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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