LIDO 84 RESTAURANT - THEATRE ON THE LAKE
Lido 84 sits exactly where Italy begins to dream of itself — on the western banks of Lake Garda, between Limone (a lemon-scented fantasy village) and Salò, the more aristocratic neighbour.
The restaurant’s setting is almost absurdly cinematic: water shimmering like polished glass, sailboats idling like props, the Alps brooding in the distance.
The house once belonged to an old lady who kept fishing boats and a small dock. Today it’s been re-imagined down to the last nail: a stylish, gourmet temple built over memory. Inside, bright reds and lake greens clash in deliberate harmony, a scene lifted straight from Amarcord. It’s all very Fellini meets D’Annunzio — a theatre of beauty, art, and Italian contradiction.
Just above, on the hill, lies D’Annunzio’s infamous Vittoriale degli Italiani — part mausoleum, part ship, part hallucination — funded in part by Mussolini when the poet-soldier ran out of cash. It’s the perfect backdrop for chef Riccardo Camanini’s philosophy: a dialogue between art and precision, between restraint and baroque excess. Dinner here isn’t just a meal; it’s more of a curated exhibition.
Prelude: Small Miracles
The menu arrives like an artist’s sketchbook, textured paper and hand-drawn flourishes. Then the procession begins: a chickpea madeline with a hint of chili; a crystalline mushroom consommé served as if it were perfume; a mustard leaf tempura, light as glass; an amaranth leaf stuffed with hazelnut miso and dusted with dried cabbage powder. Each bite feels like a coded message from some Italian surrealist society — playful, erudite, impossible to pin down.
Act I – The Sea in Fragments
The first “proper” course is both comic and profound: a deep-fried sphere of scallop and cod belly, gelatinous and lime-kissed, glazed with honey. They’re the haute-cuisine version of a childhood takeaway — sweet, sticky and hugely comforting. Wines come with the recommendation of a very chilled sommelier who I let decide what type of white should accompany the dishes with two caveats - no oak preferably, no orange wine and no funky natural stuff. And so I brighten up significantly when he arrives with the volcanic Terre Nere from Sicily, which happens to be one of my favourites.
Next, a large, poached Gillardeau oyster, shocked in a very hot oven in its own shell and juices and laid on charred smoky, crispy sourdough. “Cooked, but not cooked,” our waiter murmurs like a priest. The oyster is warm, saline, its texture somewhere between velvet and silk paired with the crispy sourdough seems like a modern take on a bruschetta.
As a supplement to my partner instead of the oyster comes a glistening piece of of amberjack with a slice of lardo and plum sauce — a refined nod to barbecue, sticky and elegant all at once. Followed by a poached cod with local mushrooms, a dish so quietly confident with its pearly nacre, that it almost vanishes as you eat it, leaving only a trail of umami behind.
Finally, a plate that stops conversation: fermented black-garlic rice punctuated with dots of sweet berry reduction, an edible tribute to artist Stefano Bombardieri. The black and crimson swirl inspired by the atists black attire, looks like a modernist canvas; the flavour is deep, primal, almost meditative.
Act II – The Pasta
Then comes the restaurant’s intellectual heart: pasta.
First, the celebrated spaghettoni with local butter and brewer’s yeast. The yeast, dried and crumbly, mimics Parmigiano in texture and umami, yet has its own nutty warmth. It’s a minimalist’s dream — rich, aromatic, deceptively simple. To me, it leaned perhaps too far into austerity — a touch more punch wouldn’t have hurt — but it’s a fascinating idea: simplicity as philosophy. The Sommelier here tricks me into this battonage Villa Dora Vigna del Vulcano, which is oaky without being oaky at all - just the technology and the terroir make it a match in heaven with the yeast.
Then the opposite: rigatoni cacio e pepe cooked inside a pig’s bladder (“rigatoni alla vecchia”). A revival of an ancient Roman method once described by Apicius himself, where the bladder acts as both vessel and flavour amplifier. The kitchen sews it, boils the paste inside it with olive oil, a touch of water, black pepper, and a 24-month-aged pecorino romano cheese, and even admits they can’t fully control the outcome — each batch is unique. The result is astonishing: rigatoni that’s meaty in texture, the sauce viscous and perfumed, the pepper blooming like incense. It’s the dish that best captures Lido’s spirit — historical, obsessive, mischievous. The wine is a masterpiece here as well - an indigenous grape from Piedmont, the timorasso. I must say there are few whites that have the same aura and pull as this one had.
Act III – The Flesh
The next chapter brings grilled sweetbread with rum, honey, mustard, and bergamot. It’s a French classic rewritten in Italian verse — no cream, just clarity and light. The bergamot cuts through the richness with a citrusy sting, keeping the whole thing airborne.
Then the main course: a bavette of Fassona beef from Piemont, glazed in duck fat, dressed with Barolo (Nebbiolo) grape skins shaved of the top of hard testun cheese. The result is a symphony of depth — umami from the occasional blisters of cheese pieces, tannic fruit from the grapes, and the round, enveloping warmth of the bavette. On the side sits a Robuchon-style potato purée, equal parts potato and butter, so rich it deserves its own warning label.
The wine here was marked with a funky Question Mark sleeve that I forgot to take a photo of. I guessed it was a Syrah because of the pepper- wrong. Then a more classic Bordeaux - wrong again. Actually it was a Friuli Bressan Pinot Nero, which was a trick again from the sommelier, as it was a pure natural wine - of course going against my preconceptions and theories.
Finale – The Rose and the Forest
Dessert arrives as both spectacle and comfort: the restaurant’s signature Torta di Rosa, a warm, brioche-like cake somewhere between panettone and prayer. You tear it apart with your hands and dunk it into rum zabaglione, the sort of act that feels indecent in a Michelin restaurant and therefore perfect. Alongside it, tiny tortellone like pouches filled with berries, whose sharp acidity slices neatly through all that richness — a palate cleanser disguised as art.
Curtain Call
Service, as throughout, is almost balletic — each dish delivered by a different sous-chef, some a touch robotic, others visibly nervous, as if the plates might outshine them. But the warmth of the room belongs to Giancarlo Camanini, Riccardo’s brother, who runs front-of-house with charm and ease. He tells stories of the house, the produce and the history of some of the dishes. Riccardo himself emerges later, smiling, earnest, and impossibly generous with his time — the kind of chef who wants you to understand not just his cooking but his geography. He also speaks passionately about D'Annunzio, the Vittoriale, even tips on cycling routes around Limone.
We leave long after sunset, the lake whispering against the dock. It feels less like finishing dinner and more like stepping out of a dream staged entirely in slow motion.
Lido 84 is, quite simply, one of the most intellectually and emotionally stimulating dining experiences in Italy. The flavours are comforting, the ideas audacious, and the execution so precise it borders on devotion. It may hold one Michelin star, but in heart, vision, and craft, it glows far brighter.
Lido 84 by Riccardo Camanini
Gardone Riviera (Lake Garda)
Overall: 9/10
