On the way down, we veer into other streets. Now all we have to do is find where we parked the car.
From Mira, drive twenty minutes to Felsina and you take the half-hour ferry right into Venice, stopping at the Zattere promenade. Easy day trip, then return to Mira before seven P.M. and find your great spot for dinner. This is a relaxing way to experience Venice and the watery world beyond it. We chose it because of proximity to the fabled villas of the area.
We’re enticed by intersecting canals that hint at the vast network of work and transport that once existed among the major towns of Padua, Vicenza, Treviso, Venice. The advent of the railroads in the 1800s caused this way of life to languish, and, eventually, many canals clotted with silt and weeds. But once, the Venetians boarded lavish barges called burchielli, pulled by horses, for their country villas. Some were farms; others just dazzling holiday escapes. The number of villas around Mira is astonishing. Most are private but I’m happy to drive and drive along the canals imagining the rooms, the kitchens, the views onto the water. The road from Mira to Dolo passes many sublime places. In Dolo, we have the pleasure of eating at Ristorante e Pizzeria Al Cristo, right on a canal. Gnocchi with scallops and basil, little octopuses with polenta, and fluffy chocolate profiteroles. Rain again, lovely along the banks with their drifting willows and white geese. On the edge of Dolo we come upon a cluster of villas—Velluti, Badoer De Chantal, Tito. Intermittently, the twentieth century’s uninspired contribution to the landscape crops up. The villas have lost some of their bucolic aspects.
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WE’VE RENTED FOR three days an apartment on the Brenta canal. It’s gorgeous. Amazing beams cross and criss like pick-up-sticks. When we look carefully, we home in on a few bizarre pieces of Indonesian furniture. An odd throne chair, and a wardrobe endowed with carvings of sexual positions. (How do they suspend like that?) Just opposite the bed—is this supposed to be inspirational? In the hall downstairs, there’s an identical wardrobe. But overall, the pretty beds with lots of pillows, the comfortable modern sofa, and a well-equipped kitchen make this a fine choice for two writers—we need room to spread out our books and computers.
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FOR HOW LONG have I wanted to see the villas along the Brenta? Palladio! Genius, who would be shocked to see his influence on everything from the finest Wren churches in England to American suburban mega-mansion stairway windows, from Inigo Jones to Tara, Thomas Jefferson, and my high school in Fitzgerald, Georgia. We don’t say Wrightian, Corbusarian, Hadidian, but everyone says Palladian. His classical revival became part of our language. Near Mira, we get to see La Malcontenta.
In the ticket office, a distinguished older man in an oversize suit sits on a stool off to the side, obviously waiting for someone but gazing mildly at us as we buy books and talk to the ticket seller. “Yes, several of the books are by the owner of the villa.” We look through them quickly. I see the man slightly smile.
Who was malcontent? A woman who didn’t want to be here. A legend arose around her. Adultery. Exile from Venice. Or was it that the canal was mal contempta, badly contained?
How could this house not inspire stories? The name is actually Villa Foscari, designed in 1554 and built soon after. It is raised on a half-basement, giving loft to the piano nobile. Palladio loved entering directly a large central room with other rooms radiating around it. We only can see the main floor with tatty furniture and magnificent proportions. Frescoes and light from all the, yes, Palladian windows, make the rooms seem fresh and livable.
The farm buildings aren’t connected to the house, as they sometimes are with Palladian villas. We walk around the grounds where a sculpture show is set up in a meadow. The lawns afford different views of the villa. Grand terra-cotta pots of oleander stand along the back of the house, and on the side a knot garden with brick paths is totally neglected. We run into the bookstore clerk and ask. Yes, he smiles, the man was the lucky owner of this monumental treasure.
