Giacomo and I are lost. We are winding through the dark old alleys (called caruggi) of Genoa’s Centro Storico, many only a wingspan wide and forgivingly cool in the summer heat. I’m hungry, having just arrived from New York, as is Giacomo, an Italian winemaker friend who drove from Milan to meet me for dinner.

In each shady stone artery a glass window displays Genoese specialties—tiny crisp, fried anchovies, stuffed eggplant, oven-roasted snails, golden pancakes of farinata, torte of chard and herbs, gelati in wildflower hues. But Giacomo, chattering on the phone to the owner of Il Genovese, where we’ve booked, drags me away from these culinary delights.