After visiting my friend who’s in a hospice unit of a cool rehab hospital on the Swiss side of the border, I was too late for my 20h00 rez at the nearest great resto (Amaryllis) to my hotel (“No, John, you ate near your hotel, after all you've written about venturing far and wide to eat.” Yes, it’s true. I confess without torture.)
So off I trudged in the -2⁰ sleet-hail-rain-snow-high wind storm for O Sole Mio, 5 minutes away – sure, it was unfindable and all the drivers I hailed to help me, a white-haired old guy, quickly sped past, afraid apparently of a tall Yankee with a hooded Land’s End winter coat (at least I had anticipated the ghastly weather and brought it.) So finally I stumbled on a hotel and asked directions and was told it was closed, “why not eat at Il Vesuvio, right next door? Well, why not?”
And it was just what the doctor (me, not my friend’s) doctor ordered. Traditionally, while waiting for a pizza I have a plain green salad and this was fresh, with varied lettuces, none with brown ends, and a fine balsamic and EVOO dressing and the usual Italian bread, hey, we’re 60 miles from Italy after all.
For my pizza I had a spicy salami called Diavola and it was indeed, so much so that I didn’t use the very hot pepper buds in olive oil offered. Its crust was not crispy like I like but that’s partly my fault because after seeing several come out pallid, I should have said, “hey I’m from the Original Ray’s and I wan’it crisp.”
My bill, with 5 deciliters aka 50 centiliters (why the Swiss and French just over the border do this trick on your mind, is beyond me, but who am I to complain about cultural differences?) of red Nero Avola and the obligatory grappa but no San Pelligrino, was 32 E.
