RT: Milan’s Paris w/nicer people. Also, trams.

Location is truly the key to loving a city, and my second stay at Antica Locanda Leonardo proved that again. It’s in a residential neighborhood with lots of culture (the Last Supper church is steps away), great cafes (I went to the lovely old Biffi every day for a caffeine fix), good shopping and a park to write in, plus it’s a quick walk to almost anything, not least the Maurizio Cattelan finger. The main food market is also close by, at Piazza Wagner, and the express train to Malpensa is five minutes away by rolling suitcase. Plus it was all of 95 euros a night. (So what if my room was designed for a hobbit? It was totally functional, with free internet to boot.)

The neighborhood was so seductive I made the mistake of eating most of my meals there, and a weird pattern quickly emerged: One would suck, the next would be spectacular, the following would be spectacular, then the next would suck big time. (The one meal I ate farther afield was with my friend Francesco, so it will be spared judgment because the conversation so trumped the paccheri.)

Sunday lunch at Trattoria Meneghina was recommended by the hotelier with the caveat that “service is comme ci, comme ca.” I wouldn’t have minded the dismissive sweating owner and his perfunctory “waiting” on me while ass-kissing the guys at the next table if the pappardelle with funghi had not delivered grit in every buttery bite and the fried zucchini with blossoms had not been gooey doughballs, senza the gamberi mentioned on the menu. (Worse was seeing a cook, I hope not the wife, wheezing up the stairs from the bathroom holding her gut. I ached for her.)

That night I made my way to another close-by option, one I had dismissed for lunch because it looked too tourist-friendly. And at L’Uccellina I had the forks-down best pizza of my life, a crudaiola with mozzarella (no sauce), arugula, cherry tomatoes and ricotta salata on a crust not much thicker than a paper plate, all the way to the edge. No bones were left behind with that baby. But the whole experience was just what you fantasize about on your own on the road: a genuine welcome, a lively room, a waiter who put up with my halt-and-lame Italian just until we got to the serious stuff (“Vino bianco? Can you be more specific? Prosecco? Gavi?”)

Lunch the next day was nearly as happy-making. On my friend’s recommendation I tried Enocratia but got there just minutes before 2; when I stepped inside to read the menu, the woman behind the counter greeted me effusively, so my tongue stumbled out: “Pranzo finito?” and my ears got, “No, no!” as she gestured to have me follow her up the stairs to a tiny dining room hung with dramatic paintings of flowers where three tables were occupied by what looked to be businessguys. The place had style to burn. And that woman (not sure if she was an owner or just a server) had the Italian confidence you’ll understand everything she’s saying, which led me to bucatini cacio e pepe for my food and two glasses of an exceptional biodynamic white from Piemonte for my drink. The pasta made me realize I could never try that treatment at home. The balance of noodles and cheese and pepper was sublime. I finally understand that your lips should tingle when you eat it. Plus, did I mention the place had style to burn?

And then I had to go and ruin my memories by trying another pizzeria/ristorante near the hotel, Acero Rosso, which, I realized only once I ventured inside, was also too near the train station. Awful room, with rows and rows of empty tables, only a few occupied by guys eating either alone or with their mobiles. Awful wine (prosecco is wonderful until you let it near food). Awful quattro stagione pizza, the kind we have suffered almost everywhere in Italy: soup on bread. I was so demoralized I had to go try the gelateria I’d been laughing at for days, the one with the big sign reading “Eat me, I’m famous.” Something had to give me a last good taste of this magical city. And the pistachio/passion fruit cupful I had there did wash away the restaurant’s sins. To the point that I could go back to the room and Tweet that its translated website had touted “homo burning” and that was the least of its sins. . .

Birds: The birth of singing

And I guess I’m guilty of premature exultation for announcing my verdicts on destinations first on Twitter. For Parma it was “the third time is just as charming.” I really had had no desire to go back after spending 10 intense days there with my consort when he was doing a gig for the city, producing color photos to exhibit with Sebastio Salgado’s black-and-whites. But I’m very glad I did. This is one of the most magical places in Italy, with a vibrant core and a mellow feel, thanks to all those single-minded bicyclists pedaling everywhere and keeping car traffic in its place.

