All That Motion and All Those Dreams
Following Taste, Finding More
Dal Italia | Hermanus, South Africa
The night before my first big brush with Mother Nature’s gentle giants, I had chosen to dine at Dal Italia in Hermanus, South Africa’s sleepy downtown. Early research on the coastal town had revealed it was home to one of my favorite restaurant formats, the dine-in gourmet market. In Dal Italia’s case, it was a family-run Italian deli that featured a special Friday night dinner. I couldn’t ask for a reservation fast enough.
While it may not have had the fanciest of websites and reservation systems, its Instagram brought to life taste, texture and community in a way that I just knew in my gut of guts was going to deliver my kind of adventure in gastronomy. And it did.
I was one of the first to arrive that blustery Friday evening in July, stepping out of the South African winter chill into the hazy golden glow of this local gem. It was as if I had stepped onto the most perfectly curated set of the most perfectly stocked gourmet Italian deli.
I wished I’d brought my sleeping bag. I wanted to eat dinner and breakfast there.
I was seated at one of the tables that lined the perimeter of the market, many of which, for the evening, had been pushed up against shelves and cases teeming with all kinds of Italian goodies and provisions.
I ordered wine, more wine, and then too much wine accompanied by lots of homemade, delicious Italian fare and healthy doses of the family’s hospitality and charm.
The brothers, who were never short on fantastic recommendations, had rolled out the tortellini in the brodo that same morning, I had learned. I could believe it, too. Each succulent pillow felt and tasted like it was assembled fresh with the utmost care.
As the evening went on, I tried my best to recover from an afternoon of ambitious wine-tasting in the Hemel-en-Aarde wine region. Needless to say, overcoming that deficit in sobriety never included ordering less wine. But damn if the wine I enjoyed at Dal Italia wasn’t some of the most familial of my trip. I would trade it only for a sharper memory of the conversation to come.
Sometime mid-meal, the chef stopped by my table to say hello and introduce herself. We chatted about her story, and if memory serves, how she came back at her father’s urging to rejoin the family business as head chef. I love a good female leadership story, especially one dripping with ingenuity in taste. The menu, the Friday night concept, they were now hers to shape and innovate. I was now drunk on inspiration, too.
Her visit to my table was a reminder that we can only put into motion what we first dare to dream. I looked around at where I was, who and what I was dining in front of. This family, this quaint Italian shop and everything on its shelves. Every last jar, loaf, block, bottle was exactly that once, a dream. Every glass of wine, every plate, every Friday night was first, but a dream.
Maybe I thought, as I took myself back to that table, I wasn’t too far off in wishing I’d brought a sleeping bag that evening. Maybe, I just wanted to sleep that much closer to all that motion and all those dreams.
