27-28 October 2012, Leipzig, Part Two

27-28 October 2012

Leipzig

The "Motete" at Thomas Kirche was not a concert. It was eighty per cent music, but it was a Lutheran service. And the Thomas Kirche choir was outstanding as one would expect of a group that just turned seven-hundred years old. Their pitch was exact. Their articulation of all those German consonants was clear as a bell. And their sound, in that famous church of Bach's, made me think of a pipe organ, a human pipe organ with lungs instead of bellows.  We loved it. Our fellow congregants must have liked it, too. But they are Lutherans and applause was strictly forbidden--it explicitly said so in the program.  They did not smile and they did not make eye contact. In my view, what Martin Luther advocated is austere and unexpressive unless you are expressing disapproval. His ideas were illegal in Leipzig up until the year fifteen-thirty. After that he became powerful and his practices spread like wild fire.

We arrived into Leipzig's huge train station--twenty-six platforms.  It may be huge, but it is very well laid out and easy to maneuver.  From there we walked four blocks to our hotel. The climate was freezing, literally. But walking was still very nice. Leipzig was once a small walled city, like Lucca in Italy, and Dubrovnik in Croatia. In our modern jet-set era it has a fin-de-siecle, an old world charm which is rare and a pleasure to stroll through even when you are pulling roll-aboards from the train station.

And what a reward was in store for us when we reached the hotel. The Steigenberger Grand Hotel is a state-of-the-art luxury inn. One year old. A baby. Hardly been slept in. It looks and feels like "the" place to be and in Leipzig, it is. We especially loved the spa. We dragged our world-weary, achy, travel-abused limbs down there and--after sauna and steam and foot soaks and warm-scented tropical showers and bathrobes and chaises and softly wafting spa music--floated out hours later relaxed and renewed.

In addition to the Thomas Kirche we dwelt a bit in the world of the Nicolai Kirche. It, too, is Lutheran. It, too, featured Bach and his new cantatas every other week.  But since nineteen-eighty-nine it has a distinct honor related to the fall of the communist government in East Germany.

The church began a weekly, what they called, "prayer for peace" during which they prayed for fairness, democracy and peace. Their communist government tried to stop them by force and violence then by infiltration. Once the police were in the church and heard the "prayers" they softened and it changed the relationship between the oppressors and the oppressed. It is considered that the movement to bring down the Berlin Wall and communist rule and to re-unite East and West Germany got it's start with the Nicolai Kirche's "prayer for peace."

Leipzig in the Snow

Today is a special day. It is snowing. Scarves, gloves, hats. People carrying pine boughs. Is it Christmas behavior? Or is it seasonal behavior? Weather gets cold, let's get pine boughs, drink mulled wine, eat more stew. I love it. We walked in the light snow to visit the residence of the composer, Felix Mendelssohn who lived in Leipzig for the second half of his life. He died fairly young at thirty-nine years old. Just outside the old city, a block past the old moat, we arrived at an old wooden door. Turned the knob, entered and ascended an old, decorated, dark wooden stairway that looked unchanged from when Mendelssohn last walked it.   

Worn, uneven and creaky, we walked the stairs up to the second floor and into his apartment. There were about ten rooms open for us to see. The largest was a salon with a piano for performances. Otherwise, the rooms were small with room for a  bed and a desk and not much else. We saw his watercolors paintings. And his composing desk. And we stood in his bedroom where he died.  Mendelssohn was a prodigy and, like Mozart, as a child and a young man he was reading latin and greek, composing, conducting, dazzling audiences with his piano virtuosity and traveling and painting with watercolors images of his favorite places.  During his final dozen years he started a music conservatory (it still exists) and became conductor of the Gewandhaus Orchestra. There he promoted works by his composer colleagues and honored dead unplayed composers like Bach and Schubert. He revived their unperformed works. The evidence indicates he was a good man, a kind man who sought to always be helpful. Those thoughts were fresh in our minds when we went to hear his symphony in a concert that evening at the Nicolai Kirche.

The Nicolai Kirche is about nine-hundred years old. Add to that it's "prayer for peace" history, it's Bach connection, it's Martin Luther history. And factor in it's flattering acoustic, it's pastel green and pink interior, it's tall fluted columns that burst into palm fronds when they reach the ceiling.  Then there is the magnificent, powerful, pew-rattling organ from the year eighteen-fifty.  It is a special place. We sat in the front row of the first pew, practically in the violin section. And it was a good concert. 

The orchestra was, as usual in Germany, very good.  They began with  Mendelssohn's Symphony Number Five. It is known as, The Reformation Symphony. Mendelssohn's family was jewish, but they knew how to be Lutheran-friendly in order to avoid discrimination. To honor the three-hundredth anniversary of Martin Luther's "Augsburg Confession" Mendelssohn (twenty years old) wrote a symphony using Martin Luther's hymn, "Ein feste Burg ist unser Gott", (A Mighty Fortress is Our God.) The next piece, an organ solo by Max Reger also used the hymn. The concert finale was the Symphony Number Three by Camille Saint-Saens. Wes and I were both hearing the Saint-Saens for the first time. We loved it. Our heads were full of history. Our ears saturated with music.  For a perfect ending we went in search of pastry.

We had very good food in Leipzig. It was different than Berlin and Dresden.  There were more stews and wild game.  And things that tasted like home-cooking.  At our first dinner we ate herb-crusted wild boar on a bed of wild mushrooms. And a goulash with roasted parsnips. We drank beer. The prominent one here is Ur-Krostitzer, in business since fifteen-thirty-four.

For our final Leipzig dinner we ate in the "Alte Nicolaischule" Restaurant. The building began life as the Nicolai Kirche boys school in the year fifteen-eleven. (Their most renowned student, opera composer, Richard Wagner, was asked to leave after two years.  Instead of doing his school work he would while away the hours writing plays in five-acts in the style of Shakespeare. A very creative slacker.)  Today, the building is no longer a school. The ground floor is a restaurant and to open the front door and walk in is to turn back the hands of time and enter "ye olde tavern."  Austere stone floors and walls. Plain wooden chairs and tables dim lit with candles.  Like a roadside inn for horse-drawn carriages.  Like walking into a centuries-old painting of a tavern. The menu was fresh game. As if the chef went, today, on a hunt and what he caught is what we will eat.  Catch of the day. We had pheasant and venison. Both were outstanding. Served with sides of brussel sprouts, diced bacon, spiced red cabbage and mashed potatoes.  Tall, too tall, steins of beer. An outstanding meal. The waiter came over. He said something in German. We shook our heads and made uncomprehending eyes. He steeled himself for English and said, with slow precision, "The. Meal. Vas. Appropriate?". Yes, we said, very appropriate, thank you, very delicious, too delicious, wonderful, danke.

Goodbye Leipzig. You have been wonderful.

27-28 October 2012
Leipzig 

A Closing Statement:

It has been an exceptional experience. Wesley the travel planner has done an indescribably outstanding job. Many times, I have felt, "I cannot believe I have the tremendous good fortune to be in these places having these experiences".  We traveled to four countries. They all felt comfortable even where language was a barrier. As you can tell by my wordiness, I have been an insufferable history geek, but I cannot be accused of not squeezing every ounce of culture out of each place we have been. If I have written too much, if I have oversaturated the readers, I apologize. These entries began as a way of sending updates quicker than postcards. Now, they seem like something that can be read years from now to get a sense of how the world was when we were there. And if I am too wordy, blame it on James Michener. Good bye, till the next trip.

