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Posts Tagged ‘cjarsons’

cjalsons di piedimFor my Recipe-of-the-Month, I have chosen Cjalsòns di Piedim (Pasta Filled with Chocolate and Nuts), one of my favorite Friulian specialties. Throughout the mountains of Carnia, each cook prepares his or her own unique version of cjalsòns (also spelled cjalcions and cjarzòns), merging herbs and spices and creating a distinct shape and form for the dough. This recipe, inspired by the cjalsòns from the village of Piedim, are decadent enough to serve as a special Valentine’s Day meal. For my recipe, visit Flavors-of-Friuli.com.

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Forni Avoltri's Chiesetta di Sant'AntonioOn my first full day in Forni Avoltri, I would be visiting the Val Pesarina, the last of Carnia’s seven valleys on my itinerary. After an ample breakfast at Hotel Scarpone—yogurt topped with some cereal flakes, a slice of chocolate Bundt cake, a banana, and a glass of grapefruit juice—I set out to buy my bus ticket.

Since I had some time before my bus would arrive, I took a walk across the river. There I found a delightful little church, the Chiesetta di Sant’Antonio, its pink stucco walls standing out in contrast against the pale blue sky. On my walk back, a woman who was tending her garden called out the traditional Friulian greeting, “Mandi,” and I stopped to chat. Americans don’t typically venture as far north as Forni Avoltri, she told me. I must have been a real novelty, for she then called to her cousin, “Vieni a vedere l’americana!Come see the American! After I told them about my interest in Friulian cuisine, the women mentioned that there was to be a presentation on the cooking of Carnia at the Municipio that very evening.

At the bus stop moments later, I saw a flyer announcing the event, a book-signing for Cucina della Carnia by Melie Artico, a book I had coincidentally just purchased the previous week. While waiting, I asked an elderly lady which building was the town hall, and she pointed to it in the piazza behind the bus stop, also commenting that they never see any American visitors there. I told her about the book I was writing, and she said she hoped it would bring more tourists to their small town. Continuing our conversation on the bus, she asked the name of my book, so I presented her with my business card, which gave both my name and the book’s title, Flavors of Friuli. An old man sitting behind her piped up and asked for one too—as if I were someone of particular importance!

My bus arrived in Comeglians, where I had almost two hours to wait for my connecting bus to Prato Carnico. There was nothing to do or see in Comeglians, but I found a tiny church, Chiesa di San Nicolò, where I could sit and escape the harsh sun.

Prato CarnicoI arrived in Prato Carnico after a brief 15-minutes ride. The sight that caught my eye first was a home straight out of a fairy tale, with its tall, brick walls, green-tiled roof, immaculate white trim, dark green shutters, and colorful flower garden. (The green-tiled roof was a style characteristic of the nearby Val Degano, and this was the most charming example I had ever seen.)

Fortunately, the town’s one restaurant, Ristorante Ai Sette Nani, was open. Inside were several paintings of Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, a tribute to the restaurant’s name—one that seemed oddly appropriate after having just passed that storybook cottage with the green roof. There were only three menu items available—understandable, perhaps, given that it was a slow day and I was the only customer. I ordered the gnocchi di zucca but was dismayed when I glanced over at the bar area and saw the cook putting my plate into the microwave. Rustically misshapen—from the technique of dropping spoonfuls of dough directly into the cooking water—these pumpkin gnocchi had the potential to be delicious had they been fresh. As it stood, they were tough, doughy, and obviously reheated—a far cry from the delicate ones I had had several years earlier at Ristorante Al Fogolâr in Brazzacco.

One of the dishes on my “to-try” list that I hadn’t yet found on any menu was pendalons. I had read that this side dish of string beans and potatoes was native to the Val Pesarina, so I asked the waiter if they ever served it. They did, although he said that string beans were not currently in season. When I had finished my meal, I declined to order dessert; nevertheless, the waiter brought me a plate of crostoli—strips of fried dough dusted with powdered sugar, a traditional Carnevale treat.

As I was paying my bill at the counter, the cook (and apparently the owner/waiter’s mother) came out of the kitchen to explain to me how she prepares pendalons. Basically a potato purée mixed with string beans, hers are topped with a sauté of pancetta, onion, garlic, parsley, and chives. I took careful notes, so that I could recreate her dish at home.

Prato CarnicoAfter lunch, I took a walk to explore the tiny town. Along the highway, I passed the campanile pendente (leaning tower); its church was destroyed in an earthquake in 1700, and only the tower had been renovated. Then, finding a road leading down to the river, I crossed the bridge and wandered uphill through a residential area amid shady woods and winding roads.

