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Archive for the ‘Travel in Friuli’ Category

Trieste statue On my first morning in Trieste, I woke up with a full-blown cold. The symptoms had crept up on me during my lengthy train ride from Budapest, and it was clear that I needed to spend this first day taking it easy.

Upon my late arrival the previous evening, I hadn’t had time to fully take in my new accommodations at Residence Liberty. In the morning light, I could see that the apartment was quite spacious—bigger, even, than my old studio apartment in San Francisco—with a separate narrow kitchen, a large bathroom off the foyer, and high ceilings in the main room. The living area was furnished with a couple of upholstered chairs, a small round table, an armoire, and a desk. The double bed occupied one corner and could be curtained off by floor-to-ceiling draperies, giving it the feel of a separate room. Blue-and-yellow floral curtains framed the windows that, from the eighth floor, overlooked a sea of terracotta-tiled rooftops. Though the windows rattled noisily in the strong bora winds, it was still mesmerizing to lie in bed that morning and watch the rain patter rhythmically against the glass.

I had been thrilled at the prospect of having my own kitchen for a change, but disappointment set in when I saw that there was no oven—just a stovetop burner atop the mini-fridge—and that the microwave was scarcely large enough to hold a saucer tilted sideways. Nevertheless, it was imperative that I stock the kitchen with essentials to last for my three-week stay.

When I could no longer postpone the inevitable, I pried myself out of bed, took a hot shower, and headed outside to the blustery streets. As luck would have it, I found a tiny supermercato on the next block, and there I bought staples like milk, juice, butter, eggs, bread, cheese, yogurt, and muesli, plus a few cans of fruit and fish. Since my kitchen was completely bare, I even had to buy salt, pepper, and olive oil, as well as supplies such as dish soap, sponges, and napkins.

The supermarket did not carry any fresh produce, so I dropped off my bags of groceries at the apartment and then headed to the Mercato Coperto on Via Carducci. This indoor market was filled with produce stands, and I picked up an assortment of bananas, apples, tomatoes, lettuce, eggplant, potatoes, string beans, onions, and garlic.

On my way back from the market, the handwritten menu outside a restaurant called Bagutta Triestino caught my eye. Their daily special was minestra di bobici—not only would this soup be perfect on such a rainy October day, but I could cross off another dish from my “to-try” list. This was my fourth trip to the region specifically for the purpose of researching its cuisine for Flavors of Friuli: A Culinary Journey through Northeastern Italy, and I had already tried most of the dishes that would eventually make it into my book. There were still a few, however, that remained elusive, mostly due to the seasonal nature of certain ingredients. Bobici was one of those that I had so far been unable to find.

Originally a specialty of the Istrian peninsula—and meaning “corn” in the Triestine dialect—bobici is a vegetable soup containing three key ingredients: corn, beans, and potatoes. Bagutta Triestino’s version was also loaded with carrots, onion, and fava beans. The steaming bowl was just what I needed for my stuffy head!

Later, after a much-needed nap, I set to work preparing my first meal in my new apartment. Because of my lengthy stay in Trieste, my game plan was to eat lunch out every day and then stay in and cook for dinner—a strategic means of saving both money and calories. The kitchen, however, was only marginally equipped for cooking. Since the only cutting board and skillet were too filthy and full of gashes to use, I resorted to slicing everything on a plate (with an extremely dull knife) and using the one medium-sized pot for cooking absolutely everything. This made the whole process more time-consuming than it should have been, having to cook each element in succession rather than simultaneously.

First, I boiled some potatoes, coarsely mashing them, skin on, with some butter, salt, and pepper. Then, in the same pot, I boiled the string beans and gave them a final sauté with some garlic and olive oil. Finally, I scrambled an egg—yes, in that same pot—which I served with the vegetables, an undressed salad of greens and tomato slices, a slice of bread, and some cheese.

Since the kitchen had no storage containers, and I hadn’t bought anything like plastic wrap or aluminum foil, I covered the bowls of leftover potatoes and string beans with plates before stashing them in the tiny fridge. Washing dishes was tricky, too, as there was no drying rack or dishtowel. I snagged the extra hand towel from my bathroom, but there was no place in the kitchen to hang it, except over the back of a chair. By the time my meal and chores were finished, I was beat and ready to collapse into bed and shut my eyes until morning.

