A big name in Genovese dining

Debora, and Matteo, slave away unseen in the engine room

That’s better. Let’s start again from the top, shall we? Lest my reader (let’s go with the fiction I have one, maybe Tom) be left with the impression Genovese food is underwhelming.

I knew I should have started with Archivolto Mongiardino and so I will review this delightful trattoria next, even though I’ve been to another in between that, for no immediately discernible reason actually had soil encased in glass on the counter.

No, we shall stick with Archivolto, based in the narrow alley that goes by the same name and the first place Elsa and I dined a Genova.

It was an easy decision, a doorway spied on a typically wet Genovese spring evening with hopeful customers trying to cram in to shelter from the rain, steaming just inside and vying for one of just 18 covers. We booked for half an hour later, were successful and the seafood we sampled was confirmation enough Genoa would do for us.

Counter intuitive

It is Egidio who will greet you, his avuncular front-of-house presence giving the impression he is running the show but spend just a few minutes at the table and it quickly becomes obvious it is the graceful, elfin figure of Gloria, gliding effortlessly between tables that keeps the Archivolto operation ticking over.

In summer, there is more capacity, with a sizeable corner of a small piazza devoted to customers and offering the diverting prospect of tucking into splendid seafood to the accompaniment of grunts and screams from the Tenko-style sweathouse kickboxing gym overlooking the square.

The complimentary bread and – of course – focaccia are tasty, the still white wine is Cradley Liberal Club in a good way and the seafood is a delight. On my first visit I sampled mussels as tasty as anything offered up in Conwy Harbour – next to a Welshman, coincidentally – and on this occasion opted for the frittura mista di pesce, a dish characteristic of Genoa. Whole fried acciughe (anchovies) nestle alongside calamari, mussels and courgettes in a generous pile of fried loveliness, the only discordant note a fried slice of apple at the base.

The bonetto bus is comin’

Gloria, auditioning for the Vengaboys complete with headset to coordinate between outdoor tables and kitchen snorts with derision when I feign to consider whether or not to take dessert, knowing full well it is unlikely I will pass on local delicacy Peter Bonetti, a milk-based crema catalana style pudding with a caramel topping. She’s right to scoff of course. As am I, I persuade myself.

And so Archivolto Mongiardino remains the kite mark by which the rest of the city’s trattorie will be measured. And you have to admire their sense of humour. Having explained I am taking photos as I am writing a blog about the eateries of the city – yep, that old wheeze – we hang around Egidio’s little counter expectantly after the meal, having settled our bill, and await the complimentary amaro that usually materialises. On this occasion none appears, and he seems to be smiling more affably than usual.