After an amazing few days in Bonifacio, we settled aboard a Moby Ferry to Sardinia after one final round of beignets de Brocciu (sob). To give credit where credit is due, the Sardinia portion of our trip was inspired by our friends S and H, who spent a week in Sardinia this past winter and raved about their time there. I probably couldn’t have found Sardinia on a map two months ago. But we really liked the idea of spending some time in a rural area, especially since our car-free life in Paris leaves us pretty limited to urban spaces. While not renting a car in Corsica was possible (though unadvisable), we were told that we must rent a car in Sardinia if we expected to see anything properly. While there is a national train and bus system, the schedule is apparently entirely arbitrary and impossible to plan a short-term vacation around. So we booked a Fiat Panda Emotion with Eurocar and planned to pick it up at the Olbia airport, which didn’t look too far on the map from Santa Teresa di Gallura, where the only ferry from Corsica drops off.

We quickly realized, however, that not too far was actually about an hour bus ride, a bus we had no idea how to find upon being spit out on dry land. We arrived in Santa Teresa di Gallura during the middle of pennichella, that is, the long afternoon naptime where all the stores shut down and everyone retreats to their houses during the heat of the day.  It might have as well been a ghost town. We wandered around with our rolling suitcases like jackasses until a kindly young man who drove a taxi helped us work out the bus schedule to Olbia (the schedules posted at the bus stop were from the late 90s.) B then proved himself a gallant traveling companion by locating the only bar in town open in the afternoon, where we were able to get (cue the heavenly choir) Aperol Spritzes accompanied by the always-gratis apertivo snacks that make me want to be an Italian. Schnockered, we finally boarded a bus, rode to Olbia, and picked up our sweet little Panda.

Observing the northern coastal area, B quickly declared that Sardinia wasn’t nearly as mountainous as Corsica.  As we drove inland towards our destination of Oliena, it became increasingly clear that this was a bit of a premature declaration. Coastal shrubbery quickly gave way to craggy peaks and our chatter gave way to excited gasps about how beautiful the scenery was.  Oliena, which is nestled at the base of the Gennargentu mountains, was positively breathtaking as we drove in (so breathtaking, in fact, that we forgot to take pictures).  We followed the signs to our lodgings, the amusingly named Cooperativa Enis (Monte Maccione) up one of the steepest, switchback-filled roads I’ve ever encountered.  And I grew up in the mountains in Colorado, people. We arrived at a heavenly mountain retreat with amazing views of the valley, a well-stocked bar and restaurant, and easy-access to incredible hiking trails.

All was not jolly, however.  B had run out of cigarettes on the ferry, so he was now without nicotine for 6 hours or so and nursing the mother of all headaches.  We quickly left our room and to head back down the mountain to hit a tabacchi in town before they closed. As we attempted to pull out of the Coop Enis (hee hee) parking lot, we discovered that our car wouldn’t go into reverse. An older Italian couple emerged from the hotel to see two testy and pissed-off Americans hissing at one another as we attempted to push the car out of the parking space in neutral. Aghast, the Italian gentleman got in our car and patiently explained that European cars require that you pull up a little ring on the stick shift to shift into reverse. Crisis averted. Let me just say that this is the first, but not the last time, our little Panda managed to confound two people in doctoral programs.

After getting B a smoke, we explored Oliena a little bit, much to the amusement of the locals who were in the process of setting up for a regional music celebration that evening. B and I are blond enough that we might as well have strapped large signs to our chests that read TOURISTS while we were in Sardinia. Every town we visited seemed to be populated entirely by old men who sit in cafes and along the main plaza all day long. Our arrival in town (or my arrival in town, B might argue) was usually the biggest event of the day, especially if I was (gasp) the one doing the driving. Oliena, a very traditional town where older women still wear the traditional dress of a long black skirt and a cornflower blue blouse, was no exception. We wandered into what appeared to be one of the only bars in town and ordered Sardinian beers, only to be given Heinekens while the guys at nearby tables guzzled Ichnusa (the one and only Sardinian beer) and gawked at me.  But despite being outsiders in a town that obviously only ever encountered Italian tourists, everyone was incredibly nice.