Minestra di BobiciHere is my recipe for minestra di bobici. The sweet corn and salty pancetta provide lots of flavor, making this one of my all-time favorite soups.

4 ounces dried borlotti (cranberry) beans
1/4 cup olive oil, divided
1 medium yellow onion, chopped
2 garlic cloves, minced
4 ounces pancetta, chopped
6 cups water
1-1/2 pounds white potatoes, peeled and cut into 1/2-inch cubes
2 ears corn, or about 2 cups whole kernels
1/2 teaspoon ground black pepper

1. In advance, place the beans in a small bowl and cover with water. Let soak for at least 12 hours, or overnight; drain.

2. Heat 2 tablespoons olive oil in a large pot over medium heat. Add the onion, garlic, and pancetta; cook and stir until the onion softens and the pancetta is brown and crisp, about 15 minutes. Add the beans and 6 cups water; bring to a boil over high heat. Reduce heat to low; simmer, covered, for 2 hours.

3. Add the potatoes to the pot; return to a boil over high heat. Reduce heat to medium; cook until the potatoes are tender, about 25 minutes.

4. Shave the corn kernels off the cobs using a sharp knife; rub the blunt edge of the knife over the cobs to extract their milky liquid. Add the corn kernels and the liquid to the pot, along with the black pepper; cook 10 minutes longer, stirring occasionally. Remove from heat; stir in the remaining 2 tablespoons olive oil. Season to taste with salt.

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TriesteOn the morning of my departure from Budapest, I awoke extra early in order to catch my 8:35am train to Trieste. Despite hitting the morning rush on the subway ride to the station, I still managed to arrive with 40 minutes to spare. Since the agent did not make a seat assignment when I booked my ticket two days earlier, I had been concerned about finding a seat if the train were to be full. I needn’t have worried, though, as only one other person shared my compartment during the entire journey.

At breakfast in my hotel, I had swiped a few snacks for the trip: a slice of whole wheat bread, a bit of cheese, and an apple. I also had the sandwich and bananas that I had purchased the previous afternoon. It was going to be a really, really long day!

I settled into my window seat to watch the passing scenery. When we passed Lake Balaton, I thought at first that we had inexplicably reached the sea, for the expanse of blue was so vast that the distant horizon appeared nothing more than a blur of sky and water. The other passenger in my compartment was an older Italian gentleman who relentlessly persisted in his attempts to converse. Normally, I’d relish the chance to practice my Italian, but I was by now getting a sore, scratchy throat—the beginnings of a bad cold.

When the train pulled into the station at Zagreb, Croatia, the gentleman got off, and I would end up having the compartment all to myself for the duration of the trip. By midday, the sky turned gray and cloudy, and I tried to distract myself by reading one of the paperback novels I had packed. With each border we crossed, there was a lengthy wait as officials boarded the train and checked every passenger’s passport.

Despite the gloomy weather, I found the countryside in Slovenia to be quite lovely. The train ran alongside a river with quaint-looking houses on the opposite bank. Shortly, rain began to fall. When we stopped in Ljubljana, masses of people boarded the train, though I still remained alone in my compartment.

Finally, the train pulled into Monfalcone, Italy, where I was to make my connection to Trieste. We were running a half hour behind schedule, arriving just as my connecting train pulled into the opposite platform. Surrounded by a small crowd of people trying to make the same connection, I scrambled off the train, found the stairs to the sottopassaggio (underpass), and lugged my rolling duffel back up to the correct platform—only to watch the train pull away. We had all missed it by mere seconds! A quick check of the schedule revealed that there was, fortunately, another train to Trieste in just 10 minutes.

By the time I arrived in Trieste, it was 8:15pm. Since I had been to Trieste several times before, I knew exactly where I was going: the Residence Liberty, kitty-corner from my favorite bakery, Pasticceria Penso. It was a 20-minute walk from the station, but the rain had mostly tapered off into a light drizzle. As my sore throat was now progressing into a sneeze and runny nose, I was just happy to have finally arrived.

When I had emailed Residence Liberty the previous week to confirm my reservation, I had given them my anticipated arrival time and was assured that they would wait for me. It was thus without any qualms that I approached the apartment building and, seeing that the front door was locked, rang the bell for the reception desk. No one answered. I kept pressing the buzzer over and over, as the minutes ticked by. Still no answer. Just as I was starting to panic, the door opened. It was only a guest leaving, but he let me enter, announcing ominously that the reception had already closed. Now I truly began to panic! Sure, I felt relieved to be indoors out of the chilly night air, but I still wanted nothing more than to curl up in the comfort of what would be my bed for the next three weeks.

