25 July 2007

colazione americana



Muffins were being eaten with forks and knives, and people didn't quite know where to put the syrup, but I can assure you - no one left hungry.

Feeding breakfast to our friends, in our favorite bar, came out of a conversation we had over aperitivo with the bar owner back in June. We had been talking about food and the question of what is truly American food came up. We decided that American breakfast was a uniquely-fashioned meal and that maybe it was one of the best examples of real American food. And so the breakfast event was born - why not invite friends to the bar, take over the kitchen, and share some waffles with the crowd? Not to mention the perfectly-made American coffee (and orange juice) offered by our Italian hosts.



Up to their elbows in waffles, our Italian friends had questions like, "Do Americans really eat all of this for breakfast?" while the Americans asked, "Where did you find the bacon?" An enlightening morning for all, no? We explained to the Italians that eating all of these things at once was really more of a weekend activity while the Americans were relieved to find out that smoked pancetta doubles as bacon when fried in a pan.

Small sidenote on bacon procurement: When Stefano went to the store to buy the bacon (ie: smoked pancetta) he ordered a quantity that was large enough to feed 20 people. The butcher looked at him as if he were crazy and asked if he really meant to order a far smaller amount. No, Stefano insisted, I want that previously-unheard-of gigantic quantity. When the butcher asked if he wanted one large slab, Stefano insisted he wanted it thinly sliced. Met with a confused stare Stefano explained that he was feeding a large group for breakfast. Only then did the butcher chime in with, "Oh, right, you people eat this for breakfast."

Yes, "us people" eat it for breakfast. And when you make scrambled eggs in the bacon pan, everyone - including "you Italians" - asks for seconds. Do not doubt the power of bacon.



Stefano was the main architect of the breakfast and started crafting the meal the day before. He not only braved the Italian supermarket battleground to acquire the ingredients, but also made three dozen muffins and a large bucket of batter. (Thanks also to our allies in the US who mailed crucial ingredients not easily found on this side of the Atlantic.)

On the day of the breakfast we went to the bar several hours early to familiarize ourselves with the kitchen and to start making the piles of waffles (original and chocolate chip), pancakes (original and blueberry), scrambled eggs and bacon. The only casualty of the morning was the hash browns which despite last minute resuscitation attempts by our friend, the owner of the bar and our right-hand man all morning, went down in a smoky haze. Alas. Even culinary experts can't save hash browns gone wrong.



It was a great morning and it felt a bit like home with the busy kitchen, everyone rushing about to be ready in time, and a lack of pot holders at the ready. There was the profumo of waffles, the sizzle of bacon, and the chatter of friends. Only this time the chatter was in Italian and English. And there was a dog at the table.



But in Italy there's always a dog at the table. This time it was the waffles that were special.

22 July 2007

o é per l'opera



Earlier in the week we walked over to La Scala to see the second opera in our subscription and began the night by pinching ourselves. We often do this; the pinching ourselves routine. Living in Italy, in general, kind of lends itself to it. You'll be walking along and stop in your tracks, woozy at the realization of the luck of your situation. And seeing an opera at the "real" La Scala in Milan only brings on more pinching.

For several years we had a subscription to the Lyric Opera of Chicago where we sat several stories above the stage, the performers were the size of Barbie dolls off in the distance, and inevitably one of us would nod off -- but we loved it. It's only when you come to La Scala that you realize it has its stand-alone reputation for a reason. A rather intangible reason, but one you feel as soon as you enter the space.

Maybe it's proximity. La Scala, by comparison to the Lyric, feels nothing short of intimate. Embracing the main floor is a horseshoe of balconies and our seats are on the second balcony from the top. A golden glow blankets the whole auditorium and the red seats give the space a fireplace warmth. We sit in the first of two rows on the left side of the stage, our seats facing the other side of the horseshoe rather than the stage itself.