Marlow
29 October 2012
Frankfurt, Germany
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Final day of travel

Last day of train travel from Leipzig to Frankfurt Flughaven (Airport).  We'll be home tomorrow (Tuesday 10/30)!  It's been a great great trip.  We traveled through three seasons: summer in Spain; fall in Italy and the start of winter in Switzerland and Germany.  Anxious to be home and share more of the adventure with all of you!

26 October 2012, Leipzig, Part One

26 October 2012

Leipzig

Here we sit. Late afternoon. Inside a warm church. On chairs of bare, uncushioned wood. Outside it is winter in October. Thirty degrees Fahrenheit. We are in a long row that runs the length of the church from the front door to the altar. That is how the seats are oriented, long rows on both sides that face the center aisle.  To see the altar you must turn your head ninety degrees. Otherwise you face, eye to eye, the people in the opposing rows across from you. (Is that a Lutheran thing?)

To our right, over the tall front doors and in a loft is the organ. To our left, reached by three steps, is the altar. Mostly free of decoration, it's side walls are hung with double rows of large oil portraits of unsmiling men in dark garments.  Beneath the stern faces are double rows of chairs on both sides. I imagine singers will occupy them.

Finally, between the chairs and inlaid in the floor, is a rectangular bronze plaque. It reads: Johann Sebastian Bach, 1685-1750. His remains are beneath the plaque. This is the Saint Thomas Kirche in Leipzig.

Dear Bach, our creative genius, who's music is a balm for what ails the humans of the world. It entertains, it soothes, it uplifts. Our dear Bach worked long hard hours in Leipzig. Over-worked. Under-paid. He auditioned teenage boys--hooligans, mischief makers--for the choir school then built them into a first-rate ensemble. His boy sopranos grew up fast. Voices changed. So auditions were constant. And he played the organ. And he conducted. And did administrative work for four churches. And it was his job to select music for the Sunday services. Select? Of course not. He wrote it all himself. Every Sunday for twenty-seven years he wrote new music for the Lutheran services.

It was a big job. Modest. Humble. Lots of bosses to please.  He was a city employee with a contract to adhere to. After twenty-seven years of loyal service he died and was buried in an oak casket in a nearby churchyard then forgotten for eighty years until Felix Mendelssohn came to live in Leipzig and began a revival of interest in Bach's music.

Meanwhile, back in the Saint Thomas Kirche, we have been sitting now for forty-five minutes waiting for the "Motette" to begin. We are unsure if it is a church service or a concert. There is a printed program and it does list several choral compositions. But it also tells us who will give the sermon and when to rise and sit. If it is a church service, I hope we can convincingly pass as Lutherans.

And now, it is show-time. The singers--twelve men and twenty two women--have entered the front door.

Marlow and Wes
26 October 2012
Saint Thomas Kirche
Bach's workplace
Leipzig
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24-25 October 2012, Dresden

24-25 Oct 2012
Dresden

The name of our train from Berlin to Dresden is the "Johannes Brahms". It seemed a cozier, more intimate train than usual.  It was Czech. We sat in the dining car and ate seasonal Czech specialties.  The day was overcast and chilly when we arrived in Dresden. Our hotel is the Bellevue. (The famed conductor, Hans von Bulow, was born in it.) It is on the bank of the Elbe River. It faces the old city and the bridge to it. Our room has the same view as the Canaletto painting.

Dresden was a short stay occupied mostly by museums visits. Many of the great buildings of the old city were destroyed in the war. They remained piles of uncleared rubble, some for thirty or forty years. They now have all been rebuilt. The before and after photos are astounding.  And the art collections they house are impressive.

Dresden was the home of Augustus the Strong. He loved beautiful objects like buildings, jewels, paintings, sculptures, theaters. He bought and built like a fiend and much of it is on display in various museums. Most everything he acquired still has his initials. The frames of the paintings have his crest below and a crown on top.

One of the museums, the Grünes Gewölbe (Museum of Treasury Art) was his palace. He had a passion for over-the-top decorative objects.  How about a cherry stone with one-hundred and eighty-five faces carved into it. That is a bit of silliness. But there are, perhaps, eight rooms that were specially designed to hold his collections. Visited sequentially, each room out does the previous in lavish materials, decor and priceless objects. One room has wildly intricate carvings of amber fashioned into platters and cabinets. Another is ivory. Another has bowls and vessels carved from clear crystal. Another has complete sets of jewels. A matching ensemble--buttons, buckles, ear rings, necklaces, pins, a sword handle--of emeralds. Another of rubies. Another of sapphires.  Another of diamonds which include a double necklace with a dozen and a half huge, half-inch, teardrop-shaped diamonds. The Alte Meister Museum holds his painting collection. He bought good stuff. Breughel, Raphael, Vermeer and of course Canaletto. And the building has the best courtyard. Formal lawns, fountains and red earth paths.

Connected to the museum is the Alte Meister Restaurant. It is an elevated stone pavilion with large arches with windows. Comfortable and warm on a chilly night with candle light, soft jazz, good cocktails and great food. Our food begins with a warm tranche of goat cheese in a pool of fresh tomato ragout.  Next up, pumpkin soup with a quail filet on a skewer for Wesley. Coconut-cream, lemon-grass soup with prawns for me. After that, duck breast over roasted parsnips for Wes. And loin and belly of local Duroc pork for me. With the pork, I am drinking 2011 Riesling, (Rothenberg.  Nahe. Weingut Bürgermeister: B. Willi Schweinhardt. "Trocken, fein eingebundene Säure, Pfirsicharomen".)

In the moment.....while eating.....the first bite of the pork: perfect. Tender. Moist. Rich flavor. In a small pool of a rich pepper infused reduction. My wine, a white, is not at all minerally, it is intensely fruity, but not at all sweet.

(With apologies to Meredith. I know you are not here to slice and eat this delicious pork. To sip and swish this delicious wine. But you would really, really love it.)

The meal is over. It was wonderful. Everything prepared to perfection. The meats, tender, medium rare, juicy. A most comfortable place to land after a day of train travel and on a chilly winter October night.

During most of our stay the sky was overcast, but on our last morning the sky was clear and blue. We walked one last time across the bridge to wander in the sunlight. We walked through piles of colorful autumn leaves. We kicked them into the air. It was cold. Winter has come early. And we are excited now to get to Leipzig. To the train.


Marlow and Wes
24&25 October 2012
Dresden
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18-23 October 2012, Berlin, Part Two

18-23 October 2012

Berlin, Part Two

I have gotten behind in writing. We have seen and heard and tasted and felt so much it has been a lot for my brain to process. Here is the rest of Berlin.

Pedaling in the Tiergarten 

Berlin is the first German city I have ever visited. I was quickly aware that it was going to be a challenge to wallow in it's history. And it was. We took a bicycle tour. It was six hours long that flew by like a breeze.

The day was perfect. Sunshine and blue skies. We pedaled through the tree shaded lanes of the Tiergarten, Berlin's Central Park. We learned about the great theater the Deutsche Staatsoper Berlin. It was built in the seventeen-hundreds. One of the first opera houses.  And it was reconstructed in the old style after it's destruction in World War Two. We pedaled around the Brandenburg Gate. Fully restored and wildly popular. The American Embassy is there. We saw Checkpoint Charlie, a cold war relic. And the Holocaust memorial. Then more great museums and parks.  Much of the modern German history is a dark tale. This is not vacation stuff. I recognize the importance of airing historical dirty laundry. The world should be compelled to remember so as not to repeat. But dwelling in that realm is sad and solemn. I did not dwell. I took note of it and I moved on.

