27 November 2006

built in mittens



Parma just may have something here.

What keeps people from using their bikes in the winter? You might answer snow. Or sleet. Or ice on the roads. But what if you live in balmy Italy and just want to get on your charming vintage bicycle, in a skirt and six-inch stilettos, and pedal your way to a nice bottle of wine. What might keep you from using your bicycle?

Well, duh! It's obviously the age-old dilemma of cold hands. But now this enterprising cyclist will never again have to add "put on mittens" to their to-do list in the morning. They simply have to get on their bike and their mittens are put on for them.

Who says Italy never melds fashion and function?

parma is for eaters



Parma is an easy hour and ten minutes away from Milan. The train ride was picturesque, zipping past early-morning hunters combing through fields with their dogs at their sides, and the colors of fall blurring into a general warmth and glow that filled the windows. Parma is also a very familiar name. If you've heard of Parmesan cheese or Parma ham you've heard of Parma; both items were born here.



The city of Parma feels small but not too small. There's a river, appropriately named the Parma River, running through the western side of the city and a beautiful Duomo. There is also a magnificent octagonal Baptistry; four stories high and finished in the 13th century, it's pink marble and elaborate details give it more personality than most. In the Palazzo Pilota - which was built in the 1500's and restored after heavy damage during in World War II - there was an exhibit on medieval life in Parma, complete with digital imaginations of both church services and a Medieval market. Among many objects equally-aged and impressive there were books scribed in 1100 AD and priests' vestaments almost 800 years old.

There's a lot to see in Parma but we'd be lying if we didn't quickly admit to being there for the food. Most of our weekends are spent in search of new and wonderful Italian foods. It's a true wonder that both of us haven't been rolled away to the fat farm. And this weekend did nothing to weaken our candidacies.

We had lunch at the Gallo d'Oro (Golden Rooster) and didn't pull any punches. There was the local wine - a fizzy red by the name of Lambrusco - that was perfect for a drizzly afternoon. Stefano took the opportunity to indulge in a local specialty that's not easily found: culatello. It's a type of ham that is so specifically made and in such an odd way that the authorities have made it difficult for it to come to market. This ham was accompanied by fried puffs of dough that were light, airy, and decadent. To start, I had the finest parmigiano risotto I've had to date. Go figure. It was creamy and savory, with traces of onion and a complex spectrum of flavors from the cheese.



Mixed homemade ravioli followed for Stefano - there were the squash variety, sweet but still savory, also those with a pesto filling with more of a punch, and then a spinach variety that let the others shine. Eggplant parmigiano followed for me - the oven's flames had rendered the cheese crusty and smokey, with the eggplant nearly melting in your mouth. For dessert, there was a cheese course highlighting a pecorino with a gentle bite that lingered on the tongue. Zero complaints here.

But I do have a comment. The lady sitting next to us, who had nodded a "buon giorno" our way as she sat down, was eating something that I can safely say I would never eat. Ever. It was horse carpaccio. Americans by and large are not conditioned to the idea that horse is for eating. For riding, for plowing... Yes. But not for chewing. This lady had a plate full of red, ground, raw horse meat. And she ate about 3/4 of it before stopping. We now know who shops at the horse butcher we'd passed earlier in the day.

But back to the flights of fancy that swirl through dreams and coffee breaks - handmade chocolates, artistic pastries, and miniature cakes.



I am happy to report that despite an appalling lack of info in the guidebooks, Parma is full - and I mean 100% pieno - of pasticcerie and chocolate shops. It's hard to walk a block without tripping past at least one mouth-watering display window filled to the gills with terribly delicious sweets. And apparently these shops take their art seriously; Parma gets credit as the only city in Northern Italy that has thus far scolded me for immortalizing a window display with my trusty camera. Not easily dissuaded, Stefano proceeded to indulge in candied peel covered with dark chocolate.



There was even what we are now calling the greatest candy shop in the world. It was a small space - maybe the size of a teenager's bedroom - and it was crammed, floor to ceiling, with every kind of sweet imaginable. Was there an Italian candy or chocolate you'd wanted to try? Rest assured, it's here. Whether you can reach it is another story but there was a man there who between helping people reach the sweets, was helping us try the different candies.



The place was filled with customers and there was a pleasant commotion, kind of like Santa's workshop. What's not to like when you've got Italian chocolates in your mouth, a basket of Italian candy in hand, and a room of delights left to plunder? I'm not embarrassed to say that we spent enough in that small room to buy our round-trip train tickets and then some. Life's about the little things. Including lots of little candies.



There was a gentle drizzle for part of our day in Parma. I like the way a little rain makes the streets shine, and the statues a little more mysterious. I also like the way Italians work to avoid contact with the weather. I can't remember ever seeing a person in the United States riding their bike while also holding up an umbrella. I always thought you had to choose one or the other. If you want to ride your bike in the rain, you get wet. If you want to use an umbrella, you don't get on your bike. But not in Italy. In Italy you get to do both.

