ONE COIN IN A FOUNTAIN

CTHERE’S NO GETTING AROUND IT — TOURISM INVOLVES GETTING RIPPED OFF

iao. Chow. Italy sits at the top of the list of my favourite destinations because of the cultural heritage, the architecture, the beautiful people, the sensory barrage — and the food. Food is seldom my reason for travelling, but looking back at those nervy airport moments waiting for flights it’s no coincidence that all the countries I’ve enjoyed visiting the most — like Italy, India and Jordan — have formidable gastronomic reputations.

There’s no getting around it — tourism involves getting ripped off. It happens in every place where freshly exchanged currency is slapped down on tables. During my first trip, my early forays into Italian cuisine were abject failures — a desperate visit to a touristy pizza joint around the corner from my hotel in Rome, directly after checking in. Three-quarters of what tasted and looked like constituents of the ashen, unclad façade of the Colosseum landed in the hotel room bin.

A day later, after yet another uninspiring “continental” hotel breakfast, on a group bus trip to Pompeii, another inevitable tourist experience: the connected tour guide proposing that we all make a stop for lunch at a place he knows which is “very good”. Just à10 each.

“Very good” turned out to be a description of the profit the old man who ran the place knew he was making as he slopped overcooked pasta dotted stingily with the remains of a few tomatoes onto our plates and his henchmen charged us egregious prices for drinks — not included in the meal price, of course — which only seemed to come in litre bottles.

I was becoming despondent. Where was this Italian food everyone raves about? Where were the locals who guided Julia Roberts to Napolitan pizza that provided Orgasm Face in that godawful Eat, Pray, Love? Even Peroni bottles were boringly brown here. I was ignored completely by the waiting staff at a restaurant in Florence, forcing me into McDonald’s in desperation. The fantasy was elusive.

And then, in the most unlikely place, Italy began to deliver. Another group-bus ride into Siena, Tuscany, another walking tour from which I excused myself so I could explore alone, and another proposal to “have lunch together”. I steeled myself for more petty extortion as we piled onto benches under a tarpaulin on a pavement across from the Medici fort’s gardens. This was Tourist Central. Hope was cowed.

Crunchy, fresh salads, salumi, chianti — all in plentiful supply — followed by the simplest but most delicious gnocchi al pesto Genovese and the sort of coffee you can’t seem to find anywhere but Italy. I was full, I was satisfied, I’d had value for money: I had found my perfect Italian meal. A visit to a chianti wine farm later in the day, in a tasting room that reeked of sheep droppings, would provide the perfect cheese-and-wine ending to the day.

But there was more to come. The meal that topped it all was a chance stop, on my own, at another enclosed pavement restaurant around the corner from the Trevi Fountain on Christmas Day as I wound my way back to my hotel from yet another sightseeing marathon. A dish covered with enough cheese to hold the space shuttle together through re-entry.

It was mid-winter outside but under the red-and-white plastic awning, with my chair see-sawing on the uneven cobblestones of the piazza, there was warmth, animated conversation and a queue developing outside.

I was finally on the inside of the food fantasy, looking out.