We stayed in a one-bedroom apartment in East Berlin at the Mandala Suites--recommended by a neighbor. After the Berlin Wall fell, parts of East Berlin were flooded with interest and money. It is still in a renaissance period and our neighborhood evidence of it. It was great. Around the corner was the Gendarmen-markt Platz.  It instantly became a favorite place to hang out. It is a large, light, old, cobble-stone paved, rectangular plaza flanked by two identical churches and a concert hall. It is an  elegant and welcoming space with lots of cafes and restaurants to enjoy it from.

Gendarmenmarkt by day

Brandenburg Gate at night

We went there on our first night. The sun had set.  There were lots of people. And they were carrying tripods. Like the city people were on a photo field trip. We learned that people were out city wide. It was for the Festival of Lights. For two weeks artists were invited to illuminate buildings. In this instance the lights were animated images on the move and colorful covering the entire surface of the buildings' facades. It was great. It brought out the Berliners for a city wide photo party.

Gendarmenmarkt at night

I am new to German food. I have grown--literally--to love their sausages (wurst) and potatoes (kartoffel). The potatoes, they sauté with onion and ham and finish with a sprinkle of fresh chopped parsley. The aroma travels far. In the Ka De We food court we wafted on that aroma like  cartoon characters.  It picked us up and floated us right into two stools at Kartoffel-Acker, a potato restaurant with twenty seats. Their potato pancake is light as a feather, thin, golden and covers the plate. Just add apple sauce. My lunch was sauteed potatoes, ham and onion cooked into a perfect omelet.  The other notable food was at Lutter & Wegner. Wes took us there several times. It is special. Beloved. Old. Since 1811. Artist, creative types, business people. Classic stuff.  I experienced my first Wiener Schnitzel (von Kalb aus der Pfanne mit lauwarmem Kartoffel-Gurkensalat) there. It was a revelation.  It covered half of the large plate. It's contour resembled South America. Like Wes's potato pancake it was light as a feather, thin, golden. I squeezed some lemon over, took a bite, tasted and swooned. I am a changed man.  Thank you Wesley for making taking me there. And thank you Lutter & Wenger for making it so delicious.

Marlow and Wesley
18-23 October 2012
Berlin, Part Two
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18-23 October 2012, Berlin Music

18-23 October 2012

Berlin


Berlin is a wonderful city for music. The Komische Oper Berlin may be called the Comic Opera, but it is as serious as it is comic and it is passionate about illuminating the story and making the stage come alive for the audience. We saw Orfeo by Claudio Monteverdi. Monteverdi lived to a good old age in Venice. He became a priest and spent his later years pondering life's great issues and setting them to music. Those compositions from the sixteen-thirties are considered the earliest, if not the first, operas.

The Komische Oper's theater, on the outside, is an unremarkable stone-clad box. Inside, it is lovely. Fairly intimate. Aglow with golden-hued sconces. Red velvet draperies framing the dozen or so arches on the second of two balconies. Between the arches torsos of large statues burst forth from the plaster. They twirl parasols and wield swords in dramatic poses. Our Orfeo performance began with trumpets playing to each other from opposing balconies. And birds flying overhead, dozens of them, mechanical, but life-like. The chorus descended from the stage, surrounded the audience, formed a ring around us and sang to us. The story of Orfeo is one of love found, then lost, then found, then lost. Along the way there are laments and there are love-fests, orgies. Ecstatic groups of bare chested women with long tresses and flowers in their hair. And men, also bare chested, whose lower halves were shaggy furry cloven-hooved animal legs. There was dancing. It was both classical and  contemporary all at once. The orchestra sounded excellent. It was a mix of traditional string instruments, and the eerie and exotic oud, with an accordion in lieu of harpsichord. The singers were articulate and expressive. If it sounds like I loved it. I did.

On the next day there was more music. We were in the Dussmann record store at mid-day when the principal players from a another opera company, the Deutsche Staatsoper, stood in the atrium and played Mozart's duet for violin and viola. They were outstanding, especially the violist.

From there we went for coffee to the Gendarmen-markt Platz, around the corner from our hotel. We sat outside. The sound of a street musician was wafting over to our table. He was playing the Mozart Clarinet Concerto. Live clarinet playing with a recorded orchestra accompaniment. He sounded terrific. And it was a special moment as it always is when that concerto is heard.

After coffee, we passed a church. A concert was about to start. Four french horns--the Berliner Horn Quartett--playing Bach fugues. Did we go? Yes, we did.

Was that enough music for one day? No. At eleven o'clock at night  we returned to the Komische Oper Berlin. This time we did not sit in the audience. We sat on stage facing the empty audience and the  amber lit, gold leafed theater interior. Forty of us were on stage--the Orfeo sets surrounding us--and a string quartet played Mozart to us from a dozen feet away with baroque bows and strings of dried animal gut. We turned back the hands of time. The music was new. We were guests of the prince in his elegant, gilded room being serenaded by his musicians playing the music written for his pleasure by his court composer.  What could top that?

How about a lunch concert in the atrium of the Berlin Philharmonic Concert Hall. Ninety minutes before the free trio concert the audience was lined up outside in the cold. When the doors opened they poured in. A flood of people. Hundreds and hundreds.  As many people as there were square feet in the atrium, it seemed. Filling every chair and balcony and stairway. Sitting on the floor and standing anywhere there was space available. It was a lively process. When the music began--Clarinet, cello and piano--there was a hush of quiet and stillness. It was a rapt audience. Soaking up music as if it were needed therapy. Was that enough music for us? No.

That same night we returned to the Hall for an evening orchestra concert. It was the orchestra of the Deustche Staatsoper (German State Opera) having a night out from the pit. Their theater from the late Eighteenth-Century is closed for renovation. For this concert they were using the Berlin Philharmonic's home. It is a famous space, noted for it's great sound and for the audience seats which encircle the orchestra entirely. I expected it to enjoy it. But I more than enjoyed it. It is a sound that is resonant, vibrant, clear, warm and it seduced me thoroughly. Of course, the orchestra had a role in the seduction, as did the conductor, Michael Gielen, and the compositions--Berlioz's Romeo and Juliet, Ravel's Scheherazade, Beethoven Symphony No. 8--but the star of the night was the symphony hall. I was elated and satisfied and impressed with the bounty of great music.

Music is a good reason to visit Berlin.

Marlow and Wes
18-23 October 2012
Berlin, Part One
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17 October 2012 Basel, Switzerland

17 October 2012

Basel, Switzerland


We were in Basel for twenty-four hours. Our purpose was to visit, Raul, from Maryland. He was there for a concert. We visited with him for a part of an evening which included his sound check in the theater.  He is an impressive musician. Great technique, charisma, an easy-on-the-ear voice, singing about life through his songs. He sounded as great as ever. We last saw him in Barcelona, three weeks ago, with Kathleen, his wife. We went together to Set Portes, the great Catalan restaurant. Before that, we were with them December 2011 in Paris for his wife's birthday. On that trip we took nephew Chris with us to introduce him to the joys of Paris, travel and uncles.  But back to Basel.

In Basel we stayed across the street from the train station. Often, that would be a scary location. But this is Switzerland. Their train stations are not scary and the locale was great. And the St. Gotthard Hotel was first-rate. It has been run by the same family since 1929. The current generation went to a highly regarded hotel school in Lausanne and is on site, with their parents, to keep everything as it should be.

This is our second city in Switzerland. So far, it seems a very affluent country. The prices are very high. People are generally well dressed, the streets are clean and the train stations are very well maintained, user friendly and free of artful dodgers.

