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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