Sometimes it’s hard to come up with superlatives on a long trip: best beach, best view, best hotel. But sometimes the best is just SO best that it’s undeniable — and Italy serves up just such a superlative experience for Lindsie and I when we arrive in Volpaia one stormy night.

We’re here on a mission, and Volpaia’s renowned La Bodega restaurant is our chosen battleground.

Ever since we arrived in Italy, we’ve marveled at the number of courses on the menus: antipasti, first course, second course, dessert. Throw in apertif, wine, digestif, and coffee, and you have a truly insane amount of food and drink to consume. Every time we’ve gone out, we’ve exercised restraint and ordered a single course — but tonight is the one night we’re planning to throw caution (and our waistlines) to the winds.

The little hilltop town of Volpaia lies a few minutes’ drive to the north of Radda in Chianti. After descending into the valley that separates the two settlements, I point the nose of our rented Audi up a perilously snaking set of switchbacks and hit the gas, cranking the wheel furiously as we creep around the corners and craning my neck in a mostly vain attempt to spot any insane Italian drivers who might be hurtling down the hill at suicidal speeds.

As we climb, the countryside falls slowly behind us to reveal a dazzling tapestry of farms (I love that they call them fattorias here) and vineyards with their rows of autumnal, golden-leaved vines. The sun shines through a break in the bruise-colored clouds onto the soggy hills that surround us. It’s truly a breathtaking scene — punctuated only by a moment of heart-in-the-mouth terror when a Fiat swoops down upon us head-on like an avenging demon, squeezes through the impossibly narrow gap between us and a stone retaining wall, then roars off in an indignant cloud of exhaust.

Volpaia is a tiny cluster of stone buildings surrounded by slopeside vineyards and olive orchards. We wait out a rain squall in the car, then walk along a winding mountain lane to take in the magnificent views before stopping in at a speakeasy (the only one in town) for a drink to wait until La Bodega opens for dinner at seven.

Outside the front door, an older couple are having a heated discussion that looks like it could turn into a fistfight at any minute, but as we approach, they smile briefly at one another, then continue. All is well; family business as usual in Italy, it seems. We push in past them and find ourselves surrounded by women, all of whom are shouting at the top of their lungs at one another. It’s deafening, except for the occasional pause when they sip their Campari sodas. And it’s totally classic.

We sit for apertifs and snacks and pass a couple of pleasant hours chatting and watching the owner play with his dog, a funny little Jack Russell terrier named Jack. At one point, I strike up a conversation with a fellow sipping a glass of red wine at the counter; he turns out to be a waiter at La Bodega, killing time before his shift.

“We’re planning to head over at seven,” I tell him.

“You have a reservation?” he asks.

“No,” I say. “Should I?”

“You do now,” he tells me with a smile.

La Bodega is a gem of a restaurant in an old stone farmhouse. The interior is plastered in the usual Tuscan style, with exposed patches of brick and stone showing through to reveal elegant craftsmanship on the window headers and other structural features. The lighting is romantic; the wine cellar exhales a cool, musky, and thoroughly enchanting breath as we walk past it; and we haven’t been seated for more than a few seconds when two sparkling glasses of prosecco appear before us, as though by magic.

Our waiter, Dominico, treats us like old friends, and soon we’re laughing and joking with him. He makes a face at Lindsie’s first choice of pasta, then directs her to the black truffle tagliatelli.

“You want the best, that’s it,” he tells her.

Antipasti is succulent tomatoes with boconcini, drizzled in young olive oil and sprinkled with fresh basil. It’s absolutely delicious — but it’s nothing compared to what arrives next.

The tagliatelli is soft, plump, firm, and perfectly coated in the most mouthwatering sauce of butter, herbs, and savoury black truffles. My senses are so overwhelmed that I can’t keep my mouth from watering even when I’ve finished most of the dish. It’s divine, even if a quick pic taken while drooling doesn’t do it justice .

There’s a clattering of sharp little toenails on the tiles; it’s Jack the dog, who has come to visit and inspect the restaurant. He trots among the tables, sniffing leisurely, before disappearing into the kitchen, where he is welcomed with cries of “Jack! Jack!”

And then the magic dish arrives: roasted wild boar with spinach and black olives. (Apparently boars are a dangerous nuisance in the area, so the ever-innovative Italians do their best to control the problem by roasting the beasts to perfection.) The meat is juicy and so tender it falls apart in your mouth. It is unbelievably tasty, probably the most delicious cut of meat I have ever tasted.

And then I try an olive.

I have never, ever, EVER tasted an olive this magnificent. The texture is soft and yielding, but the flavors are what transport it into the realm of something truly otherworldly. My first impression is that it tastes like a perfect sundried tomato, but soon other flavors begin to emerge and dance around my tongue: sea salt, red wine, butter, roasted mushroom. It’s like a sip of amarone wine that lingers for five minutes and directs a parade of flavors through your mouth.

In the end, it defies description. But it’s the best olive I have ever tasted. And so are the next fifteen or so.

Finally, after a liter of Volpaia Chianti, a chocolate-soaked slice of perfect cake, a grappa, and an espresso, our mission is a success. We’ve experienced a four-course Italian masterpiece in all its glory — and at 66 euros, it’s the most affordable masterpiece I’ve had the good fortune to enjoy. We thank Dominico profusely and stagger out the door, clutching our gloriously distended bellies — and keeping a close watch on the dark vineyards for any vengeful relatives of that ill-fated boar.

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