S and H—as well as Anthony Bourdain and every other travel food writer under the sun—had raved about the Sardinian agritourismos: small farms that offer up locally-grown regional specialties and simple accommodations.  We had made reservations at one such agritourismo, the Azienda Agrituristica Guthiddai (S.P. Nuoro Dorgali Bivio Su Gologne) for dinner. We arrived to a virtually empty dining room and a staff that seemed eager to set us up for the evening.  We settled in to our table and murmured some nonsense to one another about the menu or how much this thing was going to cost us. Water was brought out, as was a jug of the house rosso made with local Cannonau grapes. It quickly became clear that we were just along for one hell of a ride.

First up was the pane carasau, a crisp flatbread that is the basis of much of Sardinian cooking. It was drizzled lightly with the Guthiddai’s own olive oil, made from olive trees we could see out the window. Like greedy Americans faced with a bottomless basket of chips and salsa at a Mexican restaurant, we ate way too much of this before our meal.

Next up was the antipasti, which included a charcuterie plate (salsiccia, regional ham, pancetta, and coppa), bitter olives, fresh ricotta with mint and olive oil, a sautéed eggplant aromatic with garlic, sautéed mushrooms, tripe sausage with fresh peas, and blackbird with stewed tomatoes. I don’t think I can even convey to you our growing delight with each dish.  Moaning in gustatory ecstasy, we polished each plate clean. I was completely full after our (eight course) antipasti.

But then it time for the pasta.  First, an enormous platter of gnochetti in a Pecorino cheese sauce.  This is my Ur-macaroni and cheese. When our lovely server Pamela removed the platter, I believe I was scraping the cheese residue from it with my fingernails like a feral animal.

At this point, we were starting to be uncomfortably full.  In an eating lull, I dementedly reasoned that pasta course must be over and that the meat course is never much in Italy. Wrong, wrong, wrong. We were only halfway through the pasta:

When Pamela brought out this masterpiece, both B and I gasped with joy. Malloreddus are a Sardinian pasta made by hand, here served with the dreamiest sausage red sauce that you can imagine. We unbuttoned our pants and got to work.

Predictably, the carne course was not just one, but two different dishes:  steaks drizzled in balsamic and a braised lamb dish that caused B to scratch out his previous characterization of his meal in Sartène as his Ur-lamb. There are no photos, because I couldn’t even move at this point. I was drenched in sweat and trembling from the idea of eating one more bite of anything. Not only was this the most beautiful food I had ever eaten, but I couldn’t bear the the idea of disappointing our increasingly charming Pamela with our failure to finish the plates. But there was no polishing off that carne. We were goners. Pamela cleared away our meat platters with a look of sadness on her face. I almost cried.

B wandered off to smoke and puke in the bushes Roman-style and Pamela and I had a rather lovely exchange despite the fact that I speak no Italian and she spoke no English. B returned, however, and she and I were fast friends. Dessert was a purplish semifredo drizzled with myrto wine – light and refreshing enough that we both managed to get it down. Pamela seemed dismayed that we didn’t want to stay and keep drinking – she had a variety of different Sardinian digestivi she wanted us to try.  The damage for a thirteen course meal with all the local booze we could drink: sixty-eight euros. Our jaws fell through the floor. We emerged from the best meal of our trip into a night sky filled with stars and a valley full of wild dogs howling at the moon. Sardinia wasn’t looking too shabby from where we were standing.

Next stop:  The beach to end all beaches.

