Every time I go to Paceville, I notice that the weekenders revelling there are getting younger and younger.

Strike that.

Every time I go to Paceville I realise that I am getting older and older and everybody else has remained the same age.

That’s better. Or worse.

I wonder how adults – that’s anybody over thirty, rather than anyone over 18 – can bring themselves to get angry, or worried, about the twelve year olds in teeny strips of material (a.k.a. ‘skirts’) still hanging around at 2am. They do. By implication, that means that nobody is getting minimally het up about the twelve year old boys, unless, of course, they are wearing skirts. The expression ‘insejtu zmienek’, sadly lost in translation, springs to mind.

We stood outside of Profumo di…, in that mecca between the Avenue corner and the bars of Ball Street and watched as the teens poured in of a Saturday night. All the girls were wearing really small outfits or at a push, jeans. The boys wore McBellies and generally fugly clothing, including hanging trousers. So far, so absolutely normal.

Most were loud. We heard other people’s conversations, also called ‘teen showing off’ and watched as two wardens chose which cars to give tickets to. They seemed to be operating on some kind of face control: one less-than-pretty Yugo got it; a convertible right behind it, on a corner, on a pavement, but with personalised number plates, didn’t. The warden walked over to a four-wheeler and touched its bonnet. How sweet, I thought, he connects with the cars before blasting their windscreens with paper. Some guy shouted out of a window ‘I’m coming! I just came in to change my shoes!’. ‘That’s not true’ warden answered when the guy appeared at the door downstairs ‘the engine is cold’.

The only worrisome thing about Profumo di… is its location. Oddly, over the past two years, more and more Italians are coming to Malta to set up shop and most of them end up buying or renting restaurant property in Paceville. The area is full of them. Most are literally wasting space and their constantly empty tables give me the impression that they are nothing but a cover operation for something not wholly legal.

Profumo di… is anything but this. Run by a very tight-knit family and their ‘adopted son’ waiter/manager who is Maltese, it is one of those ‘wow this is just great’ places which you have to make a leap of faith for. Maybe it is the elderly owner’s gleaming blue eyes, or his ex-banker son’s passion for the kitchen and genuine food. Maybe it is just how everything comes together seemingly with no great effort but a whole lotta love as it does in most trattorie.

The Writer wanted some negroni but the Spanish waitress had no idea what it was. Not having realised where she had originated from I reminded TW that just last week, a waiter in Italy had no idea what a negroni was either. The owner rushed over, apologised for his waitress’ lack of knowledge and apologised again for not having any vermouth. Could I have some prosecco, I asked.

The prosecco was already on its way. Here, they give it as an aperitif, for free. Now that’s lovely isn’t it? Much better than offering a liqueur at the end which most people refuse because they are too full and too inebriated. They offer a liqueur too: their own limoncello with brown sugar.

More freebies came along in the form of focaccia, which was slightly thicker than normal, but still very good. The version with butter-sweetened onions was sublime. Four large squares of crumbly sheep’s cheese in fruity olive oil accompanied. And we had not even ordered anything yet.

Profumo di… pride themselves on their Genoise pesto, which they make themselves with basil from Genoa. The owners apparently tried the local version of the herb but found it, correctly, to be too peppery. Then they tried to grow the Genoise seeds in local soil but of course, as anybody with a basic knowledge of terroir will tell you, the end result was almost as pungent. So these days, they import the plant. All other herbs they use are growing in pots outside the restaurant: throughout dinner they were popping in and out to cut leaves to decorate plates with and add to dishes.

Therefore, although I have been no-wheating for more than a week, I could not but try it. Although they have a vegetable vellutata with pesto, the waiter said that the best way to try the pesto in its full force was, of course, on pasta. Their trenette al pesto are nothing short of historic, the traditional sauce subtle and velvety, not overpowering at all. There were small pieces of potato in the mix which I pushed to the side and yet, long after I had stopped eating, even after a swirl of the very strong Baciale’ wine, I could still taste that pesto and wanted more.

At this point, TW was trying to get his head around the massive ‘profumo di…’ starter. There was salmon marinated with ginger, fresh and almost Asian in pungency. There was octopus and barracuda. There was fish fillet marinated with fresh crushed juniper berries, slightly overwhelming, but still pleasant. All of them came individually on their own lettuce leaf. At the point where he was wondering whether he could possibly even eat half, a bowl of mussels with two slices of toast made its appearance. I had never asked for a cat bag at starter stage, so this was a first.

My mains included four slices of seared tuna, all with different toppings or marinades, including one with tiny chopped roasted peppers and another with a reduction of balsamic vinegar. The tuna was just blasted kindly on the outside and raw on the inside, a method of cooking which will scare some but which pleased me no end. Almost Japanese in style, as happens with wasabi, there was a dollop of mustard and lemon cream. It was punchy and fabulous.

TW’s stuffed calamari were salty and redolent of anchovy, which probably made an appearance in the mix, packed to the gills without being packed with rice. The meat package was faultless, the filling fearless.

I stopped eating my tuna somewhere after the first slice. ‘The portions are huge’ I told the waiter. ‘You never know what people will like’ he told me ‘Some eat those starters and just set themselves up for more’. He packed all our food to take away, separating the stuff for the cat and those for the humans: us. The blue-eyed owner worried on the tuna’s behalf: ‘Please don’t heat that in a microwave’ he begged ‘A quick sear on a frying pan will have it back to the right temperature’. ‘I don’t own one’ I replied, which seemed to make him happy.

For dessert, the idea of which I was grappling with at this point, they had a marmalade tart, another with chocolate and almond, and a tiramisu. Any glutton will tell you that the idea of softness, of creaminess, of not having to cut through pastry, will please the person whose guts are about to burst because there is no physical challenge involved. This one was outrageously good, moreish to the point of idiocy, even though I do like my alcohol in the tiramisu to be slightly more ferocious.

I will be returning to Profumo di… in spite of the fact that it is in the one town in Malta which never ceases to remind us of our age. Their simple and elegant menu, their genuine ingredients and the sheer love which this family have imbued into being restaurateurs is a constantly beckoning force.