My latest Italian adventure took me to Italy's Adriatic coast during the summer holidays where I enjoyed the blue flag status endowed by Le Marche's beaches. It was definitely 'locals only' with Sundek swimwear and sun-o-visions marinating in the sun (there were one or two with Dolce and Gabbana swimwear and a couple of male peacocks); no sign of Germans pilfering sun loungers or Brits doing their best impersonations of lobsters. Of course, all of that was a side attraction to the gustatory gastr-orgasms that followed.
On the first night, I experienced a family BBQ by the beach, Italian style. How different it is to American BBQs. No hideous camping chairs were in sight; the BBQ was a little charcoal filled, carbon smothered metal box thing with sprawling legs. The warm air was punctuated with gossip, oral frivolities and kids wanting to be the next Divine Ponytail. On the BBQ, the meat is sandwiched between two grills and BBQed quite hard. This Italian BBQ was more like a Fiat 500 than a Dodge Silverado. The meat is prepared as chunks and thinly cut slices rather than big American muscle steaks. One thing that I particularly remember was the arrosticini, which were chunks of skewered mutton. I don't think I have ever had BBQed mutton. This stuff was extremely strong, perhaps a bit too strong for my palate Inglese. Luckily the customary ice cream that later followed was like taking a shower under a waterfall on a hot sticky day. I deviated from my usual and went for something fruity. I think I died and woke up as a Mancunian on Sunday afternoon because I had my Edin the clouds with this gelato. There must have been at least a hatrick of gusti in my cone with each flavour tingling their distinct subsets of taste buds to a chorus of Tutti Frutti.
Chez Rita
For the next couple of meals over the following days I indulged myself in some summer defining home made genuine organic vegetables. The highlight was the roasted tomatoes with breadcrumbs. The tomatoes were of such a deep red colour, one would think they got severe sunburn basking in the sun. Each one was as sweet as a Wayne Rooney free kick - beautiful and devastating.
Some more home made gastronomic artistry included tagliatelle with seafood, courgettes with melted mozzeralla in tomato sauce and fried seafood. How can something so simple be so good? More importantly, why can't I make it? The seafood tagliatelle was an amalgamation of Neptune's greatest with Romulus' and Remus' finest. Egg tagliatelle with a seafood medley, vegetable patch sourced cherry tomatoes, some onions and stock and a sprinkle of parsley- all tossed together to form a Neptunian-Roman cosmopolitan. The trick to eating this masterpiece is to be the last person to be served as all the juices are at the bottom.
Fried seafood is a special favourite. 1.7 kg of seafood - calamari, octopus, herring, prawns and these small cod things all gently massaged in nothing but flour before being crucified in an ocean of hot oil for our palatable pleasure. Squirt on a bit of lemon, be careful not to singe your finger tips, and tuck in. Fantastic!
The courgettes with tomato sauce was a pleasant surprise. The thin slices of courgette with a layer of melted mozzarella, which shared a sun lounger with the tomatoes in the vegetable patch, wallowed happily in the maritime home made tomato sauce. Bland yet so innocently massaged the palate Ingelese.
Eating out
Onto the eateries with their enticing versions of classics. No doubt the highlight of highlights has to the pizza at Michele Da Ale in Senagallia. After cruising along the endless beach front with the swollen red sun slowly lurking behind the Adriatic Sea we parked up and rocked up to the Pizzeria. 'Orsini' was the password and we were shown to our table on the patio. It was all about the pizza served in half metre or one metre slabs. We all chose one type and then shared. I ordered the Brezza (rocket, flakes of parmesan cheese, mozzarella - all freshly sprinkled like a sprinkle of youth - with a pomodori base). I thought I made
the correct choice until I tried the Margherita and Bufalina. I think the pizzas were as good as, if not better, than le pizze at Formula Uno, Roma. Served on a rectangular wooden board probably more hallowed than Sachin Tendulkar's cricket bat, the crust was slightly thicker than that of The Eternal City's but was fluffy like a Moncler jacket. The Bufelina (with mozzarella di bufalo) was out of this world. The mozzerella di bufalo, which was shredded and tossed on before being served, added a smooth dairy-ness that propelled this pizza into near orbit stardom. The Margherita was no Usain Bolt and did not disappoint. Probably the best Margherita pizza I have had the pleasure to lay my gnashers into. This experience at Michele Da Ale was as thrilling as transfer deadline day.
The ice cream at the start of the blog was from Pelacani Gelataria. The gelataria and yogurtaria itself was a little bizarre. It was ultra modern with white furnishings with more right angles than hypotenuse, and somehow they managed to make neon lighting look quite chic. All this was plonked in a rather rustic beach town (at least the amazingly stark contrast made the town seem rustic). At the BBQ I had a medley of fruit so this time I had my standard pistacchio e nociola. The pistacchio was earthy and deep while the nociola was more subtle. It was alright. Nothing special. Not as good as the fruit flavours. I did, however, taste the coconut ice cream. Now this was something special. It conjured up the romantic image of how I thought eating coconut was meant to be: like eating a Bounty on Blackpool Beach after a kebab and a punch up. What I find fascinating is that at no time was an ice cream scoop used. Large spoons were used to compile my mildly chaotic medley of mellifluous edible emotional compositions. A metaphor of Italy, perhaps?
The Ho Down says: mmmmm buonissimo!
After persuading G-Force to do it English style, I ordered the chicken vindaloo and G-Force the chicken biryani. After engaging in some prepradial banter about how the England cricket team made chutney out of the Indians to be the number one Test team in il mundo, we were served our respective dishes. I could instantly tell that my vindaloo had more tomato than a Heinz factory as the aroma wafted into my nostrils. I was worried with my first bite. Outside I was as cool as a cucumber ready to neutralise any capsaicin induced defaulting, but inside I was sweating like a rogue UBS banker on Facebook. I was relieved and also disappointed. The heat did not even touch the sides. There was more heat from an X-Factor panel than from this limp vindaloo. It was more tomato soup than a New Dheli (belly) cleanser. The lentils that came with it was amazing though. Creamy but rough with just enough magic Indian spice to make it IPL rather than Friends Provident t20. The Force's biryani was the standout. Just looking at it made me lust for it like an alleged sober rugby player and a blonde 'family friend'. This was biryani at its best. Not overly dry but not sloppy like an Arsenal back four. It had a superstar quality like an Indian batting line up except that this did not disappoint. The caramalised onion juxtaposed the bland almost generic spiciness with a dash of electricity to raise this biryani to the next level. 
