In Search of Perfect Gelato-Serious Business

I love ice cream. Chocolate. Dark. Sweet. Rich. I love ice cream so much that I never buy it at home. I wait for special occasions. How special? Trips back to Jamaica or to Italy. And I say this not to insult any other countries and their ice cream offerings but to give myself boundaries. I have a simple rule of thumb. If I am going to ingest 1000 calories at one go they had better be worth it. Of course I could have ice cream from the store and it will be adequate but the real question is will it be worth it? When I have to tack on an extra three kilometers to my morning run Brand X does not qualify.

Until I went to Italy I thought the best ice cream in the world could be found at Devon House, Kingston Jamaica. I am a patriot but Italian gelato in Italy is a world of wonder. I try the gelato in every Italian city or town. I have to. And I am going to rank my top five. In doing this I rely on two criteria; taste and did it warrant a repeat visit. I ignored the brusqueness or friendliness of service, the miserliness of portions or whether I was offered a taste beforehand.

Number 5. Perugia. Simple and lovely.

Number 4. Bologna. I walked for what felt like miles. Castiglione is a long road and this was almost at the end. Always a good sign when Bolognese are breaking the queue to get at this goodness.

Number 3. Verona. The city was so hot that anything cool would do but somehow the gelato makers of Verona take their jobs seriously.

Number 2. Positano. The little tabacchi at the bus stop on the main road. Every mid-morning for five mornings = five pounds. But worth it.

Number 1. Parma Per Sempre. I could write reams about the goodness of the gelato sold in a chain called Emilia. As fortune would have it not more than 30 feet across the street from my hotel was my personal branch. These people are so beautiful, they allow you to choose between light and dark chocolate sauce to go down the funnel of your cone before they scoop and serve. They serve with such care and precision and I for one am grateful.

Someone tried to explain to me why the gelato is so good. Something about air whipped in and cream and blah, blah, blah. I have no questions, just hand me another cone this time with dark chocolate in the tip.

Where's your favourite ice cream? Are you a gelato purist? Tell me.

Real Hope in Anzio

I woke at 5:30 to finish packing my bags and to catch the first bus heading North out of Positano to Sorrento. I then caught a train from Sorrento to Naples, only 34 stops and then another ( only 35 minutes late) onward to Rome, then a five minute dash across the platform at Termini to get the hourly train to Anzio. Why would I do this you ask? A friend had introduced me by email to her friend, a Jamaican living in Anzio. I did this for a possibility.

Seven hours after I woke up I was giving her the two kisses European style of greeting and feeling the possibility of friendship in an instant. Twenty-four hours later that possibility was made real.

It was made real by the warmth and generosity of her family. Her Italian husband who asked whether I had eaten and rustled up the freshest, tastiest tuna salad I had ever had. Olive oil, olives, sweet pomadorinos and a balsamic glaze that I could not rest until I had found and secured for myself two bottles for my already over burdened suitcase.

It was made real by his mother making a seafood pasta, from shrimp, calamari, mussels in a simple white sauce made of olive oil, achovies and parsley that saw me making that primi my secondi twice over. Washed down with ice cold rose that went down too easy for someone taking a flight in less than three hours. When I said I didn't need another mozzarella ball since I had already had two before lunch, she only smiled her beautiful but insistent smile then sliced off a few more knots. And God help me and my cholesterol but I ate them all. They were heavenly, the milk oozing onto my tongue as I chewed. And then another glass of wine. I could have become delirious. In fact I am sure I was since I can't recall now whether I licked the plate, to my mind the ultimate compliment to a chef, to others a source of effrontery. Oh well.

It was made real by their daughter, a beauty destined to have the world fall at her feet. Who captivates you with deep brown eyes and a lips pursed into a permanent pout. But who stalks along Nero's Beach as if instinctively knowing that long dead dictator would be hard pressed to withstand her strength of personality. All this at the ripe old age of 17 months.

And here was water so beautiful, so inviting and surprisingly so warm I went in and submerged myself in the sea for the first time in two years.

It was made real by Hope, a fellow Jamaican with an Italian complex. We sat on that verandah in Anzio and shared stories and laughter as if we had been sitting together in a twenty year friendship on a verandah in Jamaica. The journies that have taken us both here are different but intersect at the usual crossroads of pain, dreams, love and destiny. I sipped from the last of her stock of perfectly chilled, sufficiently strong homemade limoncello and raised a mental toast to our common friend who made this possible and to Hope herself who shared her family and provided another chapter for my book.

When we heard a car roar by with dancehall artist Beenie Man's "Rum & Red Bull" blaring from the radio we laughed but I knew my Jamaican and Italian worlds were truly collapsed. For me there is only one world. And when I left the Lanzoni's I also learned that Italians have a similar phrase to the Jamaican "Soon Come".