Verona

It was a good weekend. On Friday evening we walked from Chinatown to London Bridge, along the Southbank and through the dimly lit streets of Borough. I drank in October London in all of its damp, heady glory, knowing that when I come back it will be muffled by the  gloom of January.

But even now,  autumn London seems miles away from this autumn Verona, where the sun still shines in abundance. I’m currently lounging on a terrace eating a slice of pizzette. Not even three days here, and I’ve already tucked away two pizzas, five pastries, steak, two plates of pasta and a seven-course meal. When I return I fear I’ll resemble a fattened little wild boar.

In my defence, most of these meals were entirely unexpected. On Sunday I was invited to a ‘client lunch’ (the father of the family I’m staying with is a bigwig lawyer). As it turned out, the lunch wasn’t only for the client, but his wife, mother, children, nieces, nephews and me. The various old aunties practically gobbled up the grandchildren, who in turn run amok in the restaurant; there was hugging, singing and an awful lot of eating. I’m not entirely sure what sort of deal was being made, but I was very glad to be along for the ride.

Completely unaware that this was a seven-course affair, I ate every dish with the measured appreciation of somebody nearing the end of a meal.  Highlights included juicy scallops wrapped in pancetta with a mushroom sauce; a sunshine yellow risotto speckled with tiny prawns; tender rolls of pork with a celeriac puree; and flash-fried slices of steak with rosemary potatoes. (Speaking of which, remind me to write about those potatoes soon).

Verona is treating me well, which is good, because I kind of need it. I’m teaching myself to slow down again – to sit, watch, listen, read and write. I’m already taking notes of everything, hoping that inspiration will flow as I give myself over to Italy. Thank you so much for joining me.