To see the stage we lean forward and peer over the edge and to our left. It's like a little kid trying to see what's on the kitchen table except you can't throw yourself too far over the edge or the person seated next to you will elbow you in the ribs because you're blocking their already tenuous view. Stefano likes to note that during his brief stint selling tickets at the Chicago Symphony Orchestra he had to make very clear when a seat had any sort of obstructed view of the stage. At La Scala, you find out about the obstruction only once you show up. We found an obstruction of about 20%. As in: we can't see 20% of the stage, ever. And don't even ask about the people sitting behind us.

Having mentioned the difficulties involved in spectating a La Scala performance I can only say that it's well worth it. In fact, these are the most enjoyable performances I've ever seen. We've been to Madama Butterfly (Puccini) in February and now La Traviata (Verdi) this past week and I have never felt so connected with the performers, the music, and the story.

That being said, understanding exactly what's going on in the opera is not as important as you'd think. At La Scala each seat has it's own small subtitle screen which displays the libretto in real time in either English or Italian. Sometimes we choose Italian and it's fascinating to realize that these operas are being performed in a language we (sort of) know. But as you might imagine, it's hard to lean entirely over the edge of the balcony, and at the same time read a small subtitle screen located near your knees. Somethin's gotta give.



The most confusing moment for us at La Traviata had nothing to do with the narrative. As a story, La Traviata is about as direct a melodrama as possible: couple falls in love, couple runs away together, evil father does evil deed, couple parts, the truth comes out, fatal illness strikes, couple comes back together, she dies in his arms. No confusion there. Rather, after a long aria by the main character, which ended with her falling to the ground, one lone individual shouted a short but confident "boo." Quickly after, there was a mix of light applause and general noise but it was the "boo" that still hung in the room. And we weren't entirely sure what he had found so appalling.

The reputation of La Scala's audience as difficult and critical is valid. In fact, earlier this year they literally booed someone off the stage and his understudy took over for the rest of the engagement. (To be a bit of a gossip I'll let you know that the woman who was boo'd at our performance just so happens to be married to the performer who walked off the stage never to return - and rumor is that the crowd hasn't forgiven either of them for it.) During a performance there are often shouts of brava/bravo, but then there are also the whistles, which are very negative in Italy, and boo's. It's kind of freeing to be in the midst of a crowd that feels it has a right to shout at the stage - be it positive or negative. At La Scala, the performers don't get credit just for showing up; there is no guarantee of respectful applause awaiting them. It's really quite primal.

But that's part of the glorious wilds of La Scala I guess. The whistles and boo's, the bravo's and brava's, being as much a part of the performance as the libretto. These are the things you learn only once you come inside. Only once you squeeze yourself into that tiny seat, lean yourself over the balcony's edge and twist your body towards the partially-obscured stage.

And the peak of excitement? The most pinch-yourself worthy moment of all? It's quite possibly feeling free enough to scream your very first "Brava!" at the stage. (I'm happy to report I've not felt free enough to "boo.")

17 July 2007

where the bikes are



On Saturday we ventured back into what is quickly becoming one of our very favorite regions of Italy: Emilia Romagna. It took about two and a half hours to get to Ferrara from Milan and once we were there the time flew by as fast as the bicycles.

And bicycles are, in fact, one of the great parts of this region. Because it's so flat and because traffic has been restricted to control pollution in this historic UNESCO World Heritage Site, the residents find that a bicycle can be their best friend.

The only time of day when the city center isn't teeming with cyclists is during the lunchtime hour. And then the city isn't teeming with anyone. Let me warn you now, Ferrara seems to like its lunch breaks long. Most stores were closed from 12:30 to 4:00pm which is a languid lunch even by Italian standards.



Before lunch we stopped in a bike repair shop and spoke to the owner at length. Surrounded by tangled rounds of inner tube and thin silvery spokes, he informed us that Ferrara is second only to Amsterdam in the number of bicycles filling the city. I don't know if you've been to Amsterdam but I have and I can tell you it's a pretty big place with lots of room for bikes. Ferrara, however ... not so big. And it shows. You can't take a step in any direction without running into something bicycle-related.



