.

When we reach Praiano, the bus screeches to a halt. Another big blue bus has approached from the opposite direction at precisely the skinniest bit of the city road, coincidentally also just where a Vespa has chosen to park. Lesser drivers might have attempted backing up in order to thread the needle one by one – but we’re talking Mario Kart experts here. Both buses scoot forward inch by sweaty inch, passengers eyeballing each other in pressed-together disbelief across the parallel windows. There are definitely fewer than ten centimeters between the two lumbering vehicles. The walk I found wonderful – up to and including the stairs – but I nearly lose it in the heat and the crowd and the jerking of the brakes.

An eternity later, the bus miraculously pulls free. Do they do this every day? We applaud.

A nap is necessary.

Less fretting. Praise Jesus.

I Skype La Strada to inquire about the possibility of pickup, and am cheerfully told si signorina!

Our driver doubles as waitress, and we quickly hone in on wine, salad, and seafood.

The cold: shrimp and radicchio, marinated ‘chovies, unjustifiably good smoked salmon and arugula, squid and parsley, and a carpaccio of something very sweetly mild that the waitress claims is swordfish.

The hot: langostino, shrimp, squid, swordfish, and a reddish local catch served whole, from whom I pick each and every morsel.

The salad: leafy, and just what we want.

The dolce: gelato. Absolutely everyone’s favorite.

Praiano, Day One: Less Fretting, More Prosecco

It’s good to wake up to your own private cliffside paradise.

The Amalfi coast is known for its ceramics, and the tilework in Villa Benadetta is quietly spectacular.

Sea breezes swirl around our espresso steam. The kitchen has come stocked with the utter basics – olive oil, balsamic vinegar, a cupful of ketchup packets, and coffee – but acquiring proper sustenance is going to require some doing.

Maria informed us last night that the local grocer will deliver goods to you free of charge, or upon request will deliver you to the goods instead. We opt for the second, requiring us to brave a Skyped phone call. After a few dialing mishaps which make full use of every single Italian word I’ve managed to pick up, we think we’ve arranged for someone to arrive to our gate within ten minutes.

Sure enough, a van pulls up shortly and we hop on. I make further use of my paltry Italian with the driver.

In addition to a decent supply of fresh and packaged goods, tutto X tutti houses a beautiful bodega in its basement. We stock up on prosecco, plus breakfast goodies.

The driver then expertly shuttles us back to the Villa and refuses to accept a tip.

We happily munch fresh bread with daubs of raspberry jam plus slices of a mild local cheese, while contemplating the murmured activity taking place on the beach below.

Breakfast needs sated, showers taken, and blog posted, we venture down. Marina di Praia is a natural fjord cut into the coast, dotted with rowboats, bordered by teeny terraced restaurants, and overlooked by–

–why, what’s that up there?–

–hello, home. Villa Bendetta has quite the perch.

We’re called by the thought of a little lunch at Armandino’s before wandering too much further, so settle in and ask for vino rosso. We seem to be getting good at this.

Armandino himself helps us figure out a series of house specialties to share, starting with an array of stuffed and roasted vegetables. The smoky zucchini slices are particularly pleasing.

The veg is followed by a plate of cold marinated ‘chovies and octopus, drizzled with a blend of vinegar, olive oil, and parsley.

The clam and rocket pasta dish is well-executed, reminiscent of the sea in all the right ways.

But the shrimp and lemon risotto is by far the standout. The Amalfi coast is internationally renowned for its crop of lemons, and here their acidity lifts away any heaviness from the creamy rice, allowing the shrimp, garlic, and parsley to shine. Janet points out that we should be eating the bowl – why aren’t we eating the bowl?? – which turns out to be constructed from a salty, crisp sheet of parmesan cheese.

There is little question who will be eating the whole shrimp poking its head out of the rice. However, Janet’s not too sure about my little shrimp brain fixation.