We wandered through Basel on foot in the morning after breakfast in the hotel which was an impressive buffet. It is set up in a large pine-wood paneled room. With chandeliers and leaded glass windows. The furniture is wood fitted with iron. Substantial and hefty. To eat, there were eggs scrambled with cheese, cranberry compote and cut fruit for the plain yogurt. Rich smoked salmon.  Breads with flavor and texture to slather with butter and jam, particularly the kirsche--cherry--jam.

Well fed and with two hours before our train to Berlin, we walked the old town area. In the Münster Platz we visited a large and old church. One thousand years ago when a person of importance died, a life size statue of their likeness was created as a lid for their resting place. Usually with their feet against a dog and a nice tasseled pillow under their head, all done in stone. A man in full armor with his sword. A woman in a fine dress with flowing tresses or hair wrapped with strands of pearls or topped with a tiara. This church is rich with these carved lids. On display are intricately detailed ones from the thirteen-hundreds. And there are some, quite worn, from the year 900. Underneath the altar platform is a smallish chapel with stone columns and iron grill doors that open into an ancient basement. Through the iron grill you can see on-going archaeological digs that are yielding even more ancient materials.

The church is fronted by a cobble stone plaza, a platz. Part of the platz is occupied by parallel rows of poplar trees. A shady glade to sit in on a warm day. On the backside of the church is the Rhine River. To walk across the bridge takes only a few minutes. Or you can take the ferry that constantly crosses back and forth. Spanning the river is a taut metal cable. The ferry, with a rudder but without a  motor, is tethered to the overhead cable and uses the power of the Rhine's strong current to move itself from one side to the other. It is fantastic to watch this old fashioned solution. Not solar, not gas, not electric powered.  Just the harnessed power of the strong fast current.
Now, for the seven-hour train journey to Berlin. To the north and to the east.

Marlow and Wes
17 October 2012
Basel, Switzerland
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16 October 2012, Bernina Express, Switzerland

16 October 2012
Bernina Express, Switzerland

I will add a final note on Milano. We had a kitchen. And where ever we have had a kitchen, Wesley shops and cooks. And when he does, it is the best restaurant in town. He has a knack for blending in quickly with the local ingredients and flavors. At the markets he shops like a native. He wants that zuccha. And those Mallorca prawns. No, not that red pepper, that one. And those chantarelles and that chorizo.

Whether it is Spain, Italy, France or Germany he masters their home-cooking in a flash. In Milano, we ate at home a few times and it was, the best ristorante in town

From Milano we boarded a train. It traveled north and paralleled Lake Como for about an hour. Oh, I neglected to mention, while Roland was with us, and since we were so close to the lakes, we thought Roland should experience Lake Como and took him on a day trip to have lunch on a hillside terrace in Bellaggio. The weather forecast threatened fog and rain, and both ocurred, but for a few hours and during our lunch it cleared into a glorious day and we ate ourselves silly, Roland especially so (his three plate prix fixe was like three lunches) and took in the vista of Lake Como and the granite-topped forested mountains illuminated by rays of sunlight.

So, as I was saying, we are on our train. Going north. Watching Lake Como through the west windows. At the north end of the lake the train turned to the east. The terrain changed. Now, we are in a long grassy valley. Red terra cotta roofs give way to gray slate whose mica flakes glitter in the sunlight. The color palette of the structures is white, beige and gray. They flow up the hillside and are low profile, except for the village church--seems to be only one per village--which has a wildly tall steeple, without windows or a bell atop. Austere and icy like the snow topped granite above. And there are vineyards. Not vast expanses like in Barolo, but long narrow ribbons, like hiking trails, sidling up and down the mountains. That area, do not hold me to this, is known as the Veltlin.

In we have arrived in Tirano. Lunch time. It is still Italy, but this town speaks German. It is a border of sorts where the Italian train line ends and the Swiss line begins.

After a quick lunch, we board a Swiss train for a special journey up and up and up, over tall stone-arch bridges, around one-hundred-and-eighty degree turns, past villages so beautiful and green and hilly with cows wearing bells nursing their young and sheep in the meadow and sunshine and blue skies, thatched roofs and the tall church steeple, it is the kind of place that comes to mind when you are little and in bed and a kind and gentle voice reads you to sleep with, "once upon a time....."

The Bernina Express is a special first-class train with spotless panorama windows. There is so much window, it seems the car sides and half the roof are entirely glass.

Here is an "at the moment" account of the train ascent from 1 one-thousand feet of elevation to seven-thousand feet.

We are on special equipment for challenging high altitude terrain. It is the Rhätische Bahn, the Bernina Express. The route is a UNESCO World Heritage site since 2008. We are approaching Poschiavo. A winding river flows with bottle-green green.

Glacial. Hikers walk on the banks. The grade is, so far, gentle. Now, there are cows in the meadow, mamas and babies. At the Poschiavo Station we are at three-thousand feet of elevation. Continuing on there is an expanse of meadow that rises to forest which rises to granite and snow caps.

Horses in the meadow nursing little ones. High up the steep face of the mountain are occasional houses. They look impossible to access and entirely isolated. Must have tremendous vistas. Our train twists and turns. We are in the back watching the front of the train make turns so extreme like the cat twisting back for it's own tail. The train is sleek and agile. Around each bend is a new valley with a village. On the left. Then on the right. Back and forth.

 We have reached our apex, two-thousand-two-hundred and fifty-six meters (over seven-thousand feet). The peak above us, Bernina, is 4,049 meters (abt thirteen-thousand feet). It is a Continental Divide. From here the rivers part going to the east and to the west to different seas. The snow is dense. Anywhere else this would be an intense winter scene. Here it is just a normal autumn. Now, on our left are glaciers and lakes and streams and dams and the sun is brilliant. As remote and cold as it is, a Saab convertible, top down just whizzed past us. Otherwise, not many people up here. Three hours into our ride we have stopped in Pontresina for an eighteen minute break. Outside of the train it is winter. Hats, gloves, parkas, snowshoes. Really cold, but sunny and clear sparkling light. Two weeks ago, we were in summer swimsuits dunking into the Mediterranean. Then eating grapes off the vine in autumnal Barolo.

The joys of travel. See the world. Hear the languages. Feel the climates. Eat the food. Drink the wine. Absorb the history. Interact with the citizens of the world. A tremendous education it is. Back on the train, we are entering a tunnel, one hundred and eight years old, six kilometers long--three and a half miles. And now, the prize for greatest vista of the trip goes to Filisur. Flanked by mountains with pines on the steep slopes. All dusted with fresh snow. Green valleys. Plateaus. Narrow, curving lanes. Steeples. Small glacial lakes with emerald water. Speaking of emerald water, the prize for best river goes to the Albula River.

A moment ago as we entered Thusis, the train crossed a stone bridge, quite tall; the river, far below, was a curvy snake of jade-color water. Our destination tonight is Chur (pronounced: kur). We will be there within an hour. We have come to Switzerland, in part, so we can visit with Raul in Basle tomorrow night before his Casino concert. Wes has made this trip before--same train, same hotel--and has been keen on sharing it with me. I am elated. It is all so beautiful. Tonight we will stay where he stayed last time. Aside from the tremendous setting, the hotel has, at breakfast, a meusli station where you spoon your choice of grain into a machine which converts it into flakes which you then dress with yogurt and fruit. I love muesli.

Magnificent is the only word for this day.

Marlow and Wesley
16 October 2012
Bernina Express, Switzerland
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11 October 2012, Milano

11 October 2012

Milano

Our wine country adventure has come to an end. Back to the big city, Milano.

Last October, when we were here for six wonderful hours, we visited the fashionable Brera neighborhood and had dinner at La Latteria. We enjoyed it so much that we are back for a longer stay of four days.