Steeling myself to spend my first night in the lobby, I began to look around for a place where I could at least sit down. The sound of my luggage wheels must have been startling, for just then a weary-looking older man appeared around the corner of the darkened reception desk. He looked at me as if to say, Who the hell are you? When I introduced myself, he informed me that the reception was closing in 15 minutes, at exactly 9:00pm. Apparently, he had not been privy to my previous email exchange.

Given that he actually was closing up for the night, I felt like I had dodged a bullet of monumental proportions. What if the next train had been 15 minutes later than it was? What if I had not been let into the building when no one was answering the doorbell? I breathed a huge sigh of relief as I waited for the elevator to carry me up to my apartment on the 8th floor.

As I was unpacking my essentials, I suddenly realized how hungry I was. I did have one banana left, but I wanted to save it for breakfast, since I wouldn’t be able to buy groceries until sometime the next morning. I took a quick trip out around 9:30pm, hoping to find something to eat. There was only one place open in the immediate neighborhood—a takeout pizza joint, where I got a slice with mushrooms and scarfed it down within minutes. I made it back to my apartment just as the rain began falling again, eager to crawl straight into bed.

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Udine's Torre dell'OrologioFive weeks of intense travel had nearly come to a close. It was my second to last morning, and while at breakfast, I learned that the temperature in Udine had reached 41°C (106°F) the day before. Having weathered nearly a week of record heat, I was feeling utterly exhausted. Each day, I had taken a bus or train to a different town and walked until my legs gave out. For four evenings in a row, I had eschewed dinner out, choosing instead to have a light picnic in the cool of my hotel room. Today, I succumbed entirely, deciding to do absolutely nothing at all.

I did briefly leave my room midmorning, so that housekeeping could come in. I strolled for about an hour, wandering around Udine’s centro. I was hoping to find an air-conditioned bookstore to browse in, but being Sunday, nearly all the shops were closed. Already, the temperature sign at Via Zanon read 30°C (86°F), and there seemed to be nowhere for me to go to find some shade. I found a bar at Piazza della Libertà and bought a panino made with bresaola, mozzarella, and fresh focaccia. That would end up serving as both my lunch and dinner.

I spent the entire afternoon in my room, writing sections of my book Flavors of Friuli. It was a productive day, though by dinnertime I was beginning to feel claustrophobic and disoriented. My room was on the ground floor of Hotel Principe, with windows facing out into the parking lot. For privacy, I kept the dark metal shutters closed at all times. Since I couldn’t see outside—and also because I hadn’t done anything physically tiring for a change—it didn’t seem conceivable that it was already evening. After eating the second half of my panino, I went out for another walk to reorient myself. Though not quite dusk, the sun was lower in the sky, casting a warm peach glow over the rooftops. It appeared that the whole city had come out for a pre-dinner passeggiata, reveling in the ever-so-slightly cooler evening air. After getting a gelato (cioccolato and stracciatella again), I melded with the crowd, savoring my last night in Udine.

The following morning, I took the train back to Milano, with the usual hectic 10-minute connection in Mestre. While I always traveled light—carrying only a rolling duffel and a small backpack—somehow I had acquired what felt like an extra 20 pounds of stuff. My bag was filled with cookbooks that I had purchased along the way (including one huge coffee table book), and I now had a third bag filled with miscellany that would no longer fit in the suitcase. Maneuvering all this up and down stairs in the stations, lugging it onto trains, and heaving the largest bag onto the overhead storage rack was no small feat. I was relieved to finally arrive in Milano.

Duomo di MilanoI was staying again at Hotel Speronari, just off Piazza del Duomo. My room was on the third floor, with no elevator. These are the last stairs I will have to climb, I consoled myself. After checking in, I paid a visit to the Duomo, then walked to Via Solferino and the gastronomia Più del Pane Callegaro. There, I picked up a picnic dinner of assorted mini quiche, with toppings of eggplant, tomato, zucchini, and potato. On the same street, I found a bakery and bought some treats to take with me: an American-style lemon bar, a mini apricot crostata, and two unusual-looking apple cookies. These would be my breakfast and snack at the airport the next morning.

