The Song of the Italian Sea
Sometime in late May the shining
sun announces that spring has started to slide into summer in the
Lunigiana, a region in northwestern Italy that straddles the border
between Tuscany and Liguria. This geographically diverse area that I
have called home since 2007 is at its best in that glorious shoulder
season when secrets can be unearthed both up in the mountains and down
by the sea.
On that first warm obligation-free morning, faded
beach towels are shaken clean of last summer’s sand and tossed in the
back seat of my aging Volkswagen. With the car’s windows down and
sunroof open, my husband navigates the short but winding drive along the
eastern coast of the Gulf of La Spezia. Known as the Golfo dei Poeti
because centuries of writers have sought inspiration in the area’s
natural beauty, this rugged coastline has dozens of inlets and sandy
beaches tucked among pastel-painted fishing villages.
One
particularly beautiful stretch boasts a sandy crescent behind San
Terenzo’s castle, perfect rows of blue umbrellas lining Venere Azzurra
beach, and giant rocks that locals use as sun beds along the promenade
in Lerici. But for me, the most special spot for sun-musing, the one I
mention to friends only in a whisper, is Eco del Mare.
A secluded cove cradled by enormous cliffs, Eco del Mare
is a beach club whose exclusivity seems destined by nature. In high
season, reservations for the sun beds situated far below the snaking
road are hard to come by and prices spike. But before the preening
tourists arrive from Milan and Moscow, there are still oversize beanbag
chairs to rent, including one each for my husband and me under a large
white umbrella with billowing curtains for a touch of privacy. It feels
like our own private beach hut, just steps from the azure water, where
the seaside soundtrack includes no buzzing motorboat engines, no radios
blasting Italian pop music and no teenage gossip wafting from a nearby
towel — it’s just the sound of the lapping waves echoing off the cliffs,
l’eco del mare. 
When the daylight fades in the Lunigiana, the secret is to migrate into the nearby mountains. Ristorante Emili
is situated so deep in the foothills that even my GPS gets lost
navigating the endless switchbacks. But the arduous drive is instantly
forgotten when you’re seated at a table on the outdoor terrace
overlooking rolling hills thick with vegetation. And then comes the
sgabei.
Unique to the territory, sgabei are salty pillows of
fried dough that are typically served with a platter of local meats and
cheeses. At Emili, a heaping basket of still-steaming sgabei arrives
alongside fresh stracchino cheese, paper-thin prosciutto crudo and
buttery lardo di Colonnata, among other delicacies. The multicourse meal
will continue with other only-in-Lunigiana dishes, such as testaroli, a
crepelike pasta that gets a liberal dollop of fragrant fresh pesto. But
the first bite of sgabei makes a convincing case that the best-kept
secrets of the Lunigiana are the unheralded culinary traditions of this
ancient territory nestled between the mountains and the sea.
