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Summer Reds

A Note from Sergio            

My house sits on a cliff overlooking the Mediterranean on the Italian Riviera. Like most Italian houses, mine has a patio, and in the summer vines grow across the arbor that frames it, making a green idyll where my family and I eat or just hang out. To the right of the patio is the grill. It's not an American grill; it's not a block of technology, blue-lit gas flames and black metal. It's brick and mortar. You have to build a fire and make your own charcoal. It has both a metal grill and a little oven. It's rustic and fussy and time-consuming, and I love it.

I've grilled succulent capretto, or baby goat, and I've licked its juices from my fingers and watched my guests do the same. I've grilled maiale, or pork, and listened with satisfaction as its fat crackled and popped against the hot coals. I've grilled great slabs of vegetables, brushed almost translucent with olive oil and sprinkled with fresh herbs. I've grilled fish and watched the delicate flesh turn nearly opaque before I swept it off the heat and onto the plates of my waiting, salivating guests. And, of course, I have grilled steak, the air turning fragrant as the edges of the meat blackened deliciously.

My Best,