Wes found an apartment in Brera (San Fermo, 1). One-bedroom, hardwood floors, all-white, washing machine--quite welcome after four weeks--and an equipped kitchen. We unpacked and settled in very nicely. Roland goes home in two days. He is staying in a hotel two streets away. He came over with his bottle of Barolo Chinato for an aperitivo. We laid out the table with fresh hazelnuts from the Alba truffle festival and two cheeses from "my friend" Bruno in the Torino market. Meanwhile, clothes are  washing and we are heading for dinner.

The next day, 12 October, in the evening.
Tonight, I charmed the corn right off of the husk. I learned the phrases that I wanted to deliver to Arturo and Maria Maggi in their ristorante and I delivered them like an Italian boy wooing his sweetheart. We entered fifteen minutes before opening time. I said "molto buona sera Signora Maggi, ha un tavolo per tre?"--very good evening Mrs. Maggi, do you have a table for three? They gave us "our" table. The one we occupied last night. Arturo pushed aside the kitchen curtain and came out, I thrust my arms out to him and said, "cosi ci consiglia, Maestro Maggi?"--what do you  recommend Maestro Maggi? He smiled. He was somehow pleased at the silly American, me, that was effusively spouting Italian phrases. A moment later three bowls of soup arrived on our table. Puree of fennel bulb topped with melting sheets of emmenthal cheese and fine bread crumbs. It was perfect. And it was a gift from Arturo. A little respect and a little effort at Italian communication was appreciated. We ordered a glistening, purple eggplant, baked whole, injected with anchovies and cheese, drizzled lightly with olive oil and thick sweet balsamico. We ordered orrechiette (little ears) pasta with broccoli. We ordered polpettini--flattened meat balls of veal sauteed in butter with the pan's brown bits deglazed with lemon juice and poured over the patties. We ordered thick short hand hewn noodles mixed with eggplant and mozzarella. It was perfetto. The freshest vegetables--home grown by Arturo--and meats prepared in the simplest manner with the most delicious results. The ristorante had many children tonight. I do not know if they are Arturo's relatives. Everyone seemed to know everyone. A blonde boy of about ten was eating with his father who arrived on two crutches. They were both handsome. The boy in less than a minute gulped down two thick slabs of fresh buffala mozzarella. Then a full dinner plate of prosciutto. His dad gave him a glass to drink from, rosy liquid--half water, half wine--the boy sipped, scrunched his face, tossed his head side to side, no, no, no, no, no and pushed the sloshing glass across the table back to his father. The son grabbed pasta bits from his sister's plate and ate them with his fingers and poked his bread rolls with his knife trying to slice them open. His father exhorted, wagged his finger, implored the boy to act civilized. It was sweet entertainment for us.

On our subsequent days in Milano we had morning caffe lattes and evening aperitivos at our corner florist. It's an odd combination: flowers, caffe and bar, but it works. We went to the Pinacoteca Art Academy Museum. And the Opera Museum at Teatro della Scala where we peaked into the hall from a balcony box. The museum had a lock of Mozart's hair and a fabulous collection of dozens of elaborate music boxes, huge contraptions with moving figures and elaborate features. We walked through the Vittorio Emanuelle Arcade. Long, cross-shaped, hundred-feet tall with mosaic floors and covered with a glass lid on it's sides and a glass dome at it's center. You enter it from La Scala. Your exit is at the Cathedral. We climbed the two-hundred and seventy-some steps to the Cathedral rooftop. We were literally, on the roof of the center of the building. Up top and not visible from street level are hundreds of friezes. They are hand-carved in stone. Intricately detailed. Hundreds must have worked on their design, creation and installation. Yet, for centuries, they are visible to no one except us lookee-loos in the Twenty-First-Century who opt to walk on the roof for the novelty of it. I loved those freizes and gave alot of thought to their creators. Like "cookies, salami and cheese" the sculptors toiled selflessly at something they devoted their lives to and took great pride in. 

Marlow (on behalf of Wesley and Roland)
11 October 2012
Milano
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Berlin!

10 October 2012:Verduno, Barolo, Canale and Torino. Also Cookies, Wine and Cheese

10 October 2012

Italy: Cookies, salami and cheese.


I am running low on prose. I am getting repetitive. There is so much stimulation here. My senses are overloaded. My eyes, my ears, my nose, my mouth are all busy. My little brain is processing as fast as it can all the data. Noting as many details as it can. It is all fascinating to me. But if you tire of reading, I am okay with that. This writing mostly serves as an answer to people who ask "how was your trip? It is a question that I cannot answer in a word or two.  But it is not intended as required reading.

That said, to describe the natural beauty, all of the details of grapevines with the purple clusters hanging. The chestnuts, thousands of them fallen to the ground and the leaves of the chestnut trees whose edges turn yellow and brown to say, we are done for this season. The fragrant night blooms. The chalky brown dust of the soil that sticks to your shoes and rides up your pants legs when you tromp down the steep descent of a vineyard. The Milan cathedral rooftop, home of thousands of intricately carved bas reliefs that no one ever sees because they are in no way visible from down below.  If someone were to ask "how was your trip? and I simply said good. I guess I should learn to give a short answer, but as I said in an earlier entry, why use one word when you can use one thousand.

Meanwhile in Verduno, we have  arrived to eat dinner at Trattoria Dai Bercau. In this trattoria you sit down and food is brought to the table for you to accept or decline.

The first plate to arrive, and I accept it, is a plate of chopped and rare veal dressed with olive oil and salt and topped with thin strands of marinated red onion.

Next up is filetto maiale (I have some incorrect spellings, please look past that flaw).  It looks like three thin slices, two-inches in diameter, of moist pink pork loin with tonnato (smooth tuna puree) sauce between the slices and an olive on the top.

Followed by a slice of prosciutto wrapped around a grissino (a house made breadstick).

Our wine is in a pitcher. It is a house wine called Pelaverga. Five euros for the pitcher.

We had arrived at the trattoria too early tonight, before they had opened. While we waited we walked around the block. Not really blocks in this area. More like an ancient, winding, cobblestone lanes.  On a down-slope, below a cobblestone street and in a basement, an upscale basement, we stopped in for a glass of wine. The place is called, Ca Del Re. It is a winery with a small ristorante and a few rooms. The place looks old, but I think it is new and modern constructed to look old with coved exposed brick ceilings. Twelve tables. We were tempted to jilt our Becau reservation. The weather has turned cold autumn and we were comfortable in their warm room. The wine we drank was young. An almost transparent rose color when held up to light. It was "Basadone da uve Pelaverga piccolo" made by Castello di Verduno, 2011. We paid our bill of eight euros for three glasses and walked around the block for our dinner reservation.

So, back to the Trattoria Dei Becau. The starters were delicious. And they were followed by frittata de funghi e rizzo. A delicious mushroom risotto cooked into an egg  omelette. Wonderful. It was followed by "Toma con tartuffo nero".  Toma is a cheese whose makers must earn the privilege to use the name. In this particular preparation it is half of a disc. Four inches in diameter and a half-inch tall.  They drizzled it with olive oil and minced black truffle then ran it briefly under the broiler for a toasty and creamy aspect. It was a special treat.

An adjacent table requested a sample of small hot red peppers. Smaller than a pinky.  They were grown by the owner.  I am a copy cat. I requested a sample, too. They have arrived. On a plate. They look pretty and serious.  Are we brave enough?  I will tell you in a moment.

A few minutes later. It was a hot chili. Very hot. I put the remnants in my pocket. I do not want our host to see I could not eat them.