I tried to go to bed early, but found myself tossing around all night. For once, the room had an electric fan, which I positioned next to the bed, but even with the window wide open, the fan could only recirculate the hot, suffocating air. I slept in 15- to 30-minute increments, afraid of missing my alarm, finally getting up at 4:30am to take a quick shower in the bathroom down the hall. Once I had dressed and repacked, I was on autopilot, a routine I had repeated so many times in previous years: awaken the receptionist on night duty, check out, walk 10 minutes in the eerie darkness to Piazza San Babila, and catch the shuttle bus to Linate Airport. Soon I would be back home in San Francisco.

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Do MoriWhenever I traveled to Friuli–Venezia Giulia, I could never bear to leave without visiting the neighboring Veneto region and my favorite city in the world: Venezia. My five-week-long trip of summer 2005 had almost come to a close, and I was taking the train from Udine into my beloved La Serenissima for the day. After three previous visits to Venezia during Carnevale (of which only one was intentionally planned to coincide with the event), I found myself desperately longing to encounter fewer crowds. The Biennale film festival was scheduled to begin the following day, however, so I was inevitably doomed to battle another sea of tourists.

Do MoriWhen I got off the train, I headed directly for the Rialto. Instead of choosing a single restaurant at lunchtime, my plan was to nibble on cicchetti throughout the day at my favorite bacari. My first stop was one of the best in the city, Do Mori, where I savored crostini with baccalà mantecato (puréed salt cod), a crab claw, and a baby octopus, all washed down with a refreshing midmorning glass of prosecco.

scallopsAt the nearby fish market, I wandered through the crowded aisles, wishing I had an apartment where I could take some of the beautiful seafood home to cook (that dream would come true one December five years later). I did purchase some scallop shells, which I needed for my recipe capesante gratinate (scallops baked with a bread crumb topping). Even though the oven-safe shells that I had bought at a gourmet food store back home were usable, they had been bleached an unnatural shade of white, their enormous size dwarfing the scallops within. The ones I picked up in Venezia were the real thing, fresh from the sea, with all the markings in pink and mauve that a scallop should have.

Cantinone Gia SchiaviI crossed the Rialto Bridge and made my way through Piazza San Marco to the Accademia Bridge, which led to one of my favorite sestieri, Dorsoduro. I had stayed in this relatively quiet neighborhood twice before, and my heart was still brimming with wistful memories of hidden alleys, misty canals, and the most tantalizing cicchetti at Cantinone Già Schiavi. Their vast selection of crostini, for which they are best known, included toppings of baccalà (both mantecato and alla cappucina); tomato, brie, and anchovy; and fluffy herb-flecked ricotta with sun-dried tomato. Knowing that I had one more stop on my bar-hopping lunch, I settled for just one bite—tuna salad sprinkled with cocoa—and another glass of prosecco.

By early afternoon, the late July sun was becoming unbearably hot. Not a single breeze blew in from the lagoon to ease the scorching temperatures. In an effort to cool off, I treated myself to a gelato (cioccolato and stracciatella) on my way to the Chiesa di San Vidal, where I bought my mom another CD by her favorite string ensemble, Interpreti Veneziani.

Ai Promessi SposiThe throngs of tourists in San Marco proved to be too much for me, so I decided to wind my way back through the less populated calli of Dorsoduro and Santa Croce. By the time I reached the Cannaregio sestiere, it was already 3:00pm. My final cicchetti stop of the day, Ai Promessi Sposi, was still open, though empty. Seeing as I had been snacking on and off all day, I only wanted a few more bites. I requested a crab claw, a little eggplant, some baccalà, and one canocia (mantis shrimp). The man at the counter told me to find a table, and he would bring me my plate. When he did five minutes later, the plate was twice as large as I had expected, piled high with food, and heated in the microwave. He had given me four crab claws (these were deep-fried and not nearly as exquisite as Do Mori’s), a huge serving of marinated eggplant, and a mammoth portion of baccalà (this one prepared with potatoes, olives, and anchovies). He had forgotten the canocia, but I wasn’t about to point that out. I just ordered myself a third glass of prosecco and decided to call this meal an early dinner.

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Spilimbergo's Palazzo ErcoleThe early morning air was already hot and muggy, without even the slightest breeze to temper the oppressive heat. With only a couple more days left in Udine before the end of my five-week-long trip, I decided to revisit the town of Spilimbergo.

