My English husband likes to tell a story about Lo Scoglio. "You will fly to Naples, perhaps from London directly, perhaps from New York with a transfer in Munich, Milan, or Rome. You will then take the scenic or eternal Circumvesuviana train around the bay of Naples, or, more likely, Lo Scoglio will have sent Fabrizio, everyone's favorite local driver. The road is long and twisty, slow and annoying. You will be dizzy. You will be so nauseous that the views won't soothe you. You will tumble into Lo Scoglio in a state. And then you will sit down on the deck, order a bottle of white wine and a tomato salad. And when you have the first bite, the hideous journey will disappeared and you'll actually say out loud, 'okay. NOW I get it.'"
This is the tomato salad. It's that magical.