And it's glorious. You've never seen so many beautiful old bikes. So many old people on bikes. Signs saying "don't park your bike here," and people parked against their bikes.



And once you start eating in Ferrara - which for us happened nearly immediately - you realize it's a good thing so many people are pedaling around all day. The food is amazing but it's not what one might term "light." At lunch, the restaurant owner, in acknowledgement of the fact that heaving plates of mashed potatoes covered in traditional stew might not be on order for a 95 degree day, offered to serve us an amended half portion. We accepted. It was, however, too late to change my full order of polenta with funghi -- oh, the perils of dining in Italy.



Aside from eating and biking there are some very pretty churches to see and also a late fourteenth century castle, surrounded by a moat, standing smack in the center of town. You can also visit Casa Romei, the home of a nobleman finished in mid-1400. As you walk through the two-storied structure with its frescoed walls and intricate wooden ceilings it's easy to forget this was all built well before Columbus set sail.

And speaking of travel, we were talking with the owner of the bike shop about his favorite places in Italy. He recommended his honeymoon destination, Umbria, saying that it was the most beautiful region of Italy he had ever seen. Other than that, he said, he didn't know where we should go. He had never been south of Rome.

We neglected to ask if that's because he only travels by bike.

08 July 2007

quattro luglio



Fourth of July outside of the United States tends to leave you feeling a little less... something.

I don't know where to point the finger. The lack of colorful explosions punching across evening's inky blackness? The void left in late morning when there's no parade to cheer? And what about all of that red, white and blue? There's something delightfully Mayberry about everyone on the block waking up early to hang the flag out front in the breeze... These delicious chunks of Americana are only found in America.

Instead, we're back where parts of America began. Where many of our ancestors started and what they left behind when they came.

And in some special places... where they've returned.

The man who hosted our Fourth of July in the Dolomites went to the United States over fifty years ago at age fourteen. He went to school no more than a block from where my mother lived - and at the same time. He worked for a knife sharpener nights, weekends, and many years until he opened his own shop. And then, after becoming an American citizen and a successful business man, he returned to Italy where he continues to be both.

He also holds a Fourth of July party every year in a wonderful mountain town. There are many Americans there. And Australians. And the English. There is great food. Much toasting with homemade grappa. And many stories about America.

It's a special celebration in a special place. And it's strange. Because for every Fourth of July in America, for every parade I shook a small flag at, and for every fireworks display I stood below... I'd never felt quite as American as I felt on this Fourth of July.

That party in the mountains felt patriotic in a way that a parade never could. Because instead of walking down Main Street with a flag and the steady tip-tap of the high school band's snare drum, these people boarded slow-moving ships to cross the Atlantic and waited for the waves to push them towards their future.

When these people say "Happy Fourth of July," they mean it. And that sounds good when you're a long way from home.

Even without the parade.

hiking + eating



Cogne is nestled in a valley worthy of Heidi and her mountain-loving brethren. Think alpine meadow teeming with equal parts wild flowers and wild grasses. Big blue sky and snow-covered mountains. Folks sunbathing topless and thong-ed. Yep, the last one stood out for us too. But I assure you, certain members of our party were not complaining. In fact, this person's pace noticeably slowed to better take in the view.

The hiking paths within easy reach of Cogne (and well past the scantily clad sun seekers) are nothing short of magnificent. They are the shockingly beautiful scenes that taunt you from tourist brochures and nature magazines. This area is part of the Gran Paradiso National Park - a park that is well-loved by Italians. We didn't run into any Americans although promptly upon our return to Milan we found out that a highschool friend was in the Park at the very same time, hiking her way through her honeymoon.



You might know Stefano and I like to hike as well and we recently purchased one hiking pole each. While not considering ourselves expert hikers we might go so far as consider ourselves somewhat physically fit. So why, you might ask, would we need hiking poles?

"Need" is a strong word but after enough times passing pole-possessing hikers looking like king/queen of the world - while feeling pretty exhausted yourself - you too might turn to these magical tools. (The same logic does not apply to the black socks + sandles combo nor the scarily popular plaid hiking pants.)

