* * *
BESIDE THE TRIUMPHAL arch stands the pretty blue-gray oratory of Sant’Agostino and a graceful bell tower. The arch, built between 1672 and 1677, looks as if it hasn’t been touched since the last stone was laid. I photograph the palazzi doors: one is imposing, one painted the palest dove gray; another, the color of pistachio gelato. I have to run my hand over a dark walnut double door with huge nail heads and a knocker shaped like a woman’s ringed hand.
San Pietro is the town’s important thirteenth-century church. I get to see another garden, the re-created monks’ garden of simples. Built concurrently with the founding of the city (1243), the church has been at the mercy of various interventions. It has a rather forlorn appearance, but I give it a closer look. The façade retains blocks of carved stone recycled from earlier buildings: spolia. I’m always curious to see these. Several show vegetal designs, two are of worn-down birds, and one appears to be two horses. The walled garden is laid out in the shape of a cross. The four squares are divided again into four more, all planted with roses, aromatics, and vegetables known in Italy before the discovery of the Americas. (Imagine Italy without the tomato!) Four trees represent the seasons: holly, apple, medlar, pomegranate.
* * *
WILLIAM AND ED have not been idle over their gelato. “Did you know this place is known for snails? That’s a local specialty. There’s even a snail farm. I saw a recipe with snails, leeks, and apples. Not sure—sounds good but…” William is on his iPad. “And it’s antique central. Several markets a year and shops. Too bad everything’s closed, Franny.” Heavy irony, since he would never allow himself to be dragged into an antique shop.
Ed adds, “One reason this place is so refined is that the Savoys escaped the plague of 1630 by setting up residence here. It was always a retreat from the city. That Palazzo Salmatoris we saw was where the shroud of Torino was hidden from the French.”
“We should have come earlier when everything was open.”
“Well, that’s Italy. Sidewalks roll up in the afternoon. You’ve got to just live with that.”
“Yes, years and years here and I am always surprised that the custom endures.”
A lone man rides by on his bicycle. Someone backs a car out of a garage. Things may be about to stir, but we are done for the day.
* * *
JUST OUTSIDE LA MORRA, we get to dine at Bovio, outdoors on a summer night overlooking the hills. Obviously, we’ve happened upon a special-occasion kind of place. It’s refined but not fussy, rooted but not rustic. We sit down among families and groups of friends and we know that we are going to eat well, drink well; the evening will be glorious. The menu showcases the territory. Hard to choose but we order quail salad with chestnuts and truffles, onions stuffed with sausage and Taleggio, duck cannelloni with spinach and truffles, veal filet with mushrooms, roasted kid with vegetables. As the wine list is voluminous, Ed confers with the waiter and chooses Barolo Arborina 2012, made by this restaurant’s family vineyard, Gianfranco Bovio. We are sitting on the home turf.
Memorable, I know, as I snap a photo of William having his first sip of Barolo. He takes it seriously and wants to know if what he tastes is what we taste. The waiter has poured just a half-inch.
Blissful food, wine, blissful evening in La Morra.
* * *
I KNEW THAT Cesare Pavese was born in nearby Santo Stefano Belbo. Although a city person, he remained close to his earliest home, but never in a sentimental way. He valued the rural life’s struggles, poignancy, fatalism, and the primal connection to the land. When the bookstore owner tells us about the foundation devoted to Pavese’s work in his hometown, I have to go.
The director of the small museum, a welcoming woman, takes us around. Photographs, reproductions of his working notebook—page after page of fascinating lists of words—artwork framed with quotes from his books, and a brilliant portrait of him. She tells us how to find his villa and grave. We set off walking; it is farther than we thought but we find the house, still lived in except for the side where he was born. A faded peach-colored, two-story house in the shape of a U, paint flaking off its shutters: never grand, but with a sense of itself. A short distance away, we find the cemetery and his crumbling grave with his name and an epitaph: HO DATO POESIA AGLI UOMINI. I gave poetry to the people.