Next dishes offered. Risotto and ravioli. We each opted for a fifty-fifty split of half ravioli and half risotto. The risotto made with local red wine. We have passed on the offer of white truffles. The local wisdom is that it is too early. They need another month of cool foggy autumn weather, until mid to late November, to develop the full, famous, pungent aroma.  
When the risotto came we could request just a spoonful--an amount to suit our appetites--instead of an entire plateful.

Another course is to come. I have passed on it.  It is roasted rabbit. And pork ribs braised in the wine we are drinking. Both are served with roasted potatoes. I just got a taste, a forkful, and they are both sumptuous, especially the pork ribs. They have a smoky aspect that I love.

Is there room for dessert? No. But that will not stop us.

Pears poached in barolo wine. And semi-freddo with mint. Moments later, we have not licked our plates, but we should have. Especially the pears.


At the top of this entry I mentioned the words cookies, salami and cheese. I love the ristorantes and the trattorias here. But I especially love the individual food sellers. Some of them make the products they sell. They have indescribable, immeasurable pride in their work and their products.

In Barolo--the town not the wine--today, I passed a shop. Clearly, according to it's layout and glass display cases it should have been a butcher shop. But the entry door was ringed with large scraps of paper, written on with a large, crooked childlike scrawl. They seemed to describe cookies. I could see a man in the back room was working dough, cookie dough with his hands. I entered the shop. The cookies looked handmade and there were a dozen trays, a dozen different cookies. Some made with Barolo. Some made with honey and truffles. Some made with hazelnuts. I asked, are your cookies delicious. His eyes widened. He reached into various trays. He gave me samples of this one, then that one.  I ordered a half-kilo and paid. In the end he gave me a kilo. I loved his pride and integrity, his hard work, his lifetime of experience. He did not speak english. I did not speak Italian. We talked through cookies and my ooh-ing and aah-ing.  That was "cookies".

In Canale, yesterday, before dinner, we walked down a long arcade of arches. I passed a butcher shop. On display, were salami crudo, large and small. A few days earlier, I experienced my first salami crudo--in the Truffle Festival tent--and loved it with the passion one has at the first-taste of something familiar, yet unusual, and finding it appealing and delicious. So there I was, at night, on a sidewalk, under an arch standing before a butcher shop with only a window between me and a plate of salami crudo. Did I go in? Of course I did. Inside stood the butcher and his wife. I said "buona sera". I pointed to my sausage. I asked "delizioso"?  For his answer he stood more erect, drew his shoulder blades together, pointed both fingers at himself and said "I made these salami. With these two hands.  Delizioso? Certo! Delizioso!"  I loved his pride and integrity, his hard work, his lifetime of experience. He did not speak english. I did not speak Italian. We talked through salami and my ooh-ing and aah-ing. That is "salami."

Finally, in Torino, last week, we went to the food market. It is enormous. It is outdoor and indoor. The outdoor market sell fruits and vegetables. Fragrant, perfect, colorful specimens of peak-of-deliciousness edibles. The indoor market sells. Meats and cheeses. We went inside. We passed a cheese vendor. He was different from all the others. His stall was more elevated. He was older. He could have stepped out of a da Vinci drawing. Wise. Old. White hair. Sparkling blue eyes. Pale skin. Dispenser of wisdom through cheese. His stall had a line. It was slow moving.  Before I stood in it, I walked around the three sides of his stall. He took note of me. He gestured toward a specific wheel of parmesan cheese.  He smiled at me. I smiled at him. I felt I had known him a long time. At that moment his entire life flashed before my eyes. He began helping his father, as a teenager, intending to work with cheese until his true destiny called. Years passed. He married. Had children. His cheese business afforded him the means to provide for his family. He came to appreciate it, even to love it, to find it noble. His sons grew up in a modern world and had no interest in helping with the family business. He continues his business now, not for his family, but because he values the honest important work of keeping alive the foods of his parents and their parents.

So I joined the line.  And when my turn came he, again, smiled at me. I was nervous.  He put me at ease. Not with language, but with cheese. Without words, he determined my taste. He gave me one very strong. And another very mild. And some in between. Then he said, "prefiero piu forte or dolce?" Do you prefer more strong or sweet? We tried more cheeses until he selected three pieces for me. It included the parmesan we first met eyes over. As I turned to walk away, he looked me in the eyes and with intense seriousness he told me, do not put them in the refrigerator.  So I did not and over the course of several days they tasted better and better. He was kind and gentle. I loved his pride and integrity, his hard work, his lifetime of experience. He did not speak english. I did not speak Italian. We talked through cheese and my ooh-ing and aah-ing. And that was "cheese".

Cookies, salami and cheese.

Marlow on behalf of Wesley and Roland
10 October 2012
Verduno, Barolo, Canale and Torino
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9 October 2012: Pollenzo, Bra and Canale

9 October 2012

Pollenzo, Bra and Canale.

We are staying in La Morra at the Conde Gondina. Our days begin at eight a. m. when we open the french doors, then open the shutters, and walk outside on to the stone balcony and feel the chilly, morning dew. The vista includes rolling hills--green with vegetation--and roofs clad in the typical tiles made from terra cotta--"baked earth"--and topped with pointy-capped, small, brick chimneys. In our few days here the weather has transitioned from warm to cool. The leaves are changing color from green to yellow to orange to red, preparing to fall.  There is a recurring veil of mist, not quite fog, that makes the each vista seem hazy like a beautiful dream.

We pull ourselves from our balcony reverie and  swap our pajamas for proper clothing to make our descent from the third floor. We shuffle across the hallway on tile floors of polished red-clay. Then we  descend  the heavy stone stairs and enter the breakfast room where the center table is arranged with pastries large and small and frittatas.  Hand-crafted cheeses. Dried ham and beef--prosciutto and bresaola. Cereals, yogurt, fruit salad and five-minute eggs. To drink, we are offered whatever preparation of coffee or chocolate or tea we desire. The Conde Gondina is run by virtuosos. The place is alive with fine details and comforts.

After breakfast we go exploring. On this day, we drove twenty minutes to the city of Pollenzo. Pollenzo may be tiny, but it is abuzz  with important activity that is of international importance. It is the home of the Università degli Studi di Scienze Gastronomiche. That is: the Gastronomic Sciences University. It was founded by Carlo Petrini. Mister Petrini is also the founder of Slow Food which is dedicated to the integrity of what we eat and drink. When we go to the market and we are presented with a vast array of tomatoes, apples, artisanal cheeses, grass-fed beef, free-range chickens all without pesticides and anti-biotics, much of the credit for that bounty of outstanding edibles goes to Mister Petrini. Long live the Gastronomic Sciences University.

In conjunction with the school, there is a parallel project, La Banca del Vino. Here is a little back story.  Settle into a comfortable chair. With a glass of red wine.
The king of grapes in our region of Italy, the Piemonte, is the Nebbiolo. Nebbiolo is the grape responsible for the wine called Barolo. Wine connoisseurs consider Barolo to be a tremendous and superior product. The local and state and federal authorities do to. To earn the right to call a wine barolo there are daunting hoops to jump through. Which is all to say, Barolo wine and the Nebbiolo grape  a big deal.  But there was a time, two centuries ago, when the Nebbiolo grape was in trouble and a particular estate, in Pollenzo, came to it's rescue. The estate invited specialists. And they researched. And they nurtured. And they succeeded in reviving the important grape. Today, that particular estate is the site of the Gastronomy University and the home of La Banca del Vino--The Wine Bank--where each year, every wine of note produced in every part of Italy is deposited for research and archival use.