Kind of like the way you get to eat more than one dessert. Italy's nice that way.

16 November 2006

seeing budapest



You can follow guidebooks and suggested walking tours, but you can also walk the way the wind blows. Taking a corner here. Ducking into a doorway there. This is the way to see a city. The way to notice it's details and flow.

My appreciation for Budapest lies in these details. The architectural touches that hover above the street. Stained glass that stretches across hidden galleries. Statues standing alone in the cold grey afternoon.



There is no way to fill the guidebooks with everything an eye can catch. It is my firm belief that a visitor is best served by taking coffee and then taking a walk. The caffeine propels you forward, while the views unroll for blocks.



I also believe that photos never really do moments their justice. It's fairly impossible to capture the way the light truly hits a ceiling of glass from behind. The way the wind cuts across your neck. And the honking car that caught your attention and made you turn in this direction. The photos never really explain it all.



But I can tell you that the coffee was strong and not nuanced the way our neighborhood bar makes it. The wind was crisp but not insistent. The light was dull... distant. The leaves were brown and yellow and crunched under the feet of Budapest. Our backs hurt from hours in the museum and our hands were in our pockets because we'd forgotten our gloves. It wasn't raining yet and there were long blankets of cloud stuffed into the sky. The cakes were too sweet and the people were smoking.

I can tell you that Budapest is grand and gorgeous. And there is so much more to see.

14 November 2006

budapest for the weekend



Budapest receives two thumbs way up for it's excellent role in our three-day weekend. The city is gorgeous and in November happens to be fairly devoid of tourists. The wind whipped a little and there were a few raindrops on the way home from our shockingly good Mexican dinner (more on that later) but there was no reason not to be enjoying this fine city along the Danube, in the midst of fall. With autumn colors in the trees and leaves blanketing the sidewalks, Budapest had the November personality that we really miss about Chicago.

The easiest way to describe Budapest is that it is at once cosmopolitan and charming. The Pest side of the river is replete with shopping and stature, Parliament and politicians whereas the Buda side has a castle and cobblestones, coves and corners. Both share the Danube, a gorgeous force of nature shooing boats through and catching light in its rivulets. Crossing the river on one of the many bridges gives not only picture-perfect views of the historic buildings clustered at its edges but also a sense of the current, the speed, and the energy this river possesses.



Little did I know that Budapest is also renowned for it's pastries. I dare say that had I been aware of this small piece of information earlier, things might have been different. But we made up for lost time and sampled a sweet array of delicious creations. The Hungarians don't seem super keen on moderation and their pastries bear the brunt of these leanings - chock full of creams and fillings and marzipan and more. And they are marvelous. Was my favorite the chocolate torte or the marzipan cake? But what of the cheese strudel that fell into the category of fine art? It's like trying to choose your favorite gelato flavor - impossible.



We spent our afternoons not only in bakeries and coffee shops but also in dramatic churches and eye-opening museums. While not nearly as dour as the Museum of the Occupation in Riga the Hungarian National Museum lets it be known that Hungary's history had its periods of great difficulty and terror - but is also filled with examples of the country's long history and culture. The Parliament was closed to the public for the month of November so we were only able to admire it from the outside. And there is much to admire - it sits on the shore of the Danube, stretching in epic proportions and spiking upwards with towers of artistic grace.



There was a large market full of overpriced paprika, stalls of fruits and vegetables, salami and cuts of meat, and upstairs there were stalls selling prepared dishes. We found excellent Hungarian food, doled out in plastic bowls and reheated in the microwave. Go ahead and laugh but it was fabulous ghoulash, and honey chicken with noodles -- all eaten in the midst of little old ladies and other tourists and working men who dined quickly alone. Sometimes food tastes better without the pretense of table clothes and comfortable chairs.

I should also give credit where credit is due and unequivocally state that between Milan and Budapest the award for best Mexican food goes to Budapest. We had an excellent meal at a restaurant called The Iguana, replete with chips and salsa, tacos and burritos. And while in my past life I would have been embarrassed to say that I went purposefully for Mexican food while visiting Hungary, in this life I consider it a victory. Oh, Italians - why don't you understand the dining joys of Mexico? But I digress.



The Hungarian National Gallery is gigantic and full of Hungary's greatest pieces. It sits high above the Danube, looking out on a wonderful view of the Pest side of the river. Up here is also where Matyas church can be found, with colored tiles peppering the roof. And the Fisherman's Bastion, a series of white towers overlooking the river. This is the area of the cobblestones and cozy cafes - and a giant eagle statue that is more than a bit daunting. You can also easily get up to this area on foot; the Funicular seems like the easy answer but at $5 a pop you might as well take the stairs and make up for the non-stop pastry fest that you've found yourself celebrating.

