We have been invited to Naso di Gatto by my mother’s friend Olivia who has recently set up a small summer home there. She tells us all about it all the time, that it’s such a wonderful place, she’s very excited to show it to us and we’re interested in seeing it. The little excursion has turned into an extravaganza that includes my aunt and Paolo, and now Ginevra is going as well. The average age of the party excluding me and George is in the mid-70s.
We have to pick Ginevra and Paolo up along the way. I speak to Ginevra on the phone and I tell her we’ll stop by her house. She says, “No, no, I will wait for you on the Aurelia, where the Conad supermarket used to be.” Funny enough, I actually know where that is. I assure her I don’t mind driving the extra 200 meters up the hill to pick her up at her door but she will not be budged. I don’t get this at all, but fine. Sure enough, she is there waiting for us and gets in the car.
Then we have to pick up Paolo, and my aunt had suggested we pick him up at the Torretta—nowhere near his apartment building. I proposed that we pick him up at his apartment building instead, and she agreed that mine was a better plan. I speak to him on the phone and I tell him we’ll ring the intercom when we get there, and he can come downstairs. He says, “No, no, I will wait for you downstairs in the street.” You know what? Fine. I don’t get it, but sure enough, he is there waiting for us and gets in the car.
I tell him he will have to direct me now, I’m counting on him to get us there because we believe as a group that he is the one who knows where it is. And he does. If we did need directions, they would be, “Drive to the Santuario, and then keep going straight.” Thank goodness we don’t need them.
We drive inland, which means we drive uphill. Way uphill, with many hairpin turns. Naso di Gatto is at 700 meters—2,000 feet—and that’s what makes it pleasantly cool in the summer. It’s a pass, the high point on the road, it’s surrounded by woods. We get there, after all the climbing and all the hairpin turns and all the anticipation. And what it consists of is the road itself, wide at this spot, plus along the road I count three buildings and a chicken coop. That’s it.
We park randomly on the side of the road, the only place in Liguria with all the parking you wish for. Olivia runs out to greet us, she appears immediately out of nowhere. She is so excited to see us. We walk with her to the side of one of the buildings, under a pergola, a grape arbor, a wide one. The structure of the arbor is metal, with a pole in the middle, about 20 feet wide, quite large, and shady from the vines. Underneath the arbor are tables and chairs.
Past the arbor is Olivia’s place—a small and meticulously planned apartment on the ground floor, accessible directly from the outside. Paolo remarks on the solid door with multiple bolts, and George loves the anti-fly curtain consisting of strings of pompons. He will play with this throughout the visit, the highlight of the trip for him, though for him too, this place is soothing and pleasant—there’s nothing to do, but he doesn’t complain.
Olivia is famously friends with an architect, and he helped her fix up the apartment and decorate it. The main room has a long wooden table, a brand new but old-fashioned stove and a light gray marble sink like my grandmother had in her apartment. It’s very nice and I can see why she loves it here, with the cozy apartment and the grape arbor outdoors.
Olivia explained to us that this is an old place, associated with her family. She has relatives in the same building, next door to her. In the old days this was a dormitory for hunters who used to come up from Savona. It’s a completely unknown little gem, even the locals don’t know about it—there’s nothing here but it’s special, and it is cooler. Only Paolo among us had been here before, he used to come up on Sunday drives with his wife and their dog.
After the tour of the indoors we return outside, where Olivia has prepared some specialties. She has pieces of focaccia topped with chunks of lard. I love focaccia but the lard I could do without, but I eat it—I eat the lard in one gulp. She also made apple slices caked in dough and fried. These are delicious and they have their own lore, as all food tends to do. They should be made with mele renette, these may not be renette, but Paolo’s scarfing them, so evidently they will do. She also serves a salad and fruit salad and wine and dessert. We sit under the grape arbor, eating fried apples, it’s lovely.
The tables and chairs under the arbor are communal, for the whole building. Some of the other residents are sitting a few feet away and occasionally we make small talk with them, but only at that distance and infrequently. Just enough to stay on good terms, not enough to get friendly. And we don’t invite them to join in the feast. That’s the protocol clearly, they’re not sitting there saying they can’t believe we’re not inviting them to join us. They could be saving it for later but I don’t think so.
Later Olivia’s relatives come by and she introduces us. Clearly they enjoy each other’s company up here. This is what they do, they hang out, the weather is cool, and they chat and play cards. What else can one want?