My hope was to find a restaurant that served balote: cheese-filled polenta balls, native to the mountains north of Pordenone. According to local tradition, when a young man wanted to propose marriage, he would present an offering of balote to the potential bride’s family; if the balote were immediately placed on the fogolâr (fireplace) to roast, it was understood that he had the family’s approval.

Spilimbergo's Palazzo di SopraI took the train to Pordenone and then caught a bus to Spilimbergo. Mike and I had driven through the town in May of the previous year, but since we were on our way to Carnia, with several stops to make en route, we didn’t have long to explore. This trip, I had plenty of time to visit the main sights. First, I set out to locate some of Spilimbergo’s famous painted palazzi. One of the most well-known was the Palazzo Ercole (a.k.a. Casa Dipinta), whose frescoes illustrated scenes from the mythical life of Hercules. Then, after a bit of an uphill hike, I found the brilliantly painted Palazzo di Sopra, home to Spilimbergo’s town hall. Set amid a neatly manicured lawn and framed by two tall palm trees, its white façade was decorated with intricate yellow designs and a Venetian winged lion of Saint Mark.

Spilimbergo's DuomoI was especially looking forward to seeing the frescoes on the exterior of the 15th-century Palazzo Dipinto, but when I reached the courtyard of the Castello di Spilimbergo where they were located, I was dismayed to find all the frescoes shrouded in scaffolding. My disappointment, however, was short-lived—my spirits soon lifted as I came upon the sunny Duomo di Santa Maria Maggiore, whose yellow Romanesque Gothic façade featured a pattern of circular cutout windows.

At lunchtime, I headed to Osteria Da Afro, as it was on my list of places specializing in Friulian cooking. Although it was past noon when I arrived, the restaurant was not yet open. I was told to wait in the lobby, where I spotted, through a crack in a partially open door, the staff gathered around a table eating their meal. Finally, I was shown to a table in the empty dining room. Despite my expectations, there were few Friulian dishes on the menu. The waiter explained that la cucina friulana was more of a winter cuisine and that they tended to serve lighter dishes in the hot summer months. Feeling inclined to agree with him on that point, I was quite content ordering the melanzane alla parmigiana and an insalata mista.

Since there were no other customers, the waiter was able to spend a good deal of time at my table answering some of my lingering questions. We talked about the restaurant’s preparation of baccalà (salt cod) and trout—and most importantly, balote, which they frequently serve in wintertime. He described their size (larger than a golf ball, smaller than a tennis ball), the type of cheese they are filled with (traditionally the local salted cheese called asìno, but cubes of fresh Montasio may be used instead), and how they are served (no sauce but frequently with sautéed mushrooms on the side).

After lunch, I took the next bus back to Pordenone, where I caught the train back to Udine. For the third day in a row, I decided not to go out for dinner but to eat in my room instead. At the COOP supermarket, I bought some bananas, kiwis, and yogurt (happily, my room at Hotel Principe had a mini fridge). Then, at the nearby rosticceria, I picked up some sautéed zucchini and a slice of frittata. It was a light picnic, which my body was really craving after a full month of rich, heavy meals.

baloteHere is my interpretation of balote, as described to me at Osteria Da Afro. Since asìno cheese is not easily available outside Pordenone province, I have substituted a mixture of cream cheese (for the creaminess) and ricotta salata (for the saltiness). The texture is not as soft and creamy as asìno, but it holds its shape nicely when being wrapped inside the polenta. Consider serving the balote with some sautéed mushrooms.

Filling:
4 ounces cream cheese
4 ounces ricotta salata, grated (about 1-1/4 cups)

In a small bowl, combine the cream cheese and ricotta salata. Divide the mixture into twelve equal parts, rolling each into a small ball. Refrigerate until ready to use.

Polenta:
4 cups water
1 cup coarsely ground cornmeal
1 teaspoon salt

Bring 4 cups water to a boil in a medium pot over high heat. Stir in the cornmeal and salt. When the water returns to a boil, reduce heat to low; cook and stir until soft, about 25 minutes. Pour immediately into a 9- by 13-inch baking dish; spread evenly. Let cool for 15 minutes, or until just cool enough to handle.

Preheat oven to 350°F. Slice the polenta into twelve equal portions. Scoop out a portion of polenta and roll into a rough ball. Flatten slightly, place one cheese ball in the center, and smooth the polenta over to enclose the cheese. (The polenta will be very sticky, so work gently.) Place the finished polenta balls in a greased baking dish. Bake until heated through, about 25 minutes.