When we arrived in Bonifacio I was hot, tired, and totally carsick. I had also scratched myself until I bled on the bus ride. Corsican mosquitoes do not fuck around, people. I was also annoyed about the aesthetic trajectory of our trip, one in which I was looking increasingly bloated and blotchy while B was increasingly blond, tan, and dreamy.  Between my sucrée blood and his enviable metabolism, I was starting to feel like I wasn’t quite punching my weight in our relationship looks-wise. I had also begun to realize that the vacation-binge, all-charcuterie-all-the-time, food philosophy I’d been indulging wasn’t doing me any favors in the stomach department. Bonifacio didn’t look like much more than a tourist trap from our hotel, which was conveniently located on the marina. Cross and sweaty, I decided to stop eating salami for a while and take a nap at our hotel while B went out to buy cigarettes and explore.

He came back giddy with medievalist glee. “You have to climb up a steep cobblestone street to get to the old town and cross a moat to enter through a fortified castle gate! There’s a DRAWBRIDGE!” While I sensed that I was witnessing my boyfriend regress to a decidedly less-dreamy phase of his development that involved more Dungeons & Dragons than romantic island vacations with girls, I was also intrigued.  Drawbridges are sweet! So I puked and rallied (metaphorically), got dressed, and we headed into town. I was clutching, of course, a list of restaurants I wanted to try.

The original town of Bonifacio, which you reach by climbing either sets of stairs or a steep cobblestone path out of the marina strip that is lined with Eurotrash bars and wealthy yacht-owners, is a walled medieval town with narrow, cobblestone-lined streets and breathtaking views of the surrounding coastline.  My mood immediately lifted with the views on the way up the hill. We explored the town for a while, which is chockablock with interesting little antique and souvenir shops, buttress-topped alleyways, and yummy smelling restaurants. I already had my eye on L’Archivolto (2 Rue Archivolto) from its glowing review in our Lonely Planet, but a walk-by this adorable antique shop and restaurant cinched the deal. B went in to see if we needed reservations and came out confused after having the restaurant’s Byzantine reservation policy inconclusively explained to him by the owners. “I think we are just supposed to come back around eight and hope for the best,” he said, puzzled.

With time to kill, we wandered outside of the town center in search of a cluster of Genoese towers that we had seen on the bus ride from Sartène. Genoese towers make for lots of good phallus jokes, people. Instead, we ended up wandering into an abandoned military zone filled with revealing graffiti:

The mess hall was filled with murals for the various brigades that were stationed in Bonifacio:

I, little Sally Rule Follower (“What if this is trespassing? What if there is aesbestos? What if my mom finds out?!”) was of course skittish about exploring, but even I have to admit that it was pretty awesome to stumble into this abandoned mill:

B could have explored all night, but it was getting close to the time of our non-reservation, so I insisted that we move on. We arrived at L’Archivolto and found it packed, a rope having been tied on the front entrance as if to say “Too late, you sorry stragglers.” After a bit of coaxing, we managed to get in for a place at the community table, which we shared with a lovely Parisian couple. Seeing us struggle with a couple of the different fish names on the menu, the woman we were sharing our table with provided some recommendations. Apparently, they had eaten at L’Archivolto three times that week, which I took as a very promising sign.  And whoa, ho ho:

Our first plate was this cold octopus salad with cilantro. We were initially going to split one, but then our table companions received theirs and Clarence declared that he would cut anyone who asked him to share. This, people, was the most perfect salad I’ve ever eaten. Tender, sweet octopus, fresh cilantro, an assortment of wild greens, and super-sweet local cherry tomatoes, dressed with nothing more than some good olive oil and squeeze of lemon. What a revelation.

B’s second plate was a mysterious red mullet and fennel preparation that resembled a kind of warm tartare, or as B put it, “the insides of the very best crabcake I’ve ever eaten.” There was, certainly, a lot of crab in this rouget dish. It was served with a heavenly black olive tapenade that attracted a lot of attention from my roving fork (I may or may not have eventually gotten my hand slapped for excessive trespassing).

