Barolo

Italian wine has always been a closed book to me, although god knows I've drunk enough of the stuff to pickle a Brontosaurus. Valpolicella, Soave, Chianti, Montepulciano d'Abruzzo, Orvieto: these are names that speak to me of sunshine and warmth but as to the distinctions among them, I am clueless. Driving recently across the ancient plain of Piedmonte I grasped for the first time why the cuisine and wine of Italy is so diverse. Here and there a limestone hill stood proud of the plain and its flanks were invariably cloaked with vineyards. It suddenly became obvious that great wine could only be made on these rare, sun-washed slopes, the luckless flatlands being restricted to the cultivation of maize and vegetables.

I was heading for Alba, hoping to find a fat truffle for my supper, when I passed a road sign for Barolo. Executing a swift and dangerous handbrake turn, I negotiated my way down a series of switchbacks into the village. Arriving in the center of town, all was quiet. I was tired and really didn't want to get back on the road, so I approached a hotel that was obviously closed but which showed signs of life within. A woman was sweeping detritus from the kitchen floor out into the street and I asked her, in English, whether there was any possibility I might have a room for the night. From within the proprietor, having overheard our conversation, emerged and replied: "Why not? Come in! Would you like to eat too?"

Eating was very much on my agenda and so, having dragged my luggage up to a top floor room, following the bewitchingly wiggling bum of the maid, I returned post haste to the restaurant. Obviously, I was the only customer but an elderly man was watching a football match on the television in one corner. He nodded politely as I took my seat and returned to his viewing. The proprietor emerged from the kitchen and placed before me a bottle of Barolo, a carafe of water and some slices of salami. He handed me a menu, which we discussed briefly, and I ordered Bagna Cauda with raw vegetables and a local species of pasta, the name of which I didn't write down. If I tell you that Bagna Cauda tastes of rotting fish I would not be lying but neither would I do it justice. It was one of the most memorable and enjoyable meals of my life, the more so for being unexpected.

As I was transferring the last fragments of pasta from the plate into my mouth, the innkeeper's daughter came into the room and approached my table. "What did you have?" she asked, in flawless English. Over the next fifteen minutes or so we established that I had eaten extremely well and that her English had been learned at a boarding school in this country, from which she was expelled after a three month tenure for smoking weed. Then she left, as did the rest of the staff, and I was alone.

The following morning, when I came to check out, the same daughter took my payment. "I'm sorry we were not more hospitable." She said. "It's just that we lost my grandmother last night. Next time, we'll be 'cha, cha, cha!'" I was speechless. I do not think that in all my travels I have ever encountered such graceful hospitality elsewhere.