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Marano LagunareI awoke early to catch the 8:00am bus to Marano Lagunare, a small fishing village located along Friuli’s southern coast between Grado and Lignano. The trip took just over an hour from Udine, which gave me several hours to explore before lunchtime. The smell of salt air and freshly caught fish greeted me as I arrived at the harbor. Houses of robin’s egg blue, salmon pink, and sunflower yellow lined the narrow streets of the town’s old center, while boats of blue and white sat docked along the canals. As I ventured south along the water’s edge, however, the pastel colors vanished, revealing a less attractive, though perhaps more authentic, scene: fishing boats crusted with mud, rusty cranes, garbage-filled dumpsters, and backhoes hauling buckets of dirt.

Marano Lagunare Riserva NaturaleI circled back toward town, passing through a nondescript residential section on my way to the Riserva Naturale Valle Canal Novo, a protected nature reserve encompassing the marshy wetlands that surround Marano Lagunare. Unfortunately, the visitor’s center happened to be closed that day, so there were no guided tours. But it was possible to enter the park via a wooden footbridge that extended over the water into the dense thicket of reeds, home to countless forms of native wildlife.

Though it was only 11:00am, the intense July heat was beginning to tire me out. I returned to the central piazza and found a shady bench in full view of the Torre Millenaria. For over an hour I sat there, watching the comings and goings of village life—elderly couples out for a stroll, women pulling shopping carts of groceries, children frolicking around the tower steps.

Trattoria alla LagunaFor lunch, I headed to Trattoria Alla Laguna (a.k.a. Vedova Raddi), located in a three-story building of rust red stucco overlooking the harbor. I started with the frutti di mare gratinati, a plate of mussels and scallops baked in their shells with a bread crumb topping. Next, I was excited to try their signature dish, risotto alla Maranese, but was disappointed to read on the menu that they required a minimum of two persons for the order. From past experience, I knew that this was not uncommon. Nevertheless, I explained that I was writing a cookbook on Friulian cuisine and asked politely if it might be possible to have a single portion of the dish. The owner graciously acquiesced—and the risotto was delicious! Served with calamari, shrimp, mussels, and local wedge shell clams called telline, the risotto was prepared al dente in a perfectly soupy fish stock that tasted of the ocean.

Between courses, the owner came over to chat. He explained that all his seafood was locally caught in the lagoon and, strangely, that many Americans would come to visit each year around Easter. I imagined that “many” may have been a relative term, given the few Americans I had ever encountered in Friuli—and since Marano Lagunare was not at the time listed in any of my English-language guidebooks.

Shortly, the owner returned with a huge guestbook for me to sign. He revealed that the book was for his “famous” guests and pointed to one signature in particular by a dignitary from Iran (I never quite caught exactly who he was). The owner went on to boast that when he was a child, and his father ran the restaurant, Ernest Hemingway dined there quite often. I felt honored, though somewhat baffled, that he had requested my autograph, too.

Marano LagunareAfter lunch, my plan was to take the boat to Lignano Sabbiadoro, the region’s largest beach resort. It was a pleasant 40-minute ride across the lagoon, sunny but with a cool breeze floating over the water. In the distance, scattered amid the marshes, were tiny, thatched fisherman’s huts called casoni.

Lignano SabbiadoroCompared to Marano Lagunare, Lignano was huge. I only had an hour before my return bus to Udine, so I didn’t get to explore the resort town as fully as I would have liked. The beach itself was approximately five miles long and serviced by more than forty bathing houses, all renting umbrellas and lounge chairs to vacationing sunbathers. It was now peak season, and thousands of those colorful umbrellas dotted the soft, golden sand, all lined up in flawless rows. I walked partway down the beach to an enclosed jetty that extended out over the sea. The sapphire blue water was shallow and calm, and I wished that I could go for a swim myself.

Lignano SabbiadoroStanding there alone, surrounded by families, couples, groups of friends—everyone attached to someone else—a certain melancholy began to set in. I was, for the most part, quite comfortable traveling alone and rarely felt awkward even going into restaurants by myself. As an only child, I had grown accustomed to keeping myself company and generally enjoyed the solitude. But every so often, as on that day in Lignano, I wished that Mike (my now husband) had been able to come on the trip, so that I would have someone to lounge on the beach and splash in the sea with.

