Food & Travel Guide to Liguria, Italy – What to See, Eat & Do

Italy

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.

BOCCADASSE

Boccadasse happened on impulse. It was just so conveniently close to Genoa and we wanted to lunch at an ittiturismo that was only known by their boat registration number. There was no signboard or trendy decor, which is exactly the kind of place I adore. The menu of the day was ravioli and gnocchi with calamari ragu, and a plate of lightly fried little anchovies which Roy’s mother so smartly picked as it was an eye-opener. I have always heard people speak so highly of the Italian anchovies and it was there when I understood that they really do it best. Freshly recharged from the food, we took a stroll along the stairways that weaved around the village. It seemed that the summer holiday had begun early. Some were sunning themselves or slipping into the shimmering water without care. Many were crowding around Borgo Croccante for pizza and focaccia, sliced small and perfect for eating at the beach. It was a sight to behold: the Italian summer was truly here.

A Week in Seminyak, Bali – What to See, Eat & Do

Italy

Last year had been all about family. We began with a picture in our minds: lazy pool days, drinks on the side, incredibly delicious breakfasts and vegan, many days at the beach, wine nights after 7 pm (I brought along a Brunello). We fulfilled everything except for the beach which was traded away to the rainy days.

PURA GEGER BEACH

Navigating Bali can be tricky with its narrow roads and traffic jams. 30 minutes easily turn into an hour, especially when you are in a car and the scooters glide past, completely unruffled. That was how it felt like when we were making our way to Pura Geger Beach, a small cove tucked away from the Nusa Dua strip flanked by glitzy hotels. With my mother, lunch is never something to be delayed. So we settled into a slow one at Nusa Dua Beach Grill, the kind with grilled seafood and tuna that was beautifully pink in the middle.

It seems like everyone knows about Nusa Dua but not much about Pura Geger Beach. I might have made the mistake of exaggerating the beauty of Nusa Dua to Wilmer, my sister’s husband. Because when he and my nephew did go there, they were not very impressed. By the time the rest of us reached, I realised that it was truly not the beauty I had envisioned with the low tide and searing hot weather in the late afternoon. But it was a different story at Pura Geger Beach. Wilmer felt that the clear water and white sand were much prettier. My mother and sister, never ones for sun and beach, complimented the view from an austere cafe above. And of course, this was where everyone settled down at for drinks and the sunset while Roy and I slipped down to the shore. It was just us until my father surprisingly came down, listening to his music. I was sure my mother told him to come and be our photographer. Or maybe he just wanted to see the view up close himself. He, like his daughter, loves a good view.

RM ARYANI

Wherever we go, we would make it a point to visit a very local place. This was a favourite of Roy’s Balinese colleague. A warung serving ikan goreng with handmade sambal. There is perhaps no fish as Indonesian as one deep fried to its crispiest. She had sent us a list of dishes that she promised would be unforgettable: tuna dressed with rujak and coconut, stir fried fern leaves, deep fried threadfin. The threadfin was sadly sold out when we reached, so we settled for the pomfret. It was a small compromise in a meal that was anything but forgettable.

OXTAIL NASI GORENG

If there was a dish that could define Indonesia, it would be nasi goreng (though some might insist on the mee goreng instead). It appears everywhere: at the breakfast table, lunch, dinner and even supper. Always, always with a runny egg. This is a personal favourite of Roy’s. Something he would never say no to. You can imagine his joy when we found an oxtail nasi goreng in Pison, a few years back in Ubud. Incidentally, the oxtail is something my father would also never say no to. Now, to sit with my father and Roy—the two favourite men in my life—at Pison in Seminyak with their oxtail fried rice felt incredibly special.

ULEKAN

Early on, we had planned to stay in Canggu. It seemed almost inevitable that Ulekan caught my eye. Traditional Indonesian that is just a touch more upscale. Then, one thing led to another and we quickly changed to Seminyak when my sister preferred somewhere not too far from the airport. Even at Seminyak, we still made the journey north to Ulekan in a cab ride that stretched longingly past 30 minutes. That day, nothing could draw my nephew out of the white sheets of the hotel room. Not sunshine, not gelato, not even dinner. He stayed behind, preferring the television.

My mother, ever the prim and proper grandmother, fretted over whether he had eaten yet. All of that vanished when we reached Ulekan. The long ride was finally behind us. The room was welcoming and the food suited her perfectly. Coconut and orange juice, all natural and “just right” by her standards. Clams roasted over coconut coals. Velvet leaves stir fried with shrimp paste, salam leaf and lemongrass. Roy was enamoured by the barramundi wrapped in banana leaf and grilled with herbs. But perhaps the most satisfied of us all was my father. There was no doubt that the glorious lamb shank in Sumatran curry would find its way to our table, one way or another. When it did, he set to it at once. The night felt almost perfect, save for the long ride back to the hotel.

