The trattoria has four tables. Maybe five if you count the one wedged near the kitchen door that nobody sits at unless it’s August. I took the corner by the window, though at this hour the window is just a dark rectangle with the faintest sound of the sea behind it. The owner brought bread without asking. No menu. He just started talking.
He made the pesto in front of me. Pine nuts, garlic, coarse salt, Parmigiano, pecorino, the oil added slowly while his wrist kept a rhythm that looked like something inherited rather than learned. The basil was from a pot on the ledge outside. He tore the leaves instead of cutting them, and when I raised the camera he didn’t pause or pose, just kept grinding. The marble mortar had a chip on one side. I liked it more for that.
The pasta was trofie, short and twisted, still warm enough to send up a thin curl of steam when the pesto hit it. The wine was local, almost saline, cold from a fridge that hummed too loud in the corner. He poured it into a carafe that didn’t match the glasses and sat down across from me for a moment, wiping his hands on his apron. He asked if I lived in Milan. I said I used to. He said he went once, in 1987, and that was enough. We both laughed.
Riomaggiore at night is quieter than you’d expect. The day tourists have taken the last train back to La Spezia, and what’s left is just the town being itself. Someone’s TV through an open window. A cat moving along the stone wall with purpose. The smell of basil still on my fingers as I walked back up the steep street to my room. I didn’t take another photo. The mortar, the torn leaves, the steam. One frame was enough. *Basta così.*
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