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A WALK ALONG the canal and around the sprawling village of Mira. Easy afternoon. Wandering. Last night, we only wanted a quick pizza and must have chosen the worst place in the Veneto. Slow, loud, and mediocre. Pony pizza, anyone? Well, that’s a local tradition. For tonight, we’re more careful. Ed locates Il Sogno, out in the country, and it is well named: the dream. These Italian waiters! Professional and helpful. Ours has a wide smile and a bald head shining like a rubbed chestnut. As he pours the prosecco, he recommends a Rosso del Milio from the nearby Treviso area, a combination of cabernet and carmenére, which reflects the maker’s “velvet heart.” We are the only foreigners in the long, glassed-in room packed with festive diners. The menu makes life hard. How, possibly, to choose? Ed orders gallina Padovana in saor and loves it. Saor, typically Venetian, is a sweet-sour marinade of vinegar, raisins, onions, pine nuts, olives. Sardines are most often in saor but here it’s served with gallina, hen.
I choose little balls of fish in a crust of pistachios with a red pepper cream. The wine is a heart-breaker, and perfect with our secondo, the duck and white polenta. This is prime polenta country and in the Veneto it’s more often white than the golden type we’re used to.
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VILLA PISANI IN the rain under steely skies looks like an etching of itself. This villa—not by Palladio but by Francesco Preti—has 114 rooms. We are alone here, rambling in the stark corridors while lightning strikes and thunder rolls. Adding to the atmosphere, some of the rooms have no lights. Others are furnished like some king’s attic. The villa, built in the eighteenth century, has seen a maelstrom of history pass through: royalty, guests from the vile (Hitler) to the slightly less vile (Mussolini), from the rapacious (Napoleon) to the poetic (Lord Byron).
The villa originally was a holiday house for the Venetian Pisani family. What grand weekends they must have had. Room after room of miniature armchairs, silk basinettes, upright chairs, the draped bed where Napoleon slept. There is, unseen, an interior corridor that must have been used by scurrying servants. Otherwise, you go through one room to get to the next. In the Festive Salon, the ballroom, Tiepolo painted extensive frescoes of the Pisani family. This is considered one of his major works. The children all look pale and unhealthy, as though they exist on white polenta. Tiepolo is an artist I simply cannot appreciate. Everything he paints looks unfinished and wispy. But overall the ballroom is dazzling, the orchestra-level frescoes with monochromatic scenes, the glorious ceiling. Under the glow of the great chandeliers hanging from the four corners, we all could have danced away many a holiday night.
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ON OUR LAST night, we return to Ristorante Margherita in Hotel Villa Franceschi, refined and sedate, with old-world atmosphere. We have come back because we stayed here the first time we came to Mira and remember it as romantic. We are immediately offered a Valdo prosecco from Valdobbiadene. We both order the risotto with tiny vegetables from the garden, then I launch into taking apart a plate of savory big scampi in broth. The waiter is pouring an Allegrini Palazzo della Torre from the Verona area. “A baby amarone.” Ed swirls and inhales. “When they make this wine at harvest, they leave out some grapes to dry over the fall. They add them to the wine in January for a second fermentation.” Hence, the deep raisiny taste of amarone but bright and fruity, too. Ed will order cod, that essential European fish, anytime he can. He especially likes this preparation, mantecato de baccalà, whipped and creamy baccalà on polenta.
Villa Franceschi is a perfect choice for a base in the Veneto. The intimate lobby nooks with sofas of crushed velvet, bookcases, and dark paneling are seductive and comfortable. I remember the returns from Venice, how welcoming it felt to step inside the hotel.
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I TAKE MY clothes from the Kama Sutra cupboard and pack. From here, it’s only twenty minutes to Mestre, where we board the fast Frecciarosa train for Florence and then home to Cortona. I google Petrarca’s sonnets and as I read them, the lines are pun
ctuated by my seatmate, who is sneezing and blowing her nose. The early autumn gold of poplars flashes by the window. Veneto!
Risotto agli Asparagi al Profumo di Prosecco
RISOTTO WITH ASPARAGUS AND PROSECCO, SERVES 4
The type of rice does make a difference. Vialone nano is a medium-grain and high-starch rice that renders the kind of creamy risotto Chef Gianmaria Cozza prefers in the Veneto. I also like carnaroli for similar results. Arborio isn’t a favorite in my kitchen—too goopy. Optional: Top the risotto with grated Parmigiano.