It was especially ridiculous that I couldn’t keep my hands to myself, especially since I was occupied with the best lasagna I’ve ever eaten or could possibly hope to eat.  A bit of a riff on the local specialty of aubergines à la bonifacienne, L’Archivolto serves up a serious slab of their impossibly perfect eggplant and goat cheese lasagna.  This picture sucks, but omg this was “call in the troops, I could be a vegetarian if I could eat this everyday” kind of food.

We wanted dessert, but were both uncomfortably full at that point. Instead we had a lovely conversation with our tablemates, who made sitting at the community table a delight.  In this particular feature, L’Archivolto reminds me a great deal of my favorite restaurant in the world, Café Pasquals of Santa Fe, New Mexico. Both restaurants have an eclectic, homey design that reminds me of my Montessori teacher’s house when I was growing up. Both have a large community table that encourages visitors to mingle and chat with one another. And both use local products and elements of the regional cuisine while adding sophisticated techniques and flavors from around the world. They are both, in my humble opinion, exactly what a great restaurant is supposed to be, and while they are both pricey, I’d rather spend my money at a places like these than a fussy, white-tablecloth, honeydew-gelée and sunchoke-foam joint any day of the week.

Wandering down the hill to our hotel, we decided that full or not, we couldn’t neglect B’s Reign of Gelato (requiring that we eat gelato every single day of our trip).  We stopped in at the marina Glaces et sorbets à Bonifacio (Rocca Serra) (17 quai Comparetti), a gelato shop with a staggeringly large counter, friendly staff, and a cool selection of local flavors.  We shared a cup of sorbet made with locally-grown, organic clementine and lemons.  The following day, B braved a scoop of myrtle (which he liked – I thought it tasted like cold medicine and mouthwash) and I got a final Brocciu fix.  It’s definitely worth a stop.

We spent most of our second day in Bonifacio hiking to Paraguan beach, which I’d also really recommend if you find yourself in Bonifacio. We weren’t in high tourism season yet, but town was definitely crowded, so we expected that our hiking trail would be full of other tourists. Instead, we were treated to three hours of exquisite coastline views, caves, calanques, and lighthouses without meeting a single other person. We ended sharing the white sand Paraguan beach with just a handful of other people. It was pretty heavenly to jump in the sparkling turquoise water after a long and sweaty hike. I don’t know if European tourists are particularly lazy, or what the deal is, but we continued to have hiking trails and limited-access beaches essentially to ourselves for the duration of the trip.

When dinnertime rolled around again, we pretended for a minute that we might want to go somewhere else besides L’Archivolto, but quickly laughed off such a folly and began fantasizing about what we were going to eat that evening. Our repeat visit landed us a coveted table on the terrace, and we got to work.

While I couldn’t bear to order a different entrée and indulged myself with yet another octopus salad, B ordered the house rabbit terrine for his first course, served with a chutney of apples and quince.  It was exquisite:

My second course consisted of locally-caught and roasted supions (tiny calamari), potatoes, and tomatoes. Each squid was perfectly sweet, tender, and released a kind of aromatic seawater when I bit into them.

B’s second course was a special of the day:  monkfish in a veal and wild mushroom sauce served with a sweet red cabbage sauerkraut and roasted tomatoes.  B, owner of the patented Manic Mushroom Face, couldn’t resist ordering it when our server rattled off the list of “wild mushrooms” it entailed—morels, chanterelles, and black trumpets—despite his skepticism about a meat and fungi sauce on fish. Skepticism be damned, this was a nearly flawless dish and the fish couldn’t have been cooked more expertly. I’ll admit I was somewhat jealous, though he was generous in the bites he doled out (not without commensurate calamari from me, however!).

For dessert, we shared a bowl of fresh Corsican nectarines in myrtle wine, drizzled with local honey and topped with homemade peach gelato.  No picture, as we were hammered. As we strolled out of Bonifacio, sad that we couldn’t stay any longer, we were greeted by a full moon over the sea.  It was the perfect end to really amazing leg of our trip.

Next stop:  We get lost, and then found (culinarily at least) in Eastern Sardinia!