I walked back past highrise hotels, tacky gift shops, and gelaterie, most of which were closed at that late hour of the afternoon. Near the bus station, I did find one gelateria that was open, and I treated myself to a double scoop of limone (lemon) and yogurt. The sun was beating down, and I was glad to finally board the air-conditioned bus.

Before returning to Hotel Principe, I took a walk into Udine’s centro. It was so swelteringly hot that I knew I wouldn’t feel like having a big dinner that evening. Deciding to eat in again, I picked up some apricots, strawberries, and a tomato at the produce market. Then, I found a bar that sold tramezzini and bought a sandwich with turkey to go. I ate my picnic dinner early, in the cool of my hotel room, watching the news on TV and trying to figure out my plans for my final three days in Friuli.

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Prosciuttificio ProlongoToday’s destination was San Daniele del Friuli, where I had appointments to visit two prosciuttifici (prosciutto factories): Prolongo and Il Camarin. I took the bus from Udine and luckily had the foresight to get off while still in the outskirts of San Daniele, before the bus headed up the hill into the old section of town. Otherwise, it would have been a long walk back down.

At first, I was quite disoriented. I had no idea where I was in relation to the address I was looking for, but after walking up and down the street a few blocks, I got my bearings. Once I found the correct street, I spent another few minutes puzzling over the fact that the odd numbers on one side of the street didn’t correspond to the even numbers on the other side. About five minutes later, I arrived at Prosciuttificio Prolongo.

Alessio ProlongoI was greeted by siblings Alessio and Arianna, whose grandfather started the business. They took me on a tour of the factory, a fairly small operation, producing only 7,000 to 8,000 hams per year. Alessio spoke no English, so Arianna helped translate—though I actually understood most of his Italian. We visited the refrigeration room, where the hams were kept during the salting phase, and then the curing room, where rows of hams hung from wooden beams. They explained that the entire curing process takes a minimum of twelve months. Alessio demonstrated how to test for readiness—by inserting a horse-bone needle into the meat and judging its quality by the aroma released.

After a sample of their product, we said goodbye. It was only 10:00am, and my next appointment wasn’t until 2:00pm. Checking my map, I saw that it wasn’t too far away, so I decided to take a chance and head over there early. I had a little trouble finding my way—they had given me the wrong street number in their email—but after asking a passerby for directions, I arrived at Prosciuttificio Il Camarin.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAThis factory was much larger than Prolongo. Their website advertised guided visits, and picnic tables were set up outside, waiting for the throngs of tourists to arrive for a day of prosciutto tasting. Since he wasn’t expecting me until the afternoon, owner Sergio was busy taking an inventory count. He did, however, take time out to show me through the various rooms, where thousands of hams lined the walls and rafters. In contrast to Prolongo, Il Camarin produces 15,000 hams annually.

I was finished by 11:00am and headed up the steep hill into San Daniele proper. For the next hour, I sat inside the Duomo, organizing my notes from the morning.

Ristorante Alle Vecchie CarceriFor lunch, I headed straight to Ristorante Alle Vecchie Carceri—my third time eating there. To start, they brought their usual complimentary small plate of polenta topped with ricotta affumicata and poppy seeds. I ordered an appetizer of smoked duck breast, sliced thin like prosciutto, served over a bed of mixed greens and cubes of salted cheese. The menu had said that the salad also contained apple, but there didn’t seem to be any in mine. Then, as always, I couldn’t resist ordering the cjalsòns. Up until I had tasted the amazing ones at Ristorante Salon in Arta Terme, Alle Vecchie Carceri’s had been my top favorite. They were now my second favorite, still better than most, the delicate disks of dough plump with a sweet-savory filling of potato, caramelized onion, sugar, cinnamon, and raisins. At least, they used to contain raisins—today, the fruit was conspicuously absent. Nevertheless, the cjalsòns tasted divine, swimming in melted butter and topped with cinnamon, sugar, and smoky ricotta affumicata.

After arriving back in Udine that afternoon, lethargy began to set in. It had been exactly a month since I had left San Francisco, and the constant exertion and extreme heat were taking a toll. I decided to forgo dinner out and have a picnic in my hotel room—something that I would end up doing for the remaining few days of my trip. At the rosticceria around the corner, I picked up a piece of cold, dry chicken and some marinated artichoke hearts, sour and oily. It was not an especially good meal, but all I wanted to do was go to bed and sleep.

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