Cold Pasta, Warm Table

Every time I’m forced to share a table at a restaurant, my fight-or-flight instinct kicks in.

If I’m already seated and someone else needs a place, I’m usually quite happy to make room.

But this time, it was me who needed a table…

During our retreat in Lucca last month, I got word that my mother-in-law had been hospitalized. She’s been battling cancer and had taken an unexpected turn for the worse.

By the time I got back into town, her condition had deteriorated. It was clear she wouldn’t be leaving the hospital anytime soon.

Before her hospitalization, she’d been facing a difficult decision — giving up her beloved little dogs. She could no longer care for them.

A friend of hers in Liguria, who runs an animal adoption shelter, had offered to find good homes for them. With a heavy heart, my mother-in-law agreed.

“Why don’t I drive the dogs over? I can be there in four hours,” I volunteered when I overheard Alessandro discussing plans to have them shipped by an animal transport company.

“Are you sure you don’t mind?” he asked.

“Not at all — it’s the least I can do.”

The next afternoon, I was on my way to the seaside village of Sestri Levante, on Italy’s western coast, with two long-haired “teacup Chihuahuas” tucked into their travel carrier.

I tried not to dwell on the guilt of not volunteering to adopt them myself — though, with my erratic travel schedule and my secret dislike for this trembly breed (who wouldn’t stand a chance against an average house cat - let alone bearing no resemblance their wolf ancestors), I knew it wasn’t realistic.

A few hours later, I arrived at the loveliest dog shelter I’d ever seen — complete with a sea view. My mother-in-law’s friend Anna reassured me that she’d take care of the dogs for a few months, just in case her friend’s health improved and she wanted them back.

Guilt assuaged, I drove toward the shore, bathed in the soft pink and orange of the setting sun.

After checking into my hotel, I went for a walk just as dusk was fading.

Sestri Levante sits on a tiny knuckle of land across the bay from Portofino — only a few blocks wide, forested with ancient palms and Mediterranean pines. The sherbet-colored hotels and villas appeared as though unchanged for centuries.

Without summer crowds, the central boulevard was nearly empty as the streetlights flickered on.

“Maybe I’ll skip dinner,” I thought. “I’m not really hungry, plus it’s no fun eating alone.”

I wandered past cafés, bars, and restaurants, all charming in their own way. But one caught my attention — a little osteria that made me think, If I were to eat somewhere, it would be here.

Two hours later, after exploring every street and alley, I found myself standing in front of that same little osteria again.

I’ve gotten better at spotting hidden gems over the years — the kind only locals know about. This place had that look: soft lighting, buttercream walls, rustic wooden tables. I’d worked up an appetite.

A more research-oriented traveler might have pulled out their phone and looked up reviews for L’Osteria Mattana.

Not me.

That takes the fun out of it — like finding out a baby’s gender before it’s born.

Once inside, a waiter asked how many guests were in my party.

“Solo io,” I said — just me.

Then he asked if I’d like to sit in the front or the back.

Believing the best things are always hidden in the back of any establishment, I said, “Sul retro.”

I followed him past the wood-fired pizza oven and several smiling waiters. I could almost hear them guessing what language this foreigner was going to speak. The usual guess for me in Italy is “Tedesco” — German.

When we reached the larger back room, I was pleased to see several empty tables.

“You may sit at any of these three tables,” the waiter said, gesturing toward three tables already occupied by patrons happily eating and chatting.

None of those tables had a sign posted that read, Join us! We’re just dying to have a stranger ruin the mood at our table.

There it was again — that familiar fight-or-flight instinct.

It wasn’t too late to bolt.

Sitting at someone else’s table feels as intrusive as walking uninvited into a stranger’s house at dinner time and pulling up a chair.

“I knew I should have skipped dinner,” I thought.

I stood frozen in the middle of the restaurant, calculating which table might be least annoyed by an unexpected guest.

The group of four sixty-something women? They’d probably be gracious, but what if this was “ladies’ night out”? The last thing they’d want was a man at their table. Too awkward.

The young couple on a date? Although there was plenty of room at their table - absolutely not. I refused to be a creepy third wheel.

That left the family in the far corner — a father, mother, and daughter halfway through their meal. Four chairs remained at their seven-seat table. I could sit at the opposite end, with one empty chair between us as a polite buffer.

Several patrons had noticed the foreigner standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. Was he going to make an announcement or sit down?

I took a breath and walked toward the family table.

“Scusi, posso?” I asked, gesturing toward one of the chairs.

“Sì sì, certo. Prego!” they said warmly.

“Grazie mille,” I replied, taking my seat.

The daughter — maybe eight or nine with bright, intelligent eyes — studied me curiously. She had beautiful olive skin and a set of teeth she was still growing into, giving her the most endearing smile.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her whisper to her father, probably noting that I couldn’t read the Italian menu on the far wall. (In truth, I could — barely. White chalk on a gray-black board isn’t easy to read from across the room.)

Beside the menu hung another sign, in four languages, that stated: “Unattended Children Will Be Sold As Slaves.”

I decided on pasta with pesto — fitting, since pesto was invented in this region over 500 years ago. I noticed some grilled eggplant and peppers on nearby tables that looked perfect to go with it.

When the waiter came, I ordered the pasta, the vegetables, and a quarter-liter of white wine. This might turn out to be a pleasant dinner after all.