I would love to be a student at the University because the campus is in a remarkable setting. The old estate that it once was included a castle, a church, fountains, roman ruins, underground cellars, all situated around a vast flat rectangle that is planted with grass on one side and laid with gravel on the other. But I gave up my fantasy of enrolling as a student so we could get on with day and drive to Bra.

Bra is larger than Pollenzo, but not much. We went there to eat lunch at Boccondivino. It is beloved by many for good reasons. We ate upstairs, ordered the menus of the day and washed them down with six different wines.  The exciting wine of the area is, of course, the red Barolo, but there are whites also. One I particularly liked was from Roero. (That word is hard for me to say. Ro. Er. O.) It is made from a grape called Arneis. It does not age. And in front of me, a glass did not age for more than ten minutes. Accompanying all of the wines was gnocchi in a sauce of Raschera, an artisanal cheese.  And there was roast rabbit breast. And a spiral pasta with cabbage and cheese. And torta de nocciola: crushed hazelnuts, eggs, butter, sugar, vanilla. What's not to like? And Bonet,  which is, more or less, at least in this version, and a chocolate egg custard with pulverized  amaretto cookies blended in. From Bra, we lumbered back into the car to drive to Canale for aperitivo and then for dinner.

From meal to meal we went. Days and days of eating. I conclude that on a trip with massive eating, a hotel with breakfast included is not a good thing. How can I not gorge at the breakfast buffet when everything on the table is calling out to me, pleading with me to try it. Then to go to lunch. And then the cocktail hour with hors d'ouevres. And then the dinner meal with an anti-pasto, followed by pasta, followed by a main course, followed by dessert and with two or three wines. How much can I contain before I pop like a balloon. No. Breakfast should be small. One needs discipline. I do not have self-control.

But I digress--as I always do--we made our way to Canale and arrived near sundown. En route we passed a fire. Intentionally set. It was a busy grape farmer who finished his harvest, delivered his grapes for the squeeze, pruned his vines and finally was burning the trimmings at the hillside vineyard.  Back in Canale, we found our way to a great street that is a long low-slung arcade. Arch after arch, running for several streets somewhat like a long tunnel and lined with small cafes and bars. I say bars, but they are special bars where one goes for a drink with snacks before dinner or, if the snacks are substantial enough, in lieu of dinner. Our particular "aperitivo" came with several small plates. Toast with a white cheese sprinkled with lavender. House made cheese straws.  And to drink, we had my new friend, Roero Arneis, the young white wine from lunch and we had Aperol with soda. Aperol is an orange liqueur with eleven per cent alcohol, less than most wines.  Our cocktail hour was ending and our dinner hour approaching. Were we hungry? Absolutely not. Were we still going to eat? Absolutely yes.

We went for dinner at the Ristorante Enoteca. It is an attractive space. Spare and old, yet modern. A floor of diagonally-laid bricks covered with an asian carpet, white plaster walls and arched doorways rimmed with unpainted wood.  The tables were covered with white cloths and had a candle in a white paper bag slit with butterfly outlines and a scalloped top. Overall the lighting had a warm glow. It was flattering. The kind of light that makes you look younger. The menu had fascinating things on it. Crispy frog. Pigeon crusted with black truffle. The chef has a Michelin star. We did not order those dishes.  As we were not much hungry, we opted to share several dishes and have a bite of lots of things rather than too much of one thing. But a funny thing happened. For every one thing we ordered, two free unordered small plates arrived.  It must be their thing there, to flood the table with gifts of food. The free dishes alone were enough for dinner. (Is there ever a way to go there, order nothing at all and just receive the free food?) These were some of the unsolicited items. Into a cube of olive wood, smooth and dense, they drilled holes and inserted tiny cornets filled with creme fraiche and topped with thin shreds of scallion. Delicious. On a small rectangular olive wood plate were gougere (cream puff pastry) filled with gorgonzola cream and  sprinkled with chopped pistachio. There was a dish of marcona almonds. And small sweet buttery hazelnut mini-biscuits, like a sandwich cookie with paté cream in between. There were small glistening spheres filled with of a tuna pureee garnished with one drop of red bell pepper reduction. Oh, there were breads, too. Outstanding ones. Chewy ones. Crusty ones. Olive. Coarse grain. And there were the--ever present in this area--grissini, the homemade bread sticks.  So that was some of the free stuff.

We were glad we ordered lightly and this is what we had. Porcini cotti in fondo. In a word, it was delicious. It was porcini mushrooms, two ways. Raw, sliced and paper thin. And porcini braised in veal stock. Apart from the porcini and in a shiny, empty, six-inch,
aluminum pan with two-handles sat a lone marrow bone, free of marrow, with a sphere resting on it that was a crumb-coated, round croquette. It too was outstanding. That was our first ordered dish. Our second dish came in a large, white, round, off-centered, lidded bowl, slightly flying-saucerish. When the lid was removed, with a flourish, I gave the expected gasp. Inside was a Guinea fowl egg atop foie gras. When pierced the yoke burst and became a sauce over the foie gras. Delicious in a breakfasty way. Next up was Agnelotti sugo arrosto. All I recall is it was a finely wrought stuffed pasta lightly dressed and very good. Our finale was Gnocchi ripieni di herbe. The gnocchi were stuffed with spinach and on a plate strewn with two slivers of carrot, two discs of radishes, two zucchini rounds and four-fifths of a snow pea cut in two. I drank my new friend, Roero Arneis. There was also Barolo on the table. We made it through our final meal of the day. We asked for the check

We sat at the table. Satisfied. Looking forward to bed. Then, instead of the check, a tray was brought and placed before us with six mini-pastries. Three pieces of each. Plus a dish of sugared hazelnuts. (Wes thought we may have received more food for free than we have paid for.) Did we eat the sweets? You bet. And we continued to wait for the check to arrive. Instead, another olive wood tray was brought with steaming, hot, glistening apple fritters. Loudly, not softly, they were crying, eat me, eat me, eat me. I resisted. Then I relented.

In forty-five minutes we will be back in La Morra. In bed. Resting for another day of adventure. And overeating. Good night.

Marlow on behalf of Wes and Roland
9 October 2012, Tuesday
10:20 p.m.
Canale, Italy
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Torino, 5 October 2012

5 October 2012

Torino

Before we got to Alba and the Langhe, the paradise of grapevines, we were in Torino (Turin) for three nights and the Townhouse 70 was a great place to stay. It is around the corner from the Piazza Castello, the site of at least a dozen major historic structures. There is the Palazzo Madama. There is Baratti e Milano with it's silky gelato and hazelnut chocolates and old-world, gold and crystal, Nineteenth-Century elegance. There is the Shroud of Turin, at the far end of the Piazza, if you are interested in such things, but it is kept in a fifteen-feet long, leaden, ceremonial box behind bullet-proof glass.  There is the Teatro Reggio, the opera house, steps away from the Piazza and adjacent to the Royal Palace and the Royal Library which houses important Leonardo da Vinci drawings.