A lunch so exquisite deserves a bit of dolci to close. The extensive selection at Armandino’s borders on the absurd given its tiny size. We manage to quickly hone in on a local specialty, a pear-ricotta-almond mix sandwiched between chocolate cookies.

Choosing was simple; cutting is hard.

It would be far too easy to fall into a post-lunch stupor, so we instead elect to make our way into Praiano proper. First stop: the sea.

Just a toe.

And that’s about enough of that.

The cure for anything is salt water: sweat, tears, or the sea.
- Isak Dinesen

The first two have their time and place, but we are dedicated creatures of the coast this week, soaking up the essence of all the waves have to bring us.

The sky isn’t half bad either.

We happen upon a staircase that is simply all too inviting. Where might it lead?

The answer: up.

Branching support for the curls of grapevines crisscrosses all over Praiano’s teeny sky-high walkways.

When we make it back to the principal road, there’s rhythm emanating from the church.

A youth festival has kids pulling coordinated dance moves and streamers coloring the breeze.

You never know who you’ll see in Praiano.

We’ve been seeing these Fermata Sita signs everywhere, and finally figure out that they’re bus stops. Gonna have to work out how they function for tomorrow’s excursion to Positano.

For today, Praiano will simply have to do.

There’s an entry in the Villa Benedetta guestbook: “Came for a wedding, stayed in a postcard.”

As if the town weren’t whimsical enough already, an artist has replicated it in miniature roadside.

Evening falls slow upon the Villa, and we spend some downtime blogging, reading, and absorbing. It’s pleasurable just to exist in this place.

Rounding up on seven or so, the trio begins to discuss the night’s plans, and the unknown bus factor, and what’s coming up for the rest of the week, and hunger budgeting, and ohmygod when and where and what are we going to EAT????

I remember the bottles in the fridge just in time, and declare: Less Fretting, More Prosecco. All merrily agree.

Cork disaster is narrowly averted.

Italian wine, Moroccan olives, Portuguese photos. I sell MP and Janet on next year’s trip.

Sometime past nine we decide we could, indeed, munch – and why not, given the practically private beach restaurants awaiting just below? We select Bar Mare this time, having read heaps of glowing reviews online and in the guestbook alike. We are welcomed by Salvatore, plus a glass jug of house red.

“I need bruschetta (that’s “broo-SKET-uh,” not “brushetter,” a slender piece of ciabatta toasted and brushed with garlic and oil and covered in fresh tomato and basil– the chunks inevitably fall off the bread and the olive oil runs over your lips and down your chin. The whole thing is delicious, deeply physical and delightfully undignified, and a woman who can eat a real bruschetta is a woman you can love and who can love you. Someone who pushes the thing away because it’s messy is never going to cackle at you toothlessly across the living room of your retirement cottage or drag you back from your sixth heart attack by sheer furious affection. Never happen. You need a woman who isn’t afraid of a faceful of olive oil for that)”
-Nick Harkaway

Salvatore: “Do you like fish?”
SHL: “SI SIGNORE.”

Paradiso di pesce.

That one sticking up in the middle is a needlefish, which I didn’t even know was edible. Its bones are translucent blue.

The fish banquet is simply grilled; the best fresh catch requires little preparation. We’re offered a pitcher of garlic, parsley, white wine, and olive oil sauce made by Salvatore’s Mamma as an accompaniment, which is so marvelous we consider drinking it.

Mamma also makes the dolci, one a dense and rich chocolate cake, and the other a fruity (fig?) tart special for Easter.

Bar Mare’s take on the limoncello digestif is a crema di limon, which is thickly sweet to counterbalance the acidic citrus. It too is accredited to Mamma, upon whom we lavish well-deserved compliments.

The lauding and the lingering may be what net us a post-digestif, Mamma-made meloncello. I don’t even tend to favor melon, and this is immediately something very special.

We tuck Bar Mare into its sandy bed, and then ourselves into our nest just above.