The little girl kept watching me as I ordered. She and her parents, no doubt, had picked up on my not-quite-Italian accent.

“Are you German?” the mother asked in perfect English, with a gentle British lilt.

“California, actually. Though my ancestors were Swiss and Norwegian,” I said.

“Oh, you’re American!” said the father, delighted.

For the next twenty minutes, the four of us chatted so animatedly that nearby tables turned to look.

He was from the region of Trentino, Italy — hence the fair skin and blue eyes. She was from southern India — warm, elegant, and radiant. Their daughter, born in their new home city of Salzburg, Austria, was the perfect blend of them both.

I was under their spell.

My roasted vegetables arrived as the conversation deepened. They asked about me — how I’d ended up living in the Prosecco Hills of Veneto.

When I mentioned Conegliano, they lit up. “We’ve been there! It’s a fabulous city!”

“Do you remember Conegliano, Gaia?” the mother asked her daughter.

“I think so. Is that the place with the red chickens?” she said.

“You might be confusing that with another city,” her mother laughed.

“Maybe there are some red chickens in Conegliano,” I said, just as my plate bowl of reginelle al pesto arrived — varnished in the brightest, greenest pesto sauce I’ve ever seen.

“May I sketch you?” Gaia asked, pen poised over her brown paper placemat.

“Of course, as long as you make me look skinny,” I winked, generously dusting my pasta with Parmigiano Reggiano cheese.

“I want to hear how the two of you met and ended up together. That must be a great story,” I said before taking my first bite.

The pasta, cooked to al dente perfection, with its ruffled edges clinging to that glorious pesto sauce, was one of the most exquisite things I’ve ever tasted.

But as wonderful as it was, I was even more riveted by the unlikely love story Nolita and Egon were recounting to me.

Years ago, Egon had worked for a company in a small Indian village. The experience was so frustrating that as his plane took off for Italy, he looked out the plane’s window and swore, “India, you will never see me again!”

A few years later, in Salzburg, he met a beautiful Indian woman.

“Where are you from in India?” he asked.

“It’s a tiny village no one’s ever heard of,” she said.

It was, impossibly, the same village that had made him swear off India for all eternity.

Now, the two of them — and their daughter — were living happily in Austria, visiting India and Italy regularly.

As they talked, I had all but forgotten about my pasta.

“I just overheard a concerned Italian at the next table say, ‘They’re not letting him eat — his pasta’s cold and ruined,’” Nolita said with a grin.

“Oh, I’m much more interested in your story,” I replied. “Besides, I’m American. We’re used to eating cold food.”

Gaia handed me her finished rendering — not just a portrait, but a comic strip scene. It featured herself, her parents, my pasta, and a note that read:

‘Cool People’ (with arrows pointing to her family), ‘Pasta al Pesto - with Cheese,’ and ‘For Nathan, by Gaia. Come to Salzburg soon.’

She’d even included the pattern of my houndstooth jacket and generously given me a nice, skinny neckline.

I can honestly say, I’ve never received anything more touching.

“If you want to know the best beach for collecting sea glass, I can tell you,” Gaia said.

“Oh, yes, please. I would love that,” I said, trying to recall the last time I had held a piece of sea glass.

After getting directions from Gaia and her parents, and following each other on Instagram, we said our farewells — handshakes and Italian kisses all around.

When they left, I sat back down to my cold plate of pasta.

Never before had cold pasta tasted so good.

The next morning, I drove up the coast to the city of Camogli.

And, just as Gaia had described, the beach was a treasure trove of sea glass. It was a beautiful day with big fluffy white clouds set against a blue October sky.

As I was collecting the sea glass, I discovered that, mixed into the black pebble beach, were some of the most beautiful green stones I have ever seen - in a myriad of colors and shades.

Jade, turquoise, moss, avocado, and lime green. Some were striped, some were smooth, and others were textured and speckled.

I couldn’t help myself.

For the next 2 hours, I walked that beach, filling my pocket with green stones and green sea glass of all shapes and sizes. It was meditative, it was soothing, and it was exactly what I needed.

Before I knew it, my jacket pocket was at capacity.

I needed something special to bring them home in — something worthy of their story.

I wandered through the seaside, village perched on rugged cliffs, and stopped for the world’s most amazing focaccia at the spot Gaia’s parents had recommended. The main street was lively — it was market day.

After buying some dried peaches and pears, I came upon a woodworker’s booth selling hand-carved olive-wood bowls for eight euros.

Perfect.

I picked a gnarly bowl with dark knots and a burled grain. The vendor watched perplexed as I filled it with my green stones and sea glass.

The colors looked beautiful against the whiskey-colored wood.

But my pocket was still half full.

“Do you have any larger bowls?” I asked.

She laughed and helped me look. None were bigger.

“I’ll take two, then,” I said, filling a second bowl with the remaining stones.

She wrapped both bowls — still full of stones — in brown paper and taped them carefully before placing them in a bag.

For the rest of my life, every time I look at those green stones and sea glass, I’ll think of Gaia, Nolita, and Egon — a plate of cold pasta, and that very warm table.

Our limited dates for September and October 2026 are booking up. You may email us at: info@allroadsleadtoitaly.com for details and availability.

Here’s a look back at our October retreat in Lucca, Tuscany…