I had limited time off the bus, so the most gratifying experience was lunch with my friend Francesca, whom I met one summer at TPW when my consort was teaching and hers was absorbing and who now has a three-year-old daughter, Viola. Whose idea of playing house is cooking using leaves and sticks from the grounds of the “Snow White” castle in Mom’s hometown, San Secondo. And who titled my post here. We all went to Porfido, with its wood-burning oven and super-friendly staff, where I did my best with an over-the-top pizza topped with radicchio, mozzarella, Gorgonzola, truffle oil etc. Viola shared a bite of her superb chicche del nonno, tiny, tender spinach gnocchi in a glaze of tomato sauce, too. And half a liter of vino bianco helped with the catching-up, too. Before we walked over to meet Francesca’s parents and I finally learned why I have never learned Italian despite at least a baker’s dozen trips there: I never studied. There’s a reason they speak English perfectly. . .

Piazza Giuseppe Mazzini 4 43017 San Secondo

French twists

I don’t think we have ever done Italy and France back to back, which must be one reason why I was so underwhelmed by the food in a country where I had always fully intended to have my last meal. The comparison was rather stark, especially considering the first course at our first dinner in Tuscany, at Posta Marcucci in Bagno Vignoni, was Kelleresque in both concept and execution: a plate of Cinta Senese prosciutto paired with a chilled melon soup with a dollop of onion jam — the ham tasted irresistibly barnyardy against the sweetness. But another reason is simply that a wedding banquet in Italy is a hard act to follow, at least as staged by a multinational crew. The reception was around the pool at magical Il Poggiolo in San Quirico d’Orcia, where four food stations had been set up: One with fried food (tomatoes, arancini, zucchini, etc.) to be eaten from paper cones, one with melon and prosciutto carved to order, yet another with cheese and red wine and one more with bruschetti; if that was not enough, waiters were passing hors d’oeuvres like little tarts with artichoke and truffle filling. The sit-down dinner under the hyper-clear stars started with gnocchi, followed by a filled pasta, then roast pork, then Tuscan steak, then the wedding cake, then a full dessert table.

The steak, and the melon soup, were so extraordinary that it’s no wonder Bob yawned at the best meal we had in Arles, at Le Cilantro. I ordered essentially the same two dishes off the special menu, but the beef was not as dazzling and the soup came with slivers of prosciutto crisps and a balsamic granita. He had seared tuna and sea bream, each with two sauces, and we both left thinking the room was half the reason for the Michelin star.

We had a promising start at lunch at Tamarillos in the lively city of Montpellier — minis including foie gras with vanilla, then coconut milk risotto with langoustines, dried strawberries and mushrooms — but the herky-jerky service and slow kitchen cost us patience by the time our main courses came. Glutton for fowl punishment, I ordered duck with mango and chewed yet another penalty ration. Bob’s scallops with spinach and pistachios arrived with neither of the billed ingredients, but who was counting?

My faith in France was restored at L’Entre Pots in Languedoc, in the Moliere stomping ground of Pezenas, and not just because we had been tasting picpoul all morning. This was a Paris-quality restaurant, on every level, starting with the fact that our wine was chilled in a silver bucket shaped like a dinosaur egg. It even offered half-portions on several starters and main courses, and I took one (monkfish sauteed to succulent perfection with calamari) while Bob made a meal of two (anchovies atop eggplant and tomato, then veal saltimbocca with a plethora of mashed potatoes). My appetizer of exquisite brandade with pesto tapenade was enough for an entree. The bread was excellent, the cafe creme even better. And the place itself was designed more like a resort than a restaurant, with a patio where we ate, a seating area with tables in the middle of the restaurant, and shelves with food and a few housewares for sale in the front. Like that ice bucket.

Hotel “Posta” Marcucci, Bagno Vignoni, 39 (0) 57 788 7112.
Il Poggiolo, San Quirico d’Orcia, 39 (0)57 789 9074, www.poggiolo.info
Grand Hotel Nord Pinus, Place du Forum, Arles, 33 (0)49 903 4444, www.nord-pinus.com
Le Cilantro, 31, rue Porte-de-Laure, Arles, 33 (0)49 018 2505.
Tamarillos, 2, Place du Marche aux Fleurs, Montpellier, 33 (0)46 760 0600.
L’Entre Pots, 8, Ave. Louis-Montaigne, Pezenas, 33 (0) 46 790 0000.