At Ape Wine Bar at lunch, the curly-haired waiter who looks as if he could be a tenor in an opera pauses to feed his baby a bottle. The mother is lunching with friends; he’s serving. Pavese, I’m thinking, is part of their consciousness. Their parents may have known him. The waiter tells us that The Moon and the Bonfires is still celebrated on a night in spring when farmers cut back their vines and burn the old wood. That I would like to see. The baby, utterly content, falls into a milk doze. Ed and William attack their fried fish; I look out over the town, trying to imagine the child Pavese here and the grown writer returning. From The Moon and the Bonfires: “We need a country, if only for the pleasure of leaving it. Your own country means that you are not alone, that you know there is something of you in the people and the plants and the soil, that even when you are not there it waits to welcome you home.” The waiter brings a bowl of perfect strawberries. And that’s the last of the Pavese quest.
* * *
EN ROUTE BACK to La Morra, we swing by Neive, listed as one of I Borghi più belli d’Italia, the most beautiful small towns in Italy. Yes, it is. Two gates, an almost circular layout. Like other gems we’ve visited, Neive has the long history, the towers, churches, chapels, palazzi. All well preserved. “Can we go back to the hotel? I’m getting Stendhal Syndrome big time.” Ed hardly ever flags.
“Me, too,” William says. He’s traveled enough to know what Stendhal Syndrome means.
Back in La Morra, they head upstairs and I go over to the bookstore to thank Maurizio and to say good-bye.
We stay in for dinner. UVE’s courtyard is quiet and candlelit. Everyone on the staff here has been exceptionally friendly. We order pastas and yet another great Barolo. After dinner, we stroll around town. All quiet. The park at the end of the street looks over a swath of dark vineyards with a few lights in farmhouses and more glittering in the clear sky.
* * *
BACK IN TORINO, we turn in our car and walk. I pick up a few tomini cheeses and store them in the minibar at the hotel. I love these little white pillows; the delicate cheese is so good spread on bruschetta.
Turin Palace Hotel, right across from the train station, just underwent a makeover and is pitch-perfect. High ceilings, a terrace off our room, snowy duvets, and lots of space. We rest with books, have a drink on the rooftop bar, and an excellent dinner.
Early, we catch the Frecciargento, fast train to Florence, then the pokey train to Cortona. William is looking out the window. “Franny, do you think I could go to college in Torino?” That he even has the thought thrills me.
Damn, I left the cheeses in the minibar.
NOTES:
Three paintings of an ideal city were created in the 1480s at the court of the Duke of Montefeltro in Urbino in Le Marche. Attributed to several artists, such as Piero della Francesca, Fra Carnevale, or Francesco di Giorgio Martini, the panels remain a mystery. Ideal architecture was an interest of the duke. His palace reveals the extent, not only in its architecture but in various marquetry panels showing utopian visions of towns. The ideal city most associated with Piero della Francesca remains in Urbino. The other two hang in the Walters Art Museum in Baltimore and the Gemäldegalerie in Berlin.
Ape Wine Bar: In Italian, ape means bee.
Stendhal Syndrome: Travelers who are overwhelmed by too much beauty are in the grips of a state described in the nineteenth century by Stendhal (Marie-Henri Beyle), who wrote The Red and the Black. After contemplating a fresco in Florence, his character’s sensations and passions collided: “I had palpitations…the life went out of me.” Such travelers are in need of a break
and a cold glass of water.
Cipolla Cotta al Forno Ripiena di Fonduta e Salsiccia di Bra
BAKED ONION STUFFED WITH FONDUE AND BRA SAUSAGE, SERVES 6
Chef Marco Boschiazzo’s savory roasted onions travel well from lunch to antipasti to first course. The particular spreadable veal sausage from Bra probably will not be available, but do try it when traveling in Piemonte. I substitute a mix of ground veal and a small amount of pork fat. Not at all the same but rustic and savory. My friend Susan tried using sweet Italian sausage with happy results.