We did not visit the opera, their season has not yet begun. We did visit the Palazzo Madama. I noticed it from a distance when we first arrived into Torino. From the front it is a baroque palace of stone and marble. But it's backside is medieval and poking out of it's roof are four medieval, tall, round, brick, pointy-topped towers. The juxtaposition is so odd. It reminded me of Steve Martin with the Indian arrow through his head. My little brain thought, "Who shoved those pointy medieval towers through that baroque palazzo roof."  Sometimes an addition, restoration, or remodel looks good, smooth, inevitable.  I am not saying it looks bad, but this remodel is a pretty startling. So far, we have medieval and baroque. How about some Roman ruins. The Palazzo Madama is built over the remains of an ancient Roman gate that is two-thousand years old. You can see excavated portions of it through glass floors. There it is Roman ruins remodeled into a medieval castle remodeled into a baroque palazzo. In the late-seventeen-hundreds it was the residence of Madama Reale, the royal widow. She put the Madama in the Palazzo Madama. In 1721, she desired and ordered up the construction of a grand foyer--a gigantic rectangle--to be added to the front of the existing structure. It is two-stories tall and they are tall stories, about seventy feet in all. The lower thirty feet are occupied by the two marble stair cases, on the right and on the left. They ascend to the second level atrium whose ceiling soars forty-feet high with continuous tall frames of windows that allow people outside on the Piazza pavement to look up and into the high grandeur, the frescoes, the chandeliers, the larger-than-life-ness of the Royals.

In our time, the building is open to the public.  On the  ground floor and out back is a recreation of the royal food garden.  It is currently flourishing with edibles and wooden cut-outs of chickens and pigs. It is pretty as a picture and  camera ready. On the Palazzo roof and through the arches of one of those pointy medieval towers, is an exceptional vista of significant Torino rooftops. The floor below the roof is occupied entirely with glass cases displaying royal ceramics and porcelain. Some of the pieces are as old as six hundred years. The pieces I love in particular are the ones painted with scenes of everyday life or illustrations of folk stories.  They are like snapshots in ceramic. On the floor below the ceramics is a very grand ceremonial room suitable for the Senate meetings that occurred there in the nineteenth-Century. Now it is used as a gallery of ancient and avant-garde art. The smaller rooms on either side were once bedrooms. Their old decor is in a perfect state of repair. The  walls, floors and ceilings and windows are decorated with wall paper, gold-leaf, mosaic, stained glass, wood inlay, life-size portraits in oil and chandeliers, all in a manner appropriate for the Madama Reale. That one building alone encapsulates two-thousand years of life in Torino. It is a must see.

We walked continuosly in Torino. Aside from the Piazza Castello there are hundreds of other Piazzas of varying interest. And there is the Po River. And the University. And there is food.

On our first night we took advantage of what is called, Aperitivo, which is the cocktail hour. With the purchase of your drink you are provided with free snacks. The snacks vary from place to place. We went to Pastis where the snacks, the stuzzichetti, were one-inch pizza squares, a variety of bruschettas, cubes of artisanal cheeses and salamis, olives, and on and on. At times, the snacks are so excessive that you do not need dinner. That did not get in our way. We went to dinner anyway. We walked continuously and we ate continuously. For instance, I rarely passed a gelato shop without getting a scoop, a piccolo scoop. 

Italian food products and restaurants arrived to New York City last year in the form of a franchise from Torino called Eataly. The concept is to bring together, under one roof, individual vendors of high quality products from Italy. In New York City it is a fantasy land of the best of Italy. We visited the Torino branch and for me it was not magical. It was good, but high quality Italian groceries and ristorantes are common in Torino and the puppy-like enthusiasm and zeal present in New York City's Eataly is just not present in Torino. Also, Eataly in Torino just opened a shop serving "the best of America", hamburgers and hot dogs. I guess I prefer the food Italy imports to the America over what America imports to Italy. Just my opinion.

One place name comes up alot when researching Torino, it is Bicerin. We visited the Piazza della Consolata where Bicerin is located. The piazza is small and cobble-stoned with a few apartment buildings, two caffés, a church and a campanile--a bell tower. Bicerin is tiny. It is a sweet shop with eight tables and has been since the seventeen-eighties. They serve a namesake coffee drink that goes like this: fill a small wine glass (a bicerin, pronounced bee-chair-een) two-thirds full with hot expresso, stir in some cocoa powder, a dash of sugar and top with unsweetened whipped heavy cream. That is the "Bicerin". The Bicerin is good. From there we walked a few feet to the Consolata church. It is an over the top baroque extravaganza.

Our Turin hotel, in addition to having a good location and great bed linens was stylish, modern, spotless, and comfortable with a good breakfast eaten around a large table that seated about five stools on each side with international newspapers folded here and there.

That is about it for Torino. Loved it. We would go back. And you can not beat the fact that is a short ride to the greatest wine area.

Marlow and Wes
Torino, Italy
5 October 2012
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Serralunga, 8 October 2012

It is 1:30.  The sun shines warmly on our terrace. Where we are seated, to our left is a tall impressive old castle and to our right are valleys with rows of grapevines creating a geometric crazy quilt.

We were in Serralunga yesterday. Our hike began here. Our long hike. Our six and one half hour hike. Thirteen kilometers. It was total immersion. At our final footstep we were covered from the knees down with the precious dirt that enables the flourishing of the nebbiolo grapes that produce the extraordinary wines. By tromping up hill and down hill, steep ascents and descents, over and over and passing through oak groves laden with truffles and past the prune plums and the hazelnuts and the walnuts and the quince and the apple and the pear and the fig and the on and on we feel that we physically know the smell and feel and taste of the area. By taste, I do not mean wine--I am a wine ninny, I love it, but know nothing--I mean the fruits we "stole" from vines and trees along the route. Lest you worry, we did not sample the unusually mushrooms growing in the boggy shade.

Our first course is a sampler plate consisting of veal two ways (chopped crudo and vitello tonnato), a crepe filled with cheese and mushroom and roasted peppers, their innards spooned with olive oil soaked chopped anchovies.  It was a plate worthy of superlatives and I will spare you my gushy prose. Our wine is made by the Trattoria Schiavenza. It is Dolcetto d'Alba, Vughera, 2010. We thought, it is a young wine. Crisp. Light. Low alcohol. It is intense, inky and a 14.50% alcohol. It is fabulous.

We await our second course of Piemontese beef cooked in Barolo.  And a ravioli of some delicious sort.

The Alba restaurant from my last entry was La Libera. Like a virtuoso, they made everything look easy and delivered a sparkling performance which was our food and eating experience.

Back to our second course. Wes's pasta is a "plin"--stuffed pasta--with veal, spinach and parmigiano filling dressed simply with butter infused with sage leaves and parmigiano. Roland--or as I have lately called him, Ba-roland--and I opted for Piemontese beef braised in Barolo wine. The juice over it is absolutely tasty in the extreme. And the beef, sliced half-inch thick is tender.  But. The nature of braised meat is that it is fully, fully cooked and not at all pink. Maybe it is a childhood thing. When I remember back on mom's beef roast, that is the texture of my beef today. I guess when it comes to beef and ovens I am more a steak guy than a braised guy. We finished our meal with "Barolo Chinotto" a "digestivo" red wine fortified with sugar, chinotto and herbs.

Nocciola in shell (hazelnut)

Our hotel, Corte Gondina in La Morra, feels like our own private villa. A courtyard is planted with a small center lawn planted with an ancient olive tree. The lawn is bordered with rectangular stones which in turn are bordered with cobblestones laid in a fan shape. On the cobblestones are tables. The tabletops are stone with silver mica flecks that glitter in the sun. On two sides of the courtyard is the three-story inn. The rooms have a continuous stone balcony with an iron railing--and chairs and tables--that overhangs the courtyard. The third side of the courtyard descends by steps to an infinity pool. The fourth side is tall hedges. Today while sitting in the courtyard the owner/proprietor removed the umbrellas and the chaises. He looked at us and said, "summer is over".

Marlow on behalf of myself, Wes and Roland
Serralunga, Italy
8 October 2012, Monday
3:20 p.m.
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