For my Recipe-of-the-Month, I have chosen Fave dei Morti (Almond Cookies). While other countries around the world are gearing up for Halloween or Dia de los Muertos, Italians are preparing to celebrate La Festa di Ognissanti (All Saints’ Day). While variations of these cookies—which translate literally as “beans of the dead”—are found in regions throughout Italy, they are especially popular in Trieste, where bakeries prepare them during the months of October and November. For my recipe, visit Flavors-of-Friuli.com.
Posts Tagged ‘food’
My final trip to Friuli began in late September 2005. Rather than flying into Italy, I had decided to begin with three nights in Vienna and three more in Budapest. The history and culinary tradition of these two cities were closely tied to Friuli—and in particular, Trieste, where I would be spending the remainder of my five-week-long stay. I had hoped to sample classic Austro-Hungarian dishes at their source—dishes such as liptauer, gulasch, strudel, sachertorte, dobostorte, rigo jancsi, kugelhopf, and palatschinke—and compare them to the versions found in Friuli.
I arrived around 10:30pm at Hotel Austria, located in the historical center of Vienna. My room contained both a twin bed covered with a fluffy, yellow down comforter and a separate daybed/sofa. It was quite small, as I had opted for a private bath down the hall—shower and toilet were inconveniently located in separate rooms, though I did have them all to myself.
I awoke my first morning to find a bountiful buffet downstairs in the breakfast room. With crystal chandeliers overhead and Mozart playing in the background, I enjoyed a feast of muesli cereal, cantaloupe, tomato and cucumber slices, a bit of salami, and a banana. Then, under a cold, wet, drizzly sky, I set out to explore the city. I first walked to Stephansdom (St. Stephen’s Cathedral), then took the subway to the Danube River. There, I found the boat dock and purchased a ticket for my hydrofoil trip to Budapest two days later.
After taking the subway back to the city center, I visited Peterskirche (St. Peter’s Church) and strolled along the Graben, Vienna’s famous pedestrian shopping street. Midmorning, I stopped at the renowned café Demel, where I sat upstairs in the nearly empty non-smoking room and indulged in part one of what would turn out to be an exceedingly decadent lunch: a slice of dobostorte. Following the classic recipe, five thin layers of sponge cake were iced with a luscious chocolate buttercream and topped with a caramel-glazed wedge.
From there, I walked to the Hofburg Palace. It was by then too late to see the Lipizzaner stallions training at the Spanish Riding School, but I arrived just in time to watch the riders leading their white horses across the street to the stables. Next, I visited a few more churches—Michaelerkirche (St. Michael’s), Augustinerkirche (St. Augustine’s), and Minoritenkirche (Minorites’)—before walking by the Rathaus (city hall), through the Volksgarten park, and past the Vienna Staatsoper (opera house). On my way back, I conveniently passed by the Hotel Sacher, where in their elegant 19th-century café I enjoyed part two of my “lunch”: a slice of sachertorte and a cup of hot chocolate. While the demitasse was half-filled with whipped cream—too much for my taste—the cake was rich and chocolaty, filled with tangy apricot jam and enveloped in a smooth, dark ganache.
I continued my walking tour of the city by visiting a couple more churches: Dominikanerkirche (Dominican) and Jesuitkirche (Jesuit). The latter was a Baroque masterpiece with colorful marble columns and a trompe l’oeil ceiling gilded in gold. On the upstairs level, an organist and soprano were rehearsing the ethereal melody of “Ave Maria.”
At dinnertime, it was a welcome change to head out at the early hour of 6:00pm, rather than having to wait until 7:00pm or later, as was customary in Italy. I went straight to Gulaschmuseum, a restaurant that (quite obviously) specialized in gulasch. When asked for my seating preference, I requested the non-smoking section, although those tables were only about three feet from the bar, where the waiter would spend most of my meal lounging and smoking. Flipping through the illustrated menu, I scanned through photos of all their different variations of gulasch, including beef, roast beef, pork with sauerkraut, veal, turkey, chicken liver, fish, potato, bean, and mushroom. I went with the traditional beef gulasch, which came with a side of boiled potatoes. Needless to say, after my indulgent two-part lunch, I skipped dessert.
Five 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.
I 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.
Whenever 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.
When 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.
At 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.
I 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.
The 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.