An evening at La Mulinella

At 8:30 the sun is gone but it’s not yet dark. La Mulinella is outside of town, on a side road, hard to find. Tables are scattered on a graveled surface, underneath a huge shade-giving tree. A large number are set for large parties of ten or twelve. These are just starting to be filled with several generations of diners. The youngest are around three or four, the oldest – in the late seventies perhaps.

No one orders, but dishes with food start coming right away. Pitchers of wine are placed on the table, plates of crostini are set out at both ends. Eventually the pasta dishes arrive, then plates of grilled meats, roasted vegetables, and so it continues.

When I get ready to leave two, three hours later, I notice that the others are all still there. The younger children have moved to the laps of grandfathers, the somewhat older boys are leaning on the shoulders of their fathers, held there in a loose embrace, some restless little ones have wondered off to other parts of the garden. Bowls of tiramisu are at the table. It’s dark now, but no one is in a hurry.

La Mulinella is irresistible*. I ate there twice and each time the menu was the same but the food came out just a bit different, depending on what was available, what the kitchen wanted to put out. I took just one photo – of a first course: home-made gnocchi with an aromatic mushroom sauce. I can guarantee that it will be one of the first dishes I’ll try to recreate back home, though I know it’s hopeless. La Mulinella gets it exactly right for a million reasons, only some of them having anything to do with the preparation of this dish.