My very first memory of Italy was of Liguria. The Cinque Terre. We had very intentionally avoided the town of Monterosso. It was, as we had heard, the place to go if you want to stand shoulder to shoulder with tourists. Roy still remembers the cod ravioli with homemade pesto. I remember running back to our hotel in Manarola using a cardboard given to us by the pizzaiolo when it started raining very suddenly. We loved everything about the five villages. Well, most things. The only thing Roy did not like was that he could not drive around. So the best compromise was a trip through Liguria from Genoa (after a satisfying dinner at Cavour Modo21 of course) with a few stops along the way: Camogli, Boccadasse, Santa Margherita and of course, Portofino.

PORTOFINO

Portofino was in every way the very picture of the Italian Riviera. The kind of place meant for celebrities and the like. It had the usual collection of posh restaurants serving immaculate plates of seafood and boatmen shining their yachts marooned at bay. Even the brioche and coffee cost a little extra because well, it was Portofino. While it was not quite the place we would have liked to soak in the local atmosphere, the views, especially that from Castello Brown, made up for it splendidly. Even Roy’s father, who was usually not one for pretension, was completely captivated. We followed the road where tourists would apparently get fined for stopping to admire the view which led us to the Baia Cannone. It was as stunning as one could imagine. Italians were swimming in the crystal water below the Villa Valdameri Mondadori and quietly enjoying la bella estate. Even as we drove off, the image of Portofino still lingers on like a dream in my memory.

IL GABBIANO

Roy and I have always wanted to go back to Liguria. There is so much to see other than the five villages and well, Portofino looks like a dream. Most of all, I felt we did not do the region justice. It was our first trip together and we had ended up in one or two tourist restaurants. It is a region of fishing villages and naturally ittiturismi (restaurants owned by fishermen), like Il Gabbiano in Crevari. Nicolo told us many stories of being out at sea, and even one of them hauling one highly-prized fish when they least expected it. But it was Massimo, the true fisherman of the house, who kept appearing proudly with plate after plate of his wife’s cooking: trofie al tonno, white fish with a brightly-coloured salsa and tiramisu soaked in espresso. We asked Nicolo about his favourite fish and how best to cook it. In true Italian fashion, it was simple: olive oil, a spritz of lemon, maybe some finely-chopped tomatoes and capers. “We Italians don’t like to put a lot of things on fresh food.” This has always been for me the magic of Italian cooking which speaks dearly to my Cantonese roots. 

GENOA

For years, Roy and I wanted to show his parents the true Italy. Not the one trawling wth tourists and menus written for them. It just so happened that Roy found a market when we were buying sfogliatella and focaccia for breakfast at Il Focaccino one morning. So we went back on another day when we had more time. I told his parents about the special hazelnuts at a shop. The ones from Piedmont where the iconic hazelnut spread comes from. Of course they could not resist getting a few bags. They shopped for knick knacks and ruby-red tomatoes before taking a break at a bar. They stood at the counter with a coffee and brioche and, like it always does in Italy, ended up chatting with the owner. A nearby lady overheard us and wished us well in our travels. Roy’s parents looked so comfortable, so at ease. For a moment, they blended in beautifully with the Italians around them who were enjoying the late morning coffee bar experience. Lunch was at Sa Pesta after that where Antonella made the most beautiful walnut pesto tagliatelle. This is the Italy we want them to know.

SANTA MARGHERITA LIGURE

I have always liked the idea of boats. Roy insists it is pure romance since boats are so often wet and grimy. You can imagine that I jumped at the idea of going to Santa Margherita Ligure when I heard that the fishing boats would pull into the port to unload their catch. There was no exact time. Just some time in the evening. We were there as early as 4 pm and true enough, one by one they came with long-legged spiny crabs, crimson prawns and slippery squids. They hauled these cartons into the now-quiet market with a handful of Ligurians who were right on cue to sniff out the goods with their discerning eye. As the sale began, I found myself eye to eye with a theatrical fisherman who handed me a gambero rosso—sashimi style—like it was a toothpick and a dare. It was impossible to refuse and I didn’t. parents the true Italy.