EATING OUT: If food be the language of love…

Pizza at Hosteria Romana. PHOTO | MADAME CONNOISSEUSE

What you need to know:

  • We meet Hosteria Romana’s owner by the door just as he is preparing to hop on a scooter with a food delivery box fastened to the back.
  • The food is so near yet so far and by the time we sit down at our table, I am famished; socialising is such intense cardio.
  • All the carbs so prevalent in Italian cuisine and that are about to find themselves inside my belly are now completely justified.

“...and that’s why I love coming down to Watamu every year,” says The Gentleman as he runs a deeply tanned hand through his blonde hair. He does not know that the sun is not as romanticised to me as it is to him.

Andiamo,” I say, nudging him along. I can see the restaurant a few metres ahead and complete with its bold checkered tablecloths, it resembles a small Italian eatery yet blends so seamlessly into the Kenyan coast. He is pleased that I am learning his language.

We meet Hosteria Romana’s owner by the door just as he is preparing to hop on a scooter with a food delivery box fastened to the back. They hug. Italians like to hug. A lot. They also like to kiss on the cheek. And so I hug and kiss his other acquaintances and friends, because that’s what you do when in Rome, and Watamu may as well be Rome.

Everyone also seems to know everyone and it is all a bit like the socialising after a church service on Valley Road. The food is so near yet so far and by the time we sit down at our table, I am famished; socialising is such intense cardio.

All the carbs so prevalent in Italian cuisine and that are about to find themselves inside my belly are now completely justified. The Gentleman and I ended up here after a chance encounter that started with a debate about pizza, and when the menu is placed before us, we head right for that section.

We kick off with a focaccia to set the tone for the lunch, and it is a thing of beauty; a light flatbread topped with boiled egg, onion, dhania, tomato, stripped chicken and dressing. The kind of thing you fantasised about in boarding school when you had faced yet another dinner of ugali and sukuma wiki. We down this with fresh passion juice and ask to see the menu again. Prices here are fair and the menu is quite extensive given how small the restaurant is. This time, we order pizza.

A few moments later, the waiter places two piping hot thin crust beauts before us, straight from a wood fired oven. The portions are big enough to feed a small family.

There is a nyama choma pizza for me, and while I had initially scoffed when the waiter has initially suggested it (why? Because I am Kenyan I must automatically like nyama choma?) it is one of the most delicious pizzas I have ever in my mouth. I don’t like the one The Gentleman ordered, but mine is has the perfect ratio of base to cheese to meat, almost like it was cooked up in a lab by a scientist.

As we look through the dessert menu, I know I will see The Gentleman again. Someone you can get fat with is indeed a keeper, and the way to a woman’s heart really is through her stomach.