BALANGAN BEACH

While my nephew splashed about in the pool with my father, Roy and I slipped away to Balangan Beach for the day. The grey clouds seemed to have followed us to the south and the waves were unexpectedly strong. This was good news for the surfers who wasted no time in swimming out to sea. We could only sit on the sunbeds and watch the waves crashing on the shore. It did bring with it a cuttlefish bone, which Roy proudly showed me. When we got back, we decided to treat ourselves to some grilled local oysters at Shrimpis before calling it a day.

DESA POTATO HEAD

Food always draws me back to a place, as it does with my sister. She loves vegetarian food. So I promised her an entire plant-based meal at Tanaman. But most of all, it was our shared love of natural ingredients, inherited from our mother, that drew us to Tanaman and the other restaurants at Desa Potato Head. The Balinese take so much pride in their harvests and produce. Everything and anything from the land, down to the roots. Only Balinese ingredients: Banana ketchup. Broccoli guacamole. Tempeh sandwich with sambal ketchup. A gorgeous salad of Balinese orange varieties. Amaranth leaves fried crisp into a snack, which was snapped up in moments under my nephew’s lingering gaze. For Wilmer, the real magic was the ambience that had a way of enveloping us warmly. Even as we went to Gaya Gelato, I was firmly set on returning someday.

Summer in East Dolomites, the Italian Mountains – What to See, Eat & Do

Italy

Roy called this a father and son trip. A time for boys to be boys. They would scramble over impossibly craggy terrain, summit massive rocks with boyish glee and pick their way along narrow paths with steep drops on one side—all under my disapproving eye if I could help it. I never truly saw how alike Roy is to his father until this trip. The impatience on the road. The generous flood of sauce over every forkful. The calm assurance that glowed as pure positivity. If Roy’s mother and I had gone off shopping for the day, they would have raced a rented Harley Davidson through the winding mountain roads. We always ensured that one stayed behind of course, to watch over the mischief.

LAGO DI BRAIES

If there was a place that could save us from the summer heat, it would be the Lago di Braies. We were exceptionally inept at the Dolomites. There was no air conditioning and no fan. The air was still, even at night in our Ortisei apartment. The La Bar restaurant just downstairs did serve Neapolitan pizza, which by Roy’s standards made the apartment almost perfect. And so, the lake came as a respite from the heat and so did the two-hour walk around it. People in swimsuits were jumping into the emerald glacial waters and we watched enviously, wishing we had thought to bring our own. Close to lunch, Roy’s father was eyeing the tempting hot dogs but we had other plans: Daniel and Manuel’s lake fish and seared tuna at Thara See Lounge. It was a 45-minute drive but in the grandeur of the Dolomites, it felt like nothing. And of course, for the promise of good food by a fishing lake.

CORTINA D’AMPEZZO

Like many, we were curious about Cortina d’Ampezzo. The first time I heard about Cortina was from The Talented Mr Ripley with references to a ski getaway for a group of wealthy American vacationers. Naturally, I pictured an ultra sophisticated clientele: men and women in fur-trimmed coats sipping après-ski. Alas, reality did not quite match the dream. While it did have its fair share of boutiques, it seemed that the weather had turned unkind. The rain clouds rolled in after a whole morning and afternoon of pure sunshine. All of this happened so quickly and thankfully, we managed to have a gelato before it started pouring. In the end, Cortina felt less like a film set and more like a pretty town where we ran in the rain to our car, our scarves flying in the wind.

RIFUGIO SCOIATTOLI

It did not take much convincing for us to take the cable car up to Cinque Torri. I was completely unprepared in my dress and sandals, imagining it would only be a simple drive. But as it so often happens in Italy, the road was closed with no prior notice, as some hikers informed us while inspecting the sign. It was either an expensive cable car ride or a sweltering hike up. “It’s very very steep,” he said discouragingly after casting doubtful glances at my outfit. So the cable car it was. The views of the five peaks were as breathtaking as Roy’s father had promised and when we got to the Rifugio Scoiattoli, we did not want to leave. We had a cream-filled bombolone earlier and had the good sense to come back for lunch. The mountain views through the glassed facade were spectacular and with them came even more spectacular plates of venison ragu and beetroot ravioli. I was in the mood for something regional and there it was: mountain ingredients with Italian sensibilities. Italy still manages to surprise every now and then.