1 large bunch (1 pound) asparagus, preferably white, stems peeled
4 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
1 onion, minced
1½ cups Villa Sandi Valdobbiadene Prosecco Superiore DOCG
Salt and pepper, QB
1½ cups vialone nano rice
4 cups vegetable stock
2 ounces Casatella Trevigiana cheese (or other soft cow cheese, such as Taleggio)
1½ tablespoons butter
Cut the asparagus stems into small, round pieces, and thinly slice the tips.
In a small skillet over medium-high heat, warm 2 tablespoons of the olive oil, and brown half of the onion for 4 to 5 minutes, stirring often. Add the asparagus stems (not the tips) and cook until crispy and tender, about 3 minutes. Splash in ¼ cup of the prosecco and stir, allowing it to evaporate. Add salt and pepper.
In a risotto pot over medium heat, warm the remaining 2 tablespoons of oil and brown the rest of the onion. Add the rice, and let it toast for 4 minutes, frequently stirring. Add ½ cup of the prosecco and again allow it to evaporate as you stir. Add 1 cup of the stock, and stir the rice for 6 to 7 minutes. Add the stock in ½-cup increments, letting each addition be absorbed before adding more. When the rice is close to al dente, after about 12 minutes, add the asparagus mixture and tips.
When the risotto is ready, add the cheese, butter, and the remaining ¼ cup of wine. Stir to combine. Divide risotto among serving bowls and serve immediately.
Locanda Sandi, Valdobbiadene, Veneto
Gallina Padovana in Saor
PADUAN HEN IN SAOR, SERVES 6
The sauce called saor—meaning “flavor” in the Venetian dialect—originally may have been created to help preserve fish. The sweet-sour sauce for sardines and for sole is ubiquitous in the Veneto. At Il Sogno, Chef Silvano Libralesso serves it with a tender poached chicken. I find this outstanding for a summer dinner. Prepare a day in advance for the flavors to heighten and blend.
1 3½-pound hen
1 carrot, halved
1 stalk celery, cut into 3 pieces
1 onion, peeled and quartered
1 teaspoon salt
Thyme sprigs
FOR THE SAOR
3 medium white onions, julienned
¾ cup plus 2 tablespoons white wine vinegar
1 cup extra-virgin olive oil
1 cup white wine
1 teaspoon salt
2 ounces pine nuts
2 ounces raisins
1 large red bell pepper, cut into strips
Extra-virgin olive oil, QB
In a large pot of boiling water, place the hen, the aromatic vegetables, salt, and thyme. Reduce the heat, partially cover, and simmer for about an hour. Test for doneness. Cool the chicken, then cut the meat off the bones, making sure the pieces are not too small. (You can save the light broth for a soup.)
Prepare the saor:
Toss the onions into a large skillet with ¾ cup of the vinegar, the oil, white wine, and salt. Bring to a boil and immediately reduce the heat to a simmer. Cover and simmer for 50 minutes, adding the pine nuts and raisins after about 20 minutes. Stir often, making sure nothing sticks to the pan.
Add the remaining 2 tablespoons of vinegar to a small pot of boiling water and blanch the red pepper for 3 minutes, then drain.
Mix the chicken, saor, and red pepper, tasting for correct seasoning. Leave to rest in the refrigerator for 24 hours. Taste for seasonings. Serve at room temperature with a drizzle of olive oil.
Trattoria Il Sogno, Mirano, Veneto
Now and then I’ll get a text from our friend Robert in Washington. Where are you on 26 May? Can we meet in Cormòns? Or, Flying in on 6 October. Cormòns? I always answer, Where shall we eat? This time he’s chosen Trattoria Al Piave, a place just outside town. We’ll gather at eight. This will be a special event: We’ll meet his fiancée.
These felicitous times together in Friuli began about ten years ago. Robert wrote to us in Cortona: You need to know La Subida. Let’s go. We went. There’s mystery at the heart of places that seem to belong to you. From the day he arrived, Robert experienced the same colpo di fulmine, lightning strike, that we felt our first summer in Tuscany. He began to come as often as possible.
