The seafood restaurant revolutionising coastal cuisine: Jacopo Ticchi’s third way

Even a breadstick tastes better by the sea. Da Lucio feels like a ship floating in the Adriatic, an extension of the rocky outcrops in Rimini’s new dock. The day is slow and gloomy, cold and damp like few others — perfect for treating oneself to a solo lunch at the restaurant everyone’s talking about.
"That place is cursed; everyone who's tried has failed."
"The chef’s got a big head—£130 for a tasting menu from someone who ran a trattoria?"
"The restaurant of the moment, redefining the boundaries of haute cuisine."
"Pretentious. Still not quite there."
The comments we gathered the day before our visit weren’t exactly consistent, and our curiosity was sky-high. We secured a table with a view of the kitchen and found ourselves immersed in the rhythms of a crew of thirty-somethings—long beards, baseball caps, a carefree, lively atmosphere.
Jacopo Ticchi, the mastermind behind it all, wasn’t there—he was busy at a trade fair in town. Tasting menu? No, we had come for two meticulously crafted dishes, one of which was the fish broth.

Act one.

A waiter waves a charming wooden tray under our noses, displaying seven or eight cuts of fish, each with a label and price. The “sea trolley” features seabass throats, a tuna belly sculpted by Bernini himself, a little bundle of snapper that makes you salivate, and other delicacies. "Alright, we’ll leave it to you."
With perfect consistency, we opt for the full-length tasting menu!

From trattoria to a fish ageing lab

We kick things off with a welcome cocktail—complete with a piece of seaweed instead of an olive at the bottom of the glass—and we’re off. No tablecloths (these days, rarer than a good Nebbiolo in California), elegant wooden tables, and large windows.
The opening takes us back to when Da Lucio still had “trattoria” in its name—back in 2019, it was a tiny hole-in-the-wall in the city’s multicultural district, not far from the train station.
The piping-hot crescia comes with two-year-aged pancetta, a skewer of morone or deep-sea amberjack with bottarga on top, and sweet-and-sour onions to cleanse the palate—a delightful bite to whet the appetite. The fish, proudly displayed at the entrance, is Adriatic, aged for an average of a week.
It doesn’t always work with raw dishes: the seabass with lovage bitterness is excellent; the snapper with citrus and lily verges on metallic. The overall quality is high, but where there’s no standout ingredient (like roe), the flavour feels a bit flat—there’s a reason why fish soups are still a staple in these parts.

With ageing, the fish gains in texture —substantial, but not necessarily more savoury. We have fun with a terrine made from fish scraps—unexpected and convincing.

Act two.

A mountain of crusted pepper arrives, inside which skate wings have been cooked—dressed with a sauce of bluefish and pine nuts. We nearly jump out of our seats.
The technique is superb, the cooking point surgical, the flesh firm and juicy, and the pepper has seeped into the fish in a way that is both harmonious and elegant. Overwhelming.

Jacopo Ticchi chef and patron of Da Lucio in Rimini

Informal service and a return to the grill

Between smiles and banter, the service keeps things light and easy-going.

Act three is all about the grill.

The turbot fillet brings back memories of the legendary Elkano in the Basque Country, and to reinforce the experience, we get a mix of offal to eat with our hands and an amberjack collar lacquered in a wood-fired oven, perfectly spiced. To enhance it all, there’s an onion cooked under the embers—the flavour of fire here is next level.

We’re in ecstasy, daydreaming about Portuguese sailors, drifting through harbours and restaurants worldwide. And we ask for seconds: first, a tuna belly (ventresca) from Spain that looks like Kobe beef, with its incredibly marbled fat, cooked to perfection. Then, the amberjack throats, presented like a sea version of saltimbocca, with butter and sage in a pil pil sauce.

As always, the dish is brought out by the person who cooked it, smiling and full of passion—just two or three words, then back into the kitchen. The ship sails on an unwritten score that everyone follows to the letter.

The kitchen treats us to some scallops swimming in a sea of butter and bottarga—less successful this time.

Act Four.

An enormous terracotta pot is cracked open before us: the traditional brodetto fish stew. Two ladles in, plus a slice of good garlic-rubbed bread that practically screams.

Tuna ventresca. To start, grilled lacquered amberjack collar.

Beyond the coldness of fine dining

Two or three spoonfuls and we stop—the wood-fired cooking and tomato concentration are incredibly intense, the broth nearly viscous, missing an element of lightness to give it rhythm. Baroque, excessive.
Ironically, the dish we came for is the least exciting.

As we mentioned in last month’s issue, the final act—like in Asia—features pasta and carbs. Hollow cappelletti with cream and fish liver; filling and stuffing swap roles to bring us full circle back to the sea.

Meanwhile, the crew is polishing the kitchen back to a shine; looking closely, the dining room really does resemble a ship. Even without Captain Ticchi, this pirate vessel is in peak form.

We found an unusual warmth and social atmosphere for a place like this—a perfect camaraderie between chefs and waitstaff. It’s not a trattoria, but it also lacks the aloofness of many fine-dining establishments.

Even the wine list is a bit rebellious

There’s empathy, a service that’s both playful and welcoming. The decision to serve all dishes at the centre of the table fosters a genuine sense of sharing among diners, which is lovely. As does the communal table in the adjacent room, the spirits corner, and the bread counter (from February, they’ll also be offering takeaway breakfasts—best enjoyed right by the sea).

We could feel the energy of a bold, fresh project—not yet perfect, but navigating less-travelled routes. Even the wine list is rebellious—three-quarters of it could be picked blind, just by looking at the setting and the people: a natural-leaning, slightly hardcore selection, but with some lesser-known labels thrown in.

At the end of the evening, Giacomo, the sommelier who’s looked after us from start to finish, shares his dream of opening a wine bar on Lake Como, where his parents run a restaurant.
"One day, there’s produce from the garden, the next, it’s supermarket stuff. A bit of order is needed," he chuckles.

We leave the restaurant and head towards the yellow lighthouse tower at the end of the rocks. It feels like the edge of the world—only two girls are there, chatting on their phones. And that fine, intangible Adriatic mist, so typical in winter.

Everything is still. Everything is moving.