Il Tucano 2, Pegli, Genoa

When the film The Madness of King George III was released in the US, they had to rename it. Why? Because people assumed it was the third of a trilogy and they had missed 1 and 2. So I had to pose the question. What happened to Il Tucano 1? It seems that the previous proprietor had had number one. If I was understanding correctly, there may have been a 3 as well, but aural comprehension is not my strong point.

Anyway, numbers aside, don't be confused by the name. Despite their large bills, toucans are not fish eaters. If that applies to you, don't come here. Not one single sop to the meat eater and, apart from a fried pasta starter, heehaw for veggies either. Italians are nothing if not straight forward.

We were advised to come here by the lady who was running La Fenice, the shop of the local art association. You could sign up for ceramics classes, or painting in sundry media. Little point with our lack of talent in that direction. We did, however, discover that she sang contralto in a local choir and that they had recently changed their choir master. The things you learn.

When I say advised, I mean we were frog marched along the road and introduced to the owners. It would have been churlish to refuse, so a couple of days later we changed out of our uniform of shorts and scruffy tee shirts, and presented ourselves, ready for pescatorial delights.

My perennial menu reading in central Genoa had already alerted me to some of the regional differences here in Liguria. So, muscoli are mussels (though, confusingly, the menu also mentions cozze at one point). Totani are squid, and mandilli are irregularly shaped, lasagna-like pasta. The name means silk handkerchiefs, and they are usually served with pesto, something which the Genoese take very seriously.

L kicked off with muscoli, giant specimens in a good marinara sauce.  My tuna tartare was larger than the average tuna tin. Fresh, of course. Anything in Italy which has the addition of tomatoes and balsamic is hard to criticise. A fine start.

I find it hard to look beyond a fritto misto. Sometimes this can include veg, but in a fish joint such as this one knew what to expect. The usual suspects: octopus and squid and tuna, plus a big prawn for show and a couple of indeterminate fish of no fixed abode and unknown parentage. Our other main was the plate of silk handkerchiefs.  They came with potatoes and beans, an odd sounding accompaniment to pasta, but the buttery smoothness eased some of the rough flavour edges you can sometimes get with pesto.

Decent food in a pleasant place. You can anticipate the but, can't you? Maybe he was in need of his holiday (the place was closing for a fortnight a day or two after our visit) but we just felt that the owner would rather be somewhere else, or in another job. One of the joys of eating in a family run place is normally the sense that you're becoming part of the family, and that if you come back you'll probably be invited to someone's christening. Maybe it's just us.

Buona vacanza, tutti.