I think the overall vote on the poles was a hearty thumbs up. I don't know what nature thinks of us sticking poles into it every two feet but we sure felt like it gave us more support along the way.



However, there isn't enough support in the world to make our first hike easy. Stefano calculated the elevation change and found that we hiked 3500 feet up in under three hours. That's like climbing more than two Sears Towers without the benefit of stairs. Then turn around and go back down. You will quickly learn that gravity is not your friend.

The gleaming light in the middle of our hike was the refuge where we had our lunch. This was the first refuge we've ever been to; a refuge being a lodge in the middle of nowhere, reached only by foot, that is filled with beautiful hearty plates of food.

I'd like to now make the grand and sweeping statement that the best hikes in the world are followed by the best food - and that this is one of the most satisfying pairings that can be found on our planet. If somehow I'm the first person to mention this, it's only because everyone else is too busy hiking and eating.



Our perfect convergence of hiking and eating took place at the Rifugio Vittorio Sella. This refuge has been there at 2584 meters since 1860 and when it finally came into our view, it was as if the sad and lonely island castaway suddenly saw a cruise ship coming right for him. We couldn't have been any happier.

Inside the refuge on the wood-paneled walls were framed posters identifying poisonous mushrooms and technicolor wildflowers. Families and couples took their places at the thick wooden benches and tables. It seemed hot and steamy inside at first - we realized later this was only because we were sweating so much from our hike.



Once the food was put in front of us, we were transported into a magical and delicious place. I had something called soup but it really was a luxurious combination of cheese and bread and butter... in a soup bowl. Stefano had a steaming bowl of minestrone that was thick and hearty but yielded easily to a spoon.

For our second course we each had mountains of soft polenta topped with rich saucy stews -- porcini mushroom for me and a local beef variety for Stefano. And to finish, a sweet cakey blueberry torte. The icing on the cake? A bird clock nearly identical to those of various family members back in the US which occasionally broke into mechanical song during our meal.



I cannot over emphasize how welcome this meal was. After climbing what felt like straight-up for three hours we had the opportunity to stop in the middle of it all, and eat something so good - surrounded by scenery so pretty - that there was no doubt it had all been quite worth it. When we left, after having cooled down during our meal, we realized how very high we actually were - it was freezing outside. Although that didn't stop big lumpy marmots from goofing around nearby.

The walk back down was just as difficult as the walk up although there was the added fear of succumbing to gravity and exploring the scenery far more closely than one might otherwise prefer. We did take a breather to lay on a shady rock and watch a glider circle above, drafting on air currents with an early moon hanging in the background.



Our second hike was supposed to be easier than the first as it started with a cable car ride up a mountain, instead of a climb. The hike turned out to be suprisingly challenging yet there were at least three children with us in the cable car on the way up. While discussing our aches and pains along the path we realized these young kids must be doing the same path. (Note: not only are Italians magically immune to sunburn and mosquitoes, but apparently their children are super heroes as well.)

On this path it seemed we only went up, or along thin steep ridges. And when we went down it was either along stretches that were so steep that some of us (me) went down on our rear ends - all the while trying not to think of the fearless kids who would be scampering past shortly. I won't even go into our "hikes" down the ski slopes. (Who knew a wide swath of steep land - perfect for zipping down on skis and gathering momentum - would be a great place for scenic walking?)



We did have an excellent picnic on a slide of rocks that had come to a standstill long ago. The view was stunning and the lardo was herbed. Oh yes, herbed lardo is a local specialty and it's scarily marvelous. We had long thin slices of lardo curled on fresh ciabatta rolls and ate spiced olives, salami, and hunks of Toma cheese. All were acquired in the local delis in Cogne and at a very reasonable price. Hell, when we got back down into town we even had a few crème puffs as well.



Like I said, hiking and food are made for each other. Especially when the food is this good and the scenery this stunning. Every angle of the Alps is different, and every town has its charm. And often, these places are even more charming from the likes of 3600 feet up -- especially after a steaming bowl of cheese, bread and butter.