Day 1
On our first day in Trieste, we struck out for a lavanderia across town (it turned out there was one a block from where we were staying [James Joyce Hotel. Never stay here... I was a sucker for the name; the hotel staff were less than helpful, especially when providing locations of various services such as lavaderias and internet cafes. The staff also believed their broken internet was Christ-like (they kept claiming it worked, and every time Amy went over to the computer and proved it didn't. Doubting Thomas?)]) with two plastic bags filled with wash (pretty romantic, eh?) to the neighborhood with the self-service lavanderia. After throwing the wash in, we went to the trattoria next door to have a beer. There was a loud gesticulating man hunched over a large plate of boiled shrimp voraciously consuming them and sending shells everywhere (we were the only people in the place; although it was Italian, the most immediate translation was: Vietnamese-place-in-the-Tenderloin-with-plastic-tablecloths-where-you-know-it-is-a-bad-idea-to-order-the-seven-course-beef). After a while, he called us over, introduced himself as Marino, owner and chef, and had the bartender pour us more beer. He went on to tell us about a book he was writing about exercise, that we could have stayed at his friend's house for less than what we were paying at the hotel, that we could visit his house in Croatia, and that it was a Miracle that Italy worked on any and all levels (in an immediate way, we had already seen infrastructure around Trieste that showed a very patched together approach... Some of the buildings reminded me of Gieger; they had corrugated plastic tubes half embedded in their sides and somewhat covered with stucco, erupting from below the surface randomly, carrying electrical wires, water, whatever).
Later that day, we were wandering the neighborhoods and while Amy was taking a gentleman’s photograph, we heard whistling and yelling up a street and it was Marino (we unknowingly passed his home). We met his wife and cousin, talked for a bit, and promised we would come by his restaurant the following evening for dinner.
On our first day in Trieste, we struck out for a lavanderia across town (it turned out there was one a block from where we were staying [James Joyce Hotel. Never stay here... I was a sucker for the name; the hotel staff were less than helpful, especially when providing locations of various services such as lavaderias and internet cafes. The staff also believed their broken internet was Christ-like (they kept claiming it worked, and every time Amy went over to the computer and proved it didn't. Doubting Thomas?)]) with two plastic bags filled with wash (pretty romantic, eh?) to the neighborhood with the self-service lavanderia. After throwing the wash in, we went to the trattoria next door to have a beer. There was a loud gesticulating man hunched over a large plate of boiled shrimp voraciously consuming them and sending shells everywhere (we were the only people in the place; although it was Italian, the most immediate translation was: Vietnamese-place-in-the-Tenderloin-with-plastic-tablecloths-where-you-know-it-is-a-bad-idea-to-order-the-seven-course-beef). After a while, he called us over, introduced himself as Marino, owner and chef, and had the bartender pour us more beer. He went on to tell us about a book he was writing about exercise, that we could have stayed at his friend's house for less than what we were paying at the hotel, that we could visit his house in Croatia, and that it was a Miracle that Italy worked on any and all levels (in an immediate way, we had already seen infrastructure around Trieste that showed a very patched together approach... Some of the buildings reminded me of Gieger; they had corrugated plastic tubes half embedded in their sides and somewhat covered with stucco, erupting from below the surface randomly, carrying electrical wires, water, whatever).
Later that day, we were wandering the neighborhoods and while Amy was taking a gentleman’s photograph, we heard whistling and yelling up a street and it was Marino (we unknowingly passed his home). We met his wife and cousin, talked for a bit, and promised we would come by his restaurant the following evening for dinner.
For dinner, we went to Il Buffet da Pepi for various parts of pig and cow (nice parts as well as blood sausage, tongue, kidney, heart). Who needs Whole Hog, when you get this set up with kraut, mustard, and beer?
Day 2
On Day 2 we went to Carso, and after several bus trips wondering if we should have brought our passports (we were flirting with the Slovenian border in and out of several towns), we arrived in Samatorza. The town was a bend in the road, but we had heard there was an osmizza in the town (kind of an underground restaurant... .they are marked by signs with very loose wreaths and you have to be accepted in order to, well, order a meal [kind of like the Soup Nazi]). we had prosciutto crudo, fromaggio, salami, hard-boiled egg, pickles, and a mezzo liter of house made wine (come to think of it, it was all house made).
On Day 2 we went to Carso, and after several bus trips wondering if we should have brought our passports (we were flirting with the Slovenian border in and out of several towns), we arrived in Samatorza. The town was a bend in the road, but we had heard there was an osmizza in the town (kind of an underground restaurant... .they are marked by signs with very loose wreaths and you have to be accepted in order to, well, order a meal [kind of like the Soup Nazi]). we had prosciutto crudo, fromaggio, salami, hard-boiled egg, pickles, and a mezzo liter of house made wine (come to think of it, it was all house made).
That night we returned and had dinner in Marino's restaurant. He sat with us and continued his monologue while we ate Scoglio (spaghetti with a shrimp saunce and seafood basically). It was great to meet him and we hope to see him again.
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