WHEN I was last in Italy, eating my way from the French border to Rome, a colleague e-mailed me a message, asking "What are you eating that's new?" My quick, happy and grateful reply was, "Almost nothing."

Those of us who began traveling in Europe in the 60's and earlier were astonished at the near-impossibility of finding bad food. This has changed in most places, but in laid-back Italy the walk-in-off-the-street method of finding a restaurant still works.

I recalled the Alps between France and Italy being a haven of polenta and sausage. And at our first stop in Italy — a Piedmontese mountain pass — I got my fix.

In Alba, a gastronomic center that rivals Parma and perhaps Lyon, we headed for Osteria dell'Arco, where I had a memorable meal 15 years ago. Back then, the communal tables were strewn with grissini, the incomparable local breadsticks, and you poured yourself good dolcetto, reporting the number of glasses when paying the bill. Now it's a white tablecloth restaurant. You can still eat a local specialty of minced raw young beef with olive oil and salt and still-wonderful grissini; I especially enjoyed salted merluzzo (whiting) over sliced potatoes, with loads of peppery olive oil.

I was offered a similar dish the next night, at Osteria Lalibera, recommended by a tomato vendor at the local market whose gorgeously misshapen products, in various stages of ripeness, drew my eye. I wasn't that hungry because we'd eaten lunch at a terrific if touristic restaurant in Acqui Terme: farinata (the local chickpea flat bread), little herb omelets, pasta with porcini (it had rained, so they were on every menu) and braised beef. Again the merluzzo was irresistible, as was a little more pasta, and ultimately I was compelled to finish a dish of tripe with bread crumbs.

Due south, we arrived at Albisola, a seaside town with a beach divvied up by entrepreneurs who rent space, umbrellas and lounge chairs. You wouldn't think a town like this would hold much promise of a good meal. But at a randomly chosen trattoria across the street from the beach, we ate grilled vegetables; farinata; orechiette with cuttlefish, fresh porcini, parsley, garlic and oil; and gnocchi with local blue cheese. Dessert was fresh strawberries with sugar and lemon. We drank white wine and mineral water. It cost about $40, for two.

This was classic, seasonal food (including the porcini, a "luxury" item) of the region, served without pretense, in a no-name place. Though such experiences are increasingly rare elsewhere, in Italy the place is barely worth recommending because there are scores much like it within 20 miles.

In Genoa, whose enormous medieval quarter contains dozens of tiny food shops, I stumbled upon Antica Sciamadda, an ancient shop that turned out to be famous for its farinata, which is soft, almost polenta-like on the bottom, but crisp on top. While I was there a man walked in and got a panino di farinata — two slices of focaccia with farinata between.

The food of Tuscany has never thrilled me, but I spent a few days in Lucca and the surrounding towns, with no recommendations other than "Get the grilled salt cod" and "Make sure you try the soup."

The cod (with pepper, please, not lemon; a friend insists a waiter once grabbed a piece of lemon out of his hand, substituting a pepper mill), and the soup, a kind of minestrone with farro, were amazing and offered in at least half the restaurants I checked out.

But no one told me about the lardo (thin slices of cured fat with herbs), or farro risotto, or fried rabbit, or thin-sliced pork knuckle — described by my waiter as "roasted with olive oil, nothing else" — with killer roast potatoes, at a restaurant my concierge recommended, readily owning up to getting a kickback.

It was completely different from the local specialties of rival Pisa, just down the road, and as foreign from those of the Maremma, a coastal part of southern Tuscany, as from those of Seville.

In Rome, potluck can serve you well or ill. The city is so filled with tourists that, given the right location, a bad, cynical, money-grubbing cook can turn a profit. Still, even the Vatican cafeteria serves better food than half the Italian restaurants in the United States. And if you leave the center, the odds improve enormously. I'd read about Trattoria Monti, near the train station, in a nonfood guidebook. The food was typical and good: pasta with anchovies, raisins and pignoli, followed by salt cod with potatoes and saffron. At a nearby place I had a simple lunch of veal with garlicky fresh tomato sauce, olives and lemon.

In the Macello, around Rome's slaughterhouse, offal, the often discarded parts of the animal, was turned into daily fare centuries ago. Spicy pasta alla paiata, with lambs' intestines; zampi, pigs' trotters with lentils; and tripe stewed with tomatoes, chilies, pecorino and mint, are still common dishes, and found all over town.

Wherever we went, Roman seafood was cooked in the simple style I remember — with olive oil, lemon, garlic and parsley. I revisited Da Franco, a no-menu joint in the University district where about $30 a person buys octopus or other seafood salad; fried anchovies with zucchini; steamed mussels with garlic and oil; linguine with clams; beans with pasta and cuttlefish; grilled langoustine; sautéed flounder and usually another dish or two (with Frascati and aqua di Neppi, included in the price).

It was what I expected, what I wanted, and what I got. How often does that happen? In Italy, thankfully, quite a lot.

The New York Times > Dining & Wine > The Minimalist: Good News: Nothing's New in Italy
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