6 large yellow onions, unpeeled
1 cup fresh cream
¼ cup whole milk
11 ounces Taleggio cheese, cut into small pieces
7 ounces Bra sausage, cut into small pieces (or sauté ½ pound ground veal and 3 slices finely chopped pancetta)
Salt and pepper, QB
1 tablespoon butter
Preheat the oven to 250˚F.
Roast the onions on a sheet pan in the oven for 2 hours. When they are cool enough to handle, cut off the first third. Scoop out most of the insides (reserving the outer shells), let drain in a colander, then chop the insides and set aside.
Increase the oven temperature to 350ºF.
Pour the cream and milk in a medium saucepan, then bring almost to a boil. Lower the heat and add the Taleggio. Stir as the cheese melts. Remove the saucepan from the heat and continue stirring for about 1 minute.
Meanwhile, sauté the sausage or meat mixture in a hot pan until browned. Add the chopped onions and about two-thirds of the cheese fondue. Stir to combine, and season with salt and pepper.
Stuff the onions with the filling and dab them lightly with flakes of butter. Bake the onions in a 350°F oven for 15 minutes. Heat the rest of the fondue, then serve the onions on a warm fondue bed.
Ristorante Bovio, La Morra, Piemonte
Fiori di Zucca Ripieni di Ricotta, Verdure Piccole e Pomodori Freschi
PUMPKIN FLOWERS STUFFED WITH RICOTTA, SMALL VEGETABLES, AND FRESH TOMATOES, SERVES 4
Chef Dennis Panzeri’s stuffed flowers bloom again on the plate, delicate and summery. Zucchini or squash flowers may be used—just pick the males, the ones not developing into a vegetable. To remove the pistil, I use tweezers. If the flowers are small, halve the recipe for the filling and sauce.
FOR THE STUFFED FLOWERS
1 carrot, diced
1 stalk celery, diced
1 small white onion, diced
2 to 3 tablespoons olive oil
1 zucchini, diced
4 button mushrooms, diced
1 clove garlic, minced
1 bay leaf
Salt and pepper, QB
2 cups whole-milk ricotta
3 ounces grated Parmigiano-Reggiano
4 basil leaves, torn
Nutmeg, a few grates
12 flowers, pistils and stems removed
1 tablespoon unsalted butter, cut in small pieces
FOR THE SAUCE
6 ripe tomatoes
Juice of a half orange
3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
Salt and pepper, QB
1 tablespoon balsamic vinegar
Basil leaves, for garnish
Prepare the stuffed flowers:
In a medium skillet over medium heat, sauté the carrot, celery, and onion in 2 tablespoons of the oil until translucent, about 3 minutes, then add the zucchini, mushrooms, garlic, and bay leaf. Season with ½ teaspoon salt and the pepper. Continue to sauté for 5 minutes. Transfer to a bowl. Discard the bay leaf. Gently stir in the ricotta, half the Parmigiano, the basil, and the nutmeg.
Fill the flowers and put them in an oiled baking dish, scatter the butter over them, and sprinkle with the remaining Parmigiano.
Prepare the sauce:
Cut the tomatoes in fourths and blend them to a very fine consistency in a food processor, then pass them through a sieve.
Put the tomato pulp again in the blender, add the orange juice, and whip with 1 tablespoon of the extra-virgin olive oil. Add salt, pepper, and the balsamic vinegar. Chill until ready to serve.
Bake the flowers in a 400˚F oven for 15 minutes and serve them with the chilled tomato sauce. Garnish with basil leaves.
Ristorante La Piola, Alba, Piemonte
Let’s all move to Trento. We’d never regret it. We’d be surrounded by the impressive towns of Merano, Bolzano, Rovereto, the marly green Adige river rushing through the countryside, easy drives to nature reserves, ski resorts, bicycle and hiking trails in the mountains, the great wines of the Alto Adige. The cheese, the food! Compact and walkable, but still big enough (with a population of around 117,000) to feel like a real city, Trento easily wins hearts and minds.