Other recommendations: if you're leaving town at the end of the day - say 8:00pm out of Bergamo - be sure you get on the shuttle to the airport early. We spent more time on the bus trying to get to the airport than we did on the actual plane. We were shocked that the busload of Italians stayed so calm. Turns out they knew something we didn't: all you have to do is get yourself checked-in and then the plane is basically going to have to wait for you to haul your butt up to the gate, no matter how much you dawdle. People who were on the same shuttle bus as we were, and arrived at the check-in at the same time we did, somehow got lost in a time warp and didn't make it to the plane until about 20 minutes late. But rest assured, the plane will wait for you. So please feel free to grab that extra piece of pizza you were eyeing on your way to the security screening line. We can wait.



But overall, it was gloriously easy to visit Budapest. Just a short plane ride away, it's a cultural jewel that we would have loved to have a few more days to explore. And next time we'll bring our bathing suits so that we can go to the famous thermal baths. And we'll bring our bushel baskets of cash so that we can stay in the Four Seasons which sits in arguably one of the most gorgeous buildings on the Danube. And we'll remember that smoking is still allowed in public places in Budapest so we'll be prepared to absorb a fair amount of secondhand smoke. And there's got to be another Mexican restaurant somewhere in Budapest, right? Maybe we can find that too.

07 November 2006

too good



Hot chocolate in Italy is different. Very different. The Italians have taken the phrase very literally and instead of dissolving powder in a cup of water they've gone ahead and actually melted chocolate and put it in a cup.

Hot. Chocolate.

Sunday morning breakfast in Alba consisted of a pastry and a cup of hot chocolate. It was like drinking a chocolate cake. You know those molten tortes that are all the rage these days? Where one nudge with a fork causes the cake to ooze chocolate lava. Well, Sunday's hot chocolate was a lot like that. Except it was in a cup and you were supposed to drink it.

The feeling was sinful. And decadent. And very very right.

When you swirled your spoon in the cup, it was like steering through a silky pudding. It was your own personal cup of warm velvety cake batter - without the raw eggs your mother warned you about.



The shop itself is rather new - the owner's wife told us they'd been there for about a year - so you won't find it in the tourism guides. But it's still filling up with people which shouldn't surprise anyone. Saturday afternoon it had been so packed with adoring fans that we couldn't explore as much as we'd wanted. There's a full chocolate shop and bakery overflowing with all manner of sweet delights and a small café in the back. And it's in the perfect location right behind the Duomo.

But when we got there on Sunday morning there was just one other gentleman reading the paper over coffee. And eventually the owner's wife and daughter came in and we got to talking. Talking a little about her family in America. About our family from Italy. Chocolate. Her happy daughter. Life in Alba.

It was a nice conversation. And a nice pasticceria. And a cup of hot chocolate so nice that neither of us could get to the bottom.

Golosi di salute
Piazza Rossetti, 6
12051 Alba (CN)
www.golosidisalute.com

06 November 2006

alba is food love



I can't blame the wine - even though we did start drinking shortly after ten in the morning. I can't blame the cheese - even though we sampled enough varieties to seriously harm those allergic to milk. And I can't blame the flourless hazelnut cakes - even though we must have had about five different versions. Our new love for Alba cannot be blamed on one single aspect of the city - no - it must be blamed on all aspects, every single one. Not the least of which was the White Truffle Festival, which from September 30 until today combined all that is glorious about Piemonte's Langhe region into a series of festival halls.

How to begin? Well, first you pay one euro. Just one euro to enter a place that smells more than a little like bad breath. Bad breath, you say? Why would I pay to go in there? Oh, my friend, you will go in there and you will love it. You will marvel over the fact that it was just 1 euro to enter. You will stay there for several hours, wandering the halls, eating and drinking. And when you can finally bring yourself to leave you will roll yourself out with multiple shopping bags in hand, filled with food and wine. It's dangerous... this truffle festival. But it's also divine.



On the map the city of Alba looks fairly close to Milan. And I suppose it is; if you have a car. We took the train and arrived in about three hours, after taking three trains and following what might be kindly-termed a circuitous route. It was more than worth it, though, and as dawn broke we watched wine fields climb the sides of rolling hills, and fall colors sweep across our path. It was gorgeous. And gave us plenty of time to ponder the question of why there's not a more direct route. But I digress.

I'm convinced that I had never been in the presence of a truffle before. Chocolate truffles, yes, I've eaten my share. But truffles that a dog found in the ground? Nope, never. So I didn't know that the smell we came across when we entered the festival was the smell of hundreds of fresh truffles, all of which had been extricated from the ground by skilled truffle-hunters and brought to this market to display and to sell. And I'm sorry, but it's true. The magical fungus that costs obscene amounts of money smells a bit like muted garlic breath.



