Today, 29th June 2020, is the 100th day of  Lockdown in the UK.

Restaurants in England will be allowed to re-open their doors from 4th July.

I find myself looking further back to what I think is one of the most singular dining experiences of my life.

In 2012 I was travelling alone on an exploration of Piemonte and the vineyards of Barolo. I had been unable to book a hotel in Turin for the first night of my trip, and found myself in a village in the hills overlooking the city, only ten minutes by cab from the city centre.

 

 

 

I had found an inexpensive hotel, ‘La Magnolia’, with quirky, purple 1970’s decor, an elderly proprietor, and the largest, furriest cat I think I have ever seen.

There was a restaurant in the village, and the hotel owner booked me a table for dinner.

 

‘It’s a typical Piemontese restaurant’, he told me. “one word of advice: there is no written menu, and they will start to bring you food’.

 

‘Do not feel obliged to accept everything they bring…. or you will not make it to the end’.

 

I walked to the village square to Ristorante Tromlin, where I was shown to my table, laid for one. The interior was panelled with dark wood, and the gingham tablecloths were typical of simple restaurants in Piemonte, red and white being the colours of the Kings of Savoy who once ruled there.

 

 

 

 

Grissini, the local breadsticks, were already on the table, of course, along with a big basket of perfectly fresh raw vegetables, and some quails’ eggs.

And a bottle of Dolcetto, a simple red wine.

A smiling waiter brought a bowl of dressing for the vegetables. I thought I recognised a dish I had heard of, but never eaten.

“Bagna Càuda?” I asked.

Literally a ‘hot bath’ or warm dip of olive oil, wine vinegar, anchovies and garlic, usually served in autumn.

“No, bagna fresca”, he replied.

(It was May, so the ‘bath’ was served cold).

 

 

Then a few strips of Lardo came, silky pork fat cured with rosemary, and a string of  little salame on a wooden stand, which was left at the table to cut as much as I wanted, while taking in my surroundings and fellow diners.

A waitress (also the cook, as it turned out) brought slices of Fritatta Erbette, a vivid green herb omelette, and a bowl of Primo Sale, a fresh, slightly yogurty cheese, simply dressed with olive oil and black pepper, and a couple of perfect anchovy fillets with olive oil, parsley, and a whisper of chilli.

 

By this time, I realised that the 20 or so diners in the room were eating exactly the same menu as me, at the same time, and drinking the same Dolcetto.

 

It epitomised the natural, sociable, Italian activity of Sunday evening dinner with friends and family. Very small children were drinking water with their meals, not sugary drinks, and were still perfectly behaved at 11pm.

A young blonde woman and (I assumed) her sugar daddy popped out for cigarette breaks between the many courses.

Two or three choices of pasta were offered from a trolley “or would you like some of each?”

There were two meat dishes, little chunks of roast rabbit with shredded green lettuce, or thinly sliced roast pork.

 

 

 

 

The wine, Dolcetto Monferrato 2010, is a simple, plummy red. You could drink as much of it as you wanted.

 

The meal finished with slices of sharp apple in fritters, dusted with sugar and served with a hot cherry marmellata.

 

 

 

 

 

The food was simple, fresh and generous, and dinner had been a life-affirming experience. By the end of the evening it had become my ambition to return and share it with friends. 

 

I was able to achieve this in 2016 with a diverse group of UK delegates from the Slow Food festival in Turin: four chefs, a farmer of rare breed pigs, a cheese producer, students from the University of Gastronomy, and a representative of London’s Borough Market.

 

We worked out how to split the bill over coffee, grappa and liqueurs.

 

It was easy; 38 euros each, for everything, drinks included. Cash only.

 

Ristorante TROMLIN, Via della Parrocchia 7, 10133 Torino. Tel 011/6613050