Its center is anchored by the weighty Castello Buonconsiglio and protected by a stretch of steep, machicolated stone walls. We’re drawn first into the travel bookstore and emerge with a stack. William needs batteries and spots a camera store where he also buys a sensible bag for all his supplies. Although the center looks as though it could be preserved in amber, the vibe feels totally modern. The Pasticceria San Vigilio offers delicious juice extracts in fresh combinations: mint, ginger, apple, and lemon or pineapple, peach, and lemon. We order one melon-carrot-orange juice and one strawberry-pomegranate-carrot. Ed sticks to espresso. We leave with a bag of pastel macarons. More bookstores— irresistible!
* * *
GETTING HERE WAS less enjoyable. We left Cortona early, planning on reaching the Alto Adige by late morning. On the traffic-crazed autostrada north of Bologna, we had just pulled out of an Autogrill and gotten up to speed when the car lurched and made a screeching sound. “Blowout!” William shouted. Ed squeezed over two lanes, hazard light flashing. Not easy in hundred-mile-an-hour traffic. What luck—he reached a pull-out space just ahead. The front right tire wasn’t just flat: it was shredded down to the wheel rim. Too hot to touch. Though valiant, the two guys couldn’t get the thing off. The space where we parked was littered with food wrappers, condoms (who would have sex here?), rotting fruit. On the phone, we tried to reach roadside assistance from Alfa Romeo. Hard to say exactly where we were, but William noticed a kilometer marker on the median. The phone kept cutting out. Finally, Ed got through. They would send a tow truck but warned that on Saturday, it would be hard to locate an open garage. Cars and mammoth trucks whooshed by. We drank water to survive the ninety-degree heat, and searched the Internet for any gommista in the area. The tow truck came. We were ratcheted up onto the back and the driver took off like the Formula One racer he must have once been. We swayed and bounced, trying not to look sideways when he took a curve. But he found an open garage; we were able to buy a used tire, the only one they had that fit with our others, and soon we were back on the mad autostrada. “Things have a way of working out in Italy,” Ed reminded us.
* * *
AROUND A CORNER, we face the grand Piazza Duomo—one of the most harmonious squares in the country, ringed with handsome buildings and centered on the playful fountain of Neptune. We scan the elegant bishops’ palace, the long north side of the Basilica Duomo di San Vigilio, and the eleventh-century bell tower with a crenellated top. All the domes are different—hexagonal, onion-shaped, square-topped. A fine rose window and rows of slender colonnades enliven the side of the church. Midway, a small porch juts out. The bishops at the Council of Trent entered here, it is said, and I imagine them passing through the rose-variegated columns supported by a pair of doleful lions. They would have looked out at the mountains rising in the background, peaks still sporting snow in mid-June.
The rest of the piazza l
ooks secular, inviting. A four-story frescoed building with arcaded sidewalks and green awnings shelters a café. When I walk closer, I see that the paintings are of mythological scenes on the left, and on the right, allegorical scenes representing time, love, virtue, and other good things. My guidebook says the scenes form “a moral book inspired by renaissance culture.” Other buildings of varying heights, painted soft apricot, Pompeian red, and butter yellow, contribute to the vital pulse of the piazza. And everywhere, umbrellas sheltering those sipping drinks, staring into phones, and visiting with friends. What more could you want? Well, another espresso for Ed. William is taking a million photos. Then we gelato along, happily.
Running off the piazza, via Rodolfo Belenzani, the most elegant street in town, is wider than other streets and lined with seignorial palazzi. Most are frescoed. Palazzo Quetta Alberti-Colico’s sixteenth-century paintings show traces of fifteenth-century ones beneath. The designs in faded royal blues and reds echo the shapes of the windows. Other fanciful geometric touches resemble some sort of renaissance board game. During the Council of Trent meetings, which were convened in three sessions between 1545 and 1563, many of the visiting bishops stayed on this street. In similar washed-away colors, Palazzo Geremia’s frescoes depict characters from history, a wheel of fortune, and people arranged in trompe-l’oeil windows beside real ones. The street ends with the church of San Francesco Saverio, where we see traces of an earlier structure on the façade.
See You in the Piazza Page 5