Ralph’s corner – San Vincenzo’s Winter Hidden Gems

We slipped into one of our little macchine (cars) for the five-minute drive down to the Corso. February 28. Our fourth winter here. The darkness still feels different to me in Italy—deeper somehow, more intimate.

The air carried a gentle chill, just enough to justify wrapping a comforting sciarpa (scarf) around my neck. It brushed my cheek as we walked from the parking lot after plugging in our car to charge, a small modern ritual beneath ancient skies.

The Corso shimmered beneath elegant streetlamps, their golden light casting long, theatrical shadows across the stone. In summer, this promenade swells with visitors—laughter, gelato, cameras, languages interwoven in a festive hum. But in winter, it belongs to us.

To residents strolling without hurry. To shopkeepers who know our names. To couples like us, walking hand in hand beneath balconies draped in the quiet dignity of Italian architecture. This is our date night. We smile at each other for no reason at all. We laugh at private jokes.

There is something in the air—something steeped in history and romance—that draws us closer with every step. Italy does that. It doesn’t shout its beauty; it seeps into your soul. I had been looking forward to this evening all week.

Roberto, the owner of the restaurant, had ordered a special Spider Crab just for me. Not only that—he planned to prepare it in two different ways. That gesture touched me more deeply than he could know. Years ago, in California, I owned a large restaurant that featured Dungeness Crab straight from live tanks.

It was part of my life, part of my culinary identity. Here in Italy, crab is rarely found on menus. I missed it—not just the taste, but the ritual. How extraordinary it is to live in a small town where a restaurateur will make a special call, place a special order, and with a few days’ notice and a modest surcharge, create something deeply personal.

That is not just dining. That is relationship.

Lupo Càntero

At the end of the pedestrian Corso, in the heart of town, sits Lupo Càntero—just to the left after the gentle walk from the parking lot. I always feel a small thrill when we open its door.

Once a week there is live entertainment, and more often than not, it is surprisingly good. Tonight’s performer was Diego Russo, a gifted singer/pianist with an extraordinary voice. As he played, layered with subtle prerecorded accompaniment, he filled the room not just with music, but with presence. He joked with the audience, asked questions, and welcomed singers when karaoke emerged later in the evening.

It felt less like background music and more like a small, intimate Las Vegas lounge—except warmer, more personal, unmistakably Italian. As we stepped inside, the scent from the kitchen wrapped around us—garlic, olive oil, seafood—mouthwatering and immediate. We made our way to our reserved table, always the same one, directly in front of the entertainment.

It has quietly become our table.

Riccardo brought our favorite wine without asking: Buca di Cleonte from Petricci e Del Pianta. The first time we tasted it was here. Since then, I’ve visited the winery and now order bottles for our home. The bouquet alone feels edible—deep, rich, almost velvety. Robust and complex, yet impossibly smooth.

A wine that seems to linger in conversation as much as on the palate. By eight o’clock, the restaurant had filled. A special four-course dinner with wine had been advertised at an irresistible price. But my heart—and appetite—were already claimed.

Daniela, Roberto’s wife, had prepared a Spider Crab appetizer dressed simply with seasoning and Tuscan olive oil. Later would come a Spider Crab pasta.

Lynn chose a beautiful mixed seafood plate from the menu. What I love about this place is its spirit. This is not a restaurant where people conduct business over indifferent background music. Here, the performer commands attention.

Conversations pause. Laughter is shared across tables. The entire room breathes together—food, wine, music, humanity woven into one experience. After forty-five minutes of wine and song, our meal arrived. There it was—my Spider Crab—arranged artfully on the plate, glistening beneath olive oil. I have always known the intricacies of crab. Each species carries its own architecture, its own secrets. As I cracked the first shell and saw the firm, pure white meat reveal itself, I felt a childlike excitement. The first taste stopped me.

Sweet. Clean. Perfect.

Crab is not rushed food. It demands patience. Each leg, each claw, each hidden chamber offers its reward slowly. And that slowness is a gift. It gives time for conversation. For glances across the table. For music to drift between bites.

Lynn savored her seafood selection while I moved on to the pasta course. It was excellent. But I confess—there is something about crab in its shell, simply seasoned, that speaks to my soul. Daniela had created something I never expected to find here in Italy.

In a country already overflowing with culinary marvels, she had given me a taste of memory—transformed. She won my heart that night. We laughed. We teased each other. We leaned in close to hear the music and to whisper small observations.

At some point Lynn ordered a chocolate lava cake. I stole two bites—and instantly regretted not ordering my own. When I paid the bill, Roberto saw the grin I couldn’t hide. He called Daniela from the kitchen. She emerged, flour still on her apron, eyes bright. I hugged her—spontaneous, grateful—and thanked her for creating such a special evening. Walking back to our little car, the night air crisp against our cheeks, we could not stop talking. About the food. The music. The warmth. About how lucky we felt.

Casotto Pub

If Lupo Càntero is romance, then Casotto Pub is joy unleashed. San Vincenzo is known as a summer marina town. When the season peaks, the population swells toward 70,000. Rooms are scarce.

Streets pulse with energy. But in winter, when the town settles back to about 7,000, many businesses close their doors.

Casotto does not. For years it has been a local landmark, drawing both young and old into its lively embrace. When I think of Casotto, three things come immediately to mind: excellent meat, playful comfort foods, and pure fun.

Nearly two years ago, I wrote about celebrating my 73rd birthday there—an unforgettable private party with nearly fifty young friends (See “Ralph’s Corner—San Vincenzo People”). For more than five hours we ate, drank, sang, danced, and played games. It remains one of the most joyful nights of my life.

Casotto is owned by two of my closest friends, Stefano and Andrea—young, energetic, magnetic personalities–who would have to be to run a place that often hums until two in the morning. The layout is split in two. The main building houses the kitchen and bar, with tables where conversation flows more easily.

Then there is the tent—a louder, more animated world with a pool table, several foosball, games, and in summer, additional outdoor seating that spills into warm night air. Both areas have big screen TVs. I visit about once a month. My favorites? Ribs cooked in beer—rostinciana. A beautifully prepared tagliata with special sauces. The “Campigliese” burger with bacon—though I always add onions. Stuffed jalapeños oozing with cheese. And a bottle of Volpolo, a Bolgheri red that pairs perfectly with laughter.

In Conclusion

There are other restaurants open in winter, especially within a short drive. But between Christmas and Easter, when the days are quieter and the sea air carries a thoughtful hush, Lynn and I always find ourselves deeply content. With live music and candlelight at Lupo Càntero.

With ribs and billiards and exuberant nights at Casotto.
With the intimacy of a small town that remembers your favorite wine and orders your favorite crab. And, of course, with our own extraordinary home—where the evening often continues long after the last bite, long after the last song fades. Winter here may be quieter.

But it is anything but empty. It is full of flavor.
Full of friendship.
Full of romance.