GAY & LESBIAN TRAVEL STORIES

Italy Foodie Tour

Day 1

The Italian Riviera

"Lo posso assaggiare? Lo po-so ah-sah-jah-re?" I said it over and over again as we raced down the Autostrada. Roughly translated, it means, "May I taste it?" I later discovered this

phrase's power on my 10-day Italian journey, and learned that asking for a sample nosh of formaggio or gelato was not asking for a handout, but rather a way of showing your respect for food (and thus yourself, since the two are inextricably linked in Italian culture). Lo posso assaggiare was my password to Italian cuisine and I was saying it as much for me as I was my father, who continued to drive us along the corkscrew highways of the Ligurian Rivera with nothing but Mediterranean to our east and dense porcini-and truffle-filled mountains to our west.

It's October and I'm here in Italy in search of food. Instead of coming with my boyfriend who couldn't escape the rat race back in New York, I'm traveling with my 66-year-old dad, a former Fanny Farmer-trained chef from Boston's North Shore, and now my fellow road-chowhound and driver. Earlier this morning we flew into Nice from Scotland and the warmth of Riviera sun felt great once we shed our wool sweaters. We paid a mint for the rental car because we planned to take it across the France-Italy border. But once on the road, we didn't care, because we were darting around the same Monaco highways where Princess Grace crashed her Rover P6 in 1982-something that any father and gay son could agree was tragic. We crossed the Italian border without ceremony and quickly passed through the infamous and tattered Italian border towns of Ventimiglia and Bordighera.

The two most important rules when learning to speak Italian are: Gesture a lot and always stress the second to last syllable of any given word. "Arr-iv-a-der-ci!" purred the sexy voice in the automated tolls along the Autostrada. Sadly, this was our first encounter with the language, but it was enthusiastic, infectious, and sung like a song.

We were en route to the sea-swept town of Alassio, a famous 19th century resort just two hours south from the Piemonte region's town of Bra where the "Slow Food" movement began. The roads here abounded with signs for Agriturismo, working farms and B&Bs where you can experience family-style meals or daily farm chores. Agritourism in Italy is a big business and an excellent way to get off the beaten paths to experience authentic regional cuisine, though dad wasn't as excited about the prospect of gathering eggs and meeting hot Italian farmers as I was. There are a few gay-owned farm-stays (namely Il Galla Rosso), but I thought it was best to ease us into Italy before wrapping ourselves in the Rainbow Flag, which incidentally is strikingly similar to the Italian peace (Pace) flag flown above many of the area's farms.

Though many still come to Alassio for its stretch of bright white beaches, we were in search of something very dark: A regional specialty called baci (kisses), made from two chocolate cookie whirls sandwiched together with cocoa cream. They were everywhere, but the ones at Antico Caffé Della Pasticceria (Balzola, Piazza Matteotti 26, Alassio; tel. O1-82-64O-2O9) really stood out. After a quick nibble and a walk around the tiny town, we checked into Danio Lungomare (Via Roma 23, Alassio; $110 per night; hotel Danio Lungomare), a mother-and-son run property that offered breathtaking balcony ocean-views and an adjacent restaurant that filled to capacity with older locals enjoying dinner. We opted instead to dine al fresco just 20 feet from the ocean at Restaurant Bar Marina (Via Brennero 39, Alassio; tel. 01-82-644-489) where a flirty English-speaking waiter immediately brought us farinata (chickpea flour flatbread cooked on a woodfire), and dark bitterless olives. I ordered grilled octopus in white wine and dad ordered a pesto dish, a regional specialty in these parts. By 10pm the patio filled with young weekenders. We downed a few bottles-a white Cinque Terre and a rich velvety red Ormeasco, both local Ligurian wines. Afterwards we began a drunken hunt for the perfect gelati. Even at 11pm, the town's gelatarias were buzzing with tourists, but after much browsing and a couple of "Lo posso assaggiare's" I settled on artigianale (homemade) zabaglione (egg yolk and Marsala wine) gelato, while Dad opted for pesca (peach) at Antica Gelateria Artigianale Giacomel (Via Mazzini 67, Alassio; tel. O1-82/-64O-474).