But the wine? First, you're advised to cup the wineglass in your hands in order to warm up the rich red liquid because it's so cold in the festival hall. Then you take a deep sniff to capture the aroma. The Dolcetto smells fruity and earthy and barky and warm. And Asti smells like flowers in the sun, and peaches and apricots and rainbows. And Barolo to me smells meaty and rich.

And the people who run the wineries and who line the festival hall want you to taste these wines. They want you to taste all of the wines. They'll fill your glass and tell you about their grapes, their techniques, and the personality of their soil. And then you'll say thank you and visit someone else who will do the same. It's like pub crawl only the point is not to get drunk and head-butt people in the streets, but rather to taste the magical wines of this silty region and try to grasp what it is that makes them so special. And along the way you're bound to realize there are a hundred reasons why...



But wait! The cheese people are holding out knives with shavings of cheese on them! And you can't say no because it's cheese. Wonderful cheese! And with so many different kinds - so many textures and flavors, it's almost too good to be true. There is sausage and salami too; hanging along the wall and laid across the table and being cut into bite-sized samples. Not just a paradise for cheese-lovers, but for their meat-loving counterparts as well.



There's also an ungodly amount of cakes, cookies, candies and general sweet ephemera lining the festival. There's the earlier-mentioned flourless hazelnut cake which is moist and not too sweet. And chocolate everywhere; in chunks and bars and elaborate art. There's torrone in bricks large enough to knock out a grown man. And you, as a truffle fest attendee, are obligated to taste everything put before you. Truly. And p.s. there's no shame in going for seconds. I tried.

I will tell you that the one difficulty of the festival is the other festival goers. While we saw very few Americans, there were sackloads of Germans and other Nordic folk. These are not small people - in fact, I'd go so far as to call them quite sturdy. Stefano, who while not being a very heavy fellow is quite tall -- I can usually see him easily across a crowded room -- was absolutely dwarfed by a crowd of men and women who made him look like a toddler. He tried but there was no penetrating the wall of heartiness, and no way for him to reach the salami sample he so badly desired. And while we went back later and Stefano tasted what he claimed was absolutely excellent salami, he still couldn't escape the idea that there are people that large in the world, and that they wouldn't let him near the smoked meats.



And now we come to the truffles. Oh delicious aromatic fungus. Why haven't we met you before? (Aside from the fact that you're too expensive and kind of rare and all...) The interior of the festival was an area where the truffle hunters lined up at tables, along with their scales and calculators, and displayed their goods. Some simply piled the truffles into little mounds while others preciously laid them out one-by-one. There were white truffles and black truffles and they ranged in size from pretty small to several golf balls large. Very small is almost in our price range, while any larger is definitely not. There was a generously-sized white truffle for 1300 euro which we found almost comical, except for the fact that not everyone in the crowd was pointing and laughing.



As you might imagine, there are very few rag-taggers trotting through the truffle festival. And those who are there as serious buyers are wearing the outfits of the filthy rich. But to be there as a spectator is just as fun. You get to smell the truffles all the same. And you can talk to the truffle-folk about how this line of work found them and their families. We talked to a girl who was there representing the finds of her father -- who truffles at night with his specially-trained dog. He was taught by his father who was taught by his father and so on. We asked her why she didn't hunt for the truffles - and her answer was that she felt it was too dangerous to be wandering around in the middle of the night. A practical girl who then went on to sell several truffles for about 100 euro.

There's definitely an art to knowing a good truffle and we received a brochure that tried to explain it. There's something about the strong garlicky smell of a white truffle originating from all sides of the truffle, and one must also keep an eye out for claw marks from the dog who dug it up. Also, don't buy one that's chock full of parasites or has been reconstituted from multiple small parts by an unscrupulous dealer. Rest assured, though, there's a truffle judging booth at the festival where you can take your prized-purchase to be sure you got your euro's worth.



I have to admit to purchasing our own little truffle. And believe me when I say it's little. But it smells strong and it looks the part. And we're going to shave it thinly and eat it over eggs. That's what everyone else was doing.

If the Alba truffle festival hadn't ended I would encourage everyone to hop onto whatever form of transport was available and get to the festival now. But as today was the final day I can only implore you to plan ahead for next year. This festival was one of the greatest food joys that we've had here in Italy and we're still groaning over its delights. The wine, the cheese, the truffles... The three hour train ride going in circles.

It's all about the goodness of Italy and the lengths people take to enjoy it. Some of us hop on trains and tool around the countryside. Others take their dogs out in the dark of night and hunt for a very special fungus. Still others cultivate grapes with a love that few of us understand. But we all come together every so often and share our energies in a single place. Some of us as wide-eyed visitors, others as wisened producers... at a crisp fall picnic that takes place in Alba.

See you there next year.