Lunch at Buca di San Antonio

The tuxedo-clad waiter at Buca di Sant’Antonio glides from table to table taking orders, murmuring appreciation of selections.  Younger men in black pants, black vest, and white shirts deliver food.  This seems a place of special occasions.  We are here, and for me, that is celebration and occasion enough.

White cloths cover rows of intimate tables; enormous copper pots hang from rough-hewn, broad-beamed rafters.  Stuccoed walls are awash in pristine white.  Mike warns me we are having pasta tonight and to order accordingly.  Tiny ghostly faces dot the menu, symbolizing local specialties, warning the novice away.  Because of this counsel, I shun the lamb chop that had originally attracted me.

Everyone around us is speaking English — not all the American version.  We overhear snippets of conversation.  “Are you happy?  You said you didn’t want pizza again.”  Later we hear, “We’re eating here and you want Bolognese sauce?”  I understand the incredulity.

Buca di San Antonio is the top-rated restaurant in Lucca — recommended by EVERYONE!  The ambiance alone would keep me coming back.  The food works too.

Our Vino Rosso is from Fubbanio, Colline Luchesse, fast becoming one of our favorites. We share a lovely puff pastry tart made from ricotta and leeks, sitting in a pool of chickpea sauce.  Michael is happy to find cabrito on the menu and orders without hesitation.  I see a grilled veal chop and am hooked. We share a rich dessert of sliced semifreddo encased in pastry sitting in a pool of dark chocolate. Mike drinks double espresso.   I sip vin santo. We are spoiled.

A Trip to the Train Station

Leaving the lovely world of Buca di Sant’Antonio we wind our way through the old town toward the twisted passage inside the ancient wall that surrounds the town.

Emerging from the dimly-lit tunnel we head to the train station, purchasing tickets for our excursion to Portovenere.

Walking almost three hours, going nowhere, looking for nothing, working off all the calories we consumed during lunch, we drag our bodies up the stairs of our apartment building and head for the Advil.

If we could only resist the culinary temptations surrounding us we would be wafer-thin.