The Pasta Dish That Made Me Cry
I never thought noodles would be my undoing
Just outside of Peschici, Italy, down a winding road that dead-ends into the sea, sits a small, unassuming restaurant perched on the shoreline. Quiet bossanova plays as diners enjoy their aperitivo at tables overlooking the water. Red and white buoys-turned-lanterns lend a muted glow to an already magical scene. This is Al Trabucco da Mimí, a destination restaurant that, in my opinion, more than lives up to its name.
I visited Al Trabucco with my parents during a recent family trip to Italy. I had read about the restaurant in my pre-trip research and wanted to see what the fuss was about. The restaurant is named for the traditional fishing platforms that dot the coastline in the area. Most of the seafood served at Al Trabucco da Mimí is caught onsite at the family’s own trabucco, which is adjacent to the restaurant.
When we dined at Al Trabucco, we had been in Italy for close to one week. We had enjoyed sensational meals and were looking forward to another great dining experience. We were not disappointed. I won’t list each antipasto, primo, and secondo that we ordered, though they deserve their own descriptions. No, this piece is an ode to one dish: troccoli bruciati.
I grew up in an Italian-American home with two excellent cooks for parents and a gourmet home chef for a grandmother. I like to think I know good pasta. When the troccoli I had ordered as a primo arrived at our table, I knew I had chosen correctly. The fresh pasta was made-to-order and cooked to perfection. It was “bruciati,” which, in Italian, means “burned.” In dishes like this, pasta is cooked directly in a pan. Tomato sauce and water are added gradually as the pasta absorbs the liquid, which creates a unique texture that is both crispy and chewy. The pasta in my dish was complemented by sweet, charred tomatoes that were perfectly balanced by rich cream made from caciocavallo, a local cow’s milk cheese. Spicy olive oil provided just the right touch of heat while allowing the other flavors of the dish to shine through.
When I took my first thoughtful bite of troccoli, my eyes widened. In a lifetime of excellent home-cooked Italian meals, this was the best pasta I had ever tasted. Much to my surprise (and embarrassment), my eyes welled with tears. I couldn’t believe how lucky I was to be eating this food, with these people, in this place, at this time. My gratitude was overwhelming. I ate the rest of the dish as slowly as I could, savoring every morsel. I was in Italy, eating one of the greatest meals of my life, with two of the people I love most in this world. It doesn’t get much better than that.
I had many exceptional meals throughout the remainder of our trip, but nothing moved me quite like my troccoli bruciati. I will remember the smell and taste of that dish for the rest of my life, not only because it was outstanding, but because I ate it with my family on a once-in-a-lifetime trip. I will hold the memory of talking and laughing with my mother and father as the sun slipped below the horizon, enjoying their company over a leisurely three-hour meal. Yes, I cried over a bowl of pasta, but maybe that’s the goal— finding gifts in the smallest moments. Food is powerful. It connects us to each other, to place, to the past, to the present. For me, it sparks mindfulness, which I will continue to cultivate whether I’m in a fancy restaurant in Italy or in my home kitchen. Maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll stumble upon another meal — another moment — that moves me to tears.