Over the years, he’s become local, at home in every restaurant and in the local enoteca where the great winemakers gather. He’s accumulated that daunting kind of wine knowledge that includes the exact percentages in blends and which grapes are indigenous. With him, we got to know the Sirk family at La Subida, the epitome of regional cuisine and the meeting point of several cultures in one kitchen. We met Robert’s friend Giampaolo Venica, whose family makes white wines you could weep over. Not your house sauvignon blanc, their whites are as complex as any red. Venica & Venica’s sauvignon Ronco delle Mele is a big favorite of mine. We also visited vineyards, and collected cherished bottles of Edi Keber, Franco Toros, Schiopetto, and Gravner. What luck to have a friend who knows both terrain and terroir.
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OF ALL THE undiscovered places in Italy, this little-visited corner bordering Slovenia remains an open secret. It has the Friulian Alps for skiing and hiking, pristine lakes such as Sauris, Adriatic beaches around Grado, the Duino coastal walk that inspired the poet Rilke, plus the capital, Trieste, with a strong Austro-Hungarian heritage. Sopratutto, above all, Friuli produces some of the tip-top wines of the world.
And it’s close to Venice, where everyone goes. The Floating City suffers a plague of tourists, and rightfully so: Venice—where dreams rise out of the waters, where color spangles in your eyes everywhere you look, where the subconscious and conscious merge, where the mysterious east touches the west, and where any fledgling romance flourishes into full-blown passion. Being there saturates me quickly. Three or four days, bliss, then I’m ready to go. The Veneto and Friuli are perfect extensions to a Venice trip.
* * *
CORMÒNS, APPEALING AND livable, has a major attraction: Enoteca di Cormòns, owned by a consortium of vineyards for the promotion of local wines. And as a gathering spot for themselves. Many such tasting rooms around Italy are for tourists. This one is full of the local growers and winemakers every evening. How different they are from the slender Tuscan aristocrats in Ferragamo and Zegna. Their hands aren’t soft, and some broad faces show Slavic heritage. Some are unshaven, all are full of zest. Because Robert knows many of them, they send over tastes and come to talk, mostly to joke with Robert. The women pouring all know him, too, and they serve us boards of cheeses, prosciutto, and smoked trout.
Cormòns straddles two major growing areas, Collio and Colli Orientali (Hills and Eastern Hills). Ah, Italy’s finest wines are produced by these men laughing over their glasses. In other areas where I’ve tasted, the wines can seem similar. In these zones, even ubiquitous pinot grigio rises way above its station. With each glass, I’m sure these men with their eyes closed can identify a hillside slope, a slant of sun. Across five Friuli wine districts, the grapes play the music of their own plots. Easy to fall in love with the wines of the area when the vibrations of their very terroir rises from the ground you stand on.
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WE’VE STAYED AT La Subida and at Castello di Spessa in Capriva, both of which we love. This time we check into La Casa di Alice, a jasmine-covered B & B with a pool and garden in a leafy residential neighborhood. Anna Brandolin converted her grandparents’ barn and farmhouse and named her B & B for her daughter. For guests, she has four large rooms, each decorated in a bold color: yellow, blue, green, or red. We are put in the red, which is like being inside a big glass of wine. The atmosphere is light-hearted and Anna is sympatica.
We have the day and much to see, so we drop our bags and drive through the spring countryside over to Cividale del Friuli, only nineteen kilometers away. The thrill of the drive: With windows down for the freshest air, we pass fields of white asphodel in bloom.
* * *
WE ENTER THE storybook town over a high, double-arched bridge, Ponte del Diavolo, first built in the fifteenth century, destroyed in the infamous World War One Battle of Caporetto in 1917, then rebuilt by the Austrians after the war. The bridge spans the emerald-green waters of the Natisone. Why is it called the devil’s bridge? He allowed it to be constructed in exchange for one soul but the canny builders delivered him instead the soul of a dog. Devilishly clever.
See You in the Piazza Page 12