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.
No comments:
Post a Comment