David Lloyd rekindles his love with a stylish Italian, and promises never to stray again...

I’M starting to panic about new stuff. Every day there seems to be more of it… I’ve got shelves full of new books. MP3s downloaded and parked in a holding pattern above my iPod, lists of desirable gadgets circled from ‘Stuff’ magazine…

I need a new stuff amnesty. No more new stuff until I’ve all devoured the things that are currently cluttering my head and preventing me from sleeping at night.

There are, I’m sure, some people (young people, with autonomous hair and unreliable hygiene) who can suck all this stuff in, blog about it and nonchalantly get it out and name check it with peers, like some zeitgeist tamogatchi.

I mightn’t have to worry too much. As the recession bites, there’ll be a whole period where I won’t be able to afford to buy new stuff at all.

You’ll think you’ve got away with it. But you won’t have. Somewhere down the line, some cool events organiser you meet in Heebies will casually reference Stina Nordenstam, and your cover will be blown.

The trouble with all this forward propulsion is that there never seems a suitable time to play your old Blur CDs, or re-visit a favourite novel. And that’s the biggest tragedy of all. The same can be said about the need to be first to try out the new distractions in our ever expanding restaurant-filled city.

But, in doing so, we’re missing much. When Il Forno opened a few years back, it
ruffled a few foodie feathers, claiming to be ‘Liverpool’s first authentic Italian restaurant’ – this was, surely, another Italian in a city with its fair share. But to lump it in the same category as your neighbourhood pizzeria was as wrong-footed as casting Al Pacino in the lead role of a Silvio Berlusconi biopic.

It’s a place I’d not been to for a couple of years, as I flirted with the city’s shiny new arrivals.
But as soon as we’d settled into a snug red leather booth, surrounded by glowing onyx and preened over by waiters, I knew: It was good to be back.

Il Forno’s Cinecitta production values lend a few dramatic touches to the space: an oversized Roman God’s head doubling as a stone oven, belching out bruschette, and a sweeping glass fronted deli counter - but this is really an intimate family restaurant where regulars and staff gossip and flirt over seriously fresh seafood, excellent wines and ridiculous puddings.

For starters, we enjoyed plump, ozoney Scallops served with a fennel salad (£7.95), Bresaola (air dried fillet of beef) with rocket and parmesan (£7.95) - a textbook lesson in reduction. Three ingredients - total perfection.

We tried to order a New Zealand Sauvignon. Our knowledgeable waiter, Piero, made a sad face. He was from Sicily. We didn't argue. He chose, instead, a fine Sancerre, which was the perfect shotgun partner to a special of meaty, perfectly grilled Swordfish with sundried and cherry tomatoes (£18), and gutsy enough to work with the juicily pink Oven baked rack of lamb with rosemary and garlic, artichokes and saute potatoes (£16.95). Two rounds in, and we couldn't fault with any of it. We'd been to newer Italians in the past 12 months. But Il Forno had a point, this was the only authentic one.

We settled in for one of the most enjoyable dining experiences we've had for months - culminating in custardy profiteroles (£5.50), and quivering Panna cotta (£4.95). Proof that no-one does deserts like the Italians. I made a note in my new smartphone to give up the youth development work and come back to the family.