Back on the highway later, I realized how far I had strayed from Prato Carnico. Instead of heading back, however, I took a gamble that I’d reach the next village, Pesariis, in time to catch my return bus. Speed walking most of the way, I made it with just five minutes to spare! Pesariis is known for its Museo dell’Orologeria, or “museum of watches.” I wished I had had time to visit, but the buses in this valley were so infrequent that I had no choice but to return to Forni Avoltri—via Comeglians again, where I had a full hour to wait for my connecting bus.

I left for dinner early, hoping that I would finish in time to attend that book-signing event. I had made a reservation at Ristorante Al Sole, located a short distance across the river. When I arrived, owner Tiziana Romanin immediately introduced me to Giacomo del Fabbro, president of the town’s Centro Culturale, who was hosting the event. He sat at my table for a few minutes before I ordered, as amused as everyone else seemed to be that an American was visiting their out-of-the-way village, and especially pleased that I was writing a book about Friulian cuisine.

Instead of handing me a menu, Tiziana suggested some of their specialties. I started with the cjarsòns, her aunt Lia’s recipe. Prepared with a potato-based dough, the pasta was filled with a mixture of fresh ricotta, raisins, crushed amaretti cookies, parsley, and cinnamon, and served with melted butter, cinnamon, and ricotta affumicata. To drink, she recommended a glass of Verduzzo, its honey and citrus notes pairing perfectly with the sweetness of the cjarsòns.

Next, I had the frico, which came with a slice of polenta, some saucy sautéed wild mushrooms, and a couple bites of veal stew. Though Tiziana had originally specified that the frico was going to be prepared con patate, what I was served actually contained no potatoes. Instead, it was a less common type called frico friabile: crunchy deep-fried cheese with the unique appearance of a porous sea sponge. I had tried this kind of frico once before, at a food festival in Arta Terme, and found it to be extremely greasy. Careful not to express any criticism, I discussed with Tiziana the various types of frico, and she eagerly brought me a thin wedge of frico made with potato and onion. This was the frico I had fell in love with several years earlier—crispy on the outside, soft and cheesy on the inside. To accompany this portion of my meal, Tiziana brought a glass of housemade red wine.

When I finished eating, I was in a hurry to pay my bill so that I could make it to the book-signing by 8:30pm. I tracked down Tiziana on my way to the front counter, and to my complete astonishment, she refused to let me pay for a thing!

Cucina della CarniaI arrived at the Municipio just in time. The room was already crowded with dozens of people seated in rows of folding chairs, but Signor del Fabbro spotted me and led me to an empty, reserved seat in front. During his opening speech, he introduced me as “a special guest from America.” The author was there, of course, along with a panel of scholars, but rather than focusing on the region’s cuisine, the discussion centered around the efforts of translating her cookbook into the Furlan language (each recipe is printed in both Italian and Furlan). I understood some of what was said, but not enough to fully hold my attention—my stomach was full, the room was uncomfortably toasty, and I was exhausted from my long walk earlier. When everyone stood up an hour later, I assumed the event was over (although, to my great embarrassment, I learned the next day that it had only been the intermission). I approached Melie Artico to autograph my copy of her book, and then, after not being able to find Signor del Fabbro to say goodbye, I just left.

During the lecture, I had noticed raindrops beginning to pelt the room’s large window. By the time I left, the skies had unleashed a full-blown thunderstorm. Not having had the foresight to carry my umbrella, I pulled my light jacket up over my head and sprinted the few blocks back to Hotel Scarpone.

pendalonsHere is the recipe for pendalons from Ristorante Ai Sette Nani:

12 ounces string beans, cut into 1-inch-long pieces
1-1/2 pounds white potatoes, peeled and cut into 1/4-inch-thick slices
1 cup water
1/2 teaspoon ground black pepper

1. Place a steamer rack inside a large pot; fill with 1 inch of water. Place the string beans on the rack. Bring to a boil over high heat; cover and steam until just tender, about 10–15 minutes.

2. Place the potato slices in a large pot, along with 1 cup water; bring to a boil over high heat. Reduce heat to medium-low; cook, covered, until the potatoes are tender, about 20–25 minutes, stirring occasionally as the water begins to evaporate. Remove from heat; coarsely mash the potatoes. Stir in the string beans and black pepper. Season to taste with salt.

Topping:
1 tablespoon olive oil
2 ounces pancetta, chopped
3 tablespoons finely chopped onion
1 garlic clove, minced
2 tablespoons chopped fresh Italian parsley
2 tablespoons chopped fresh chives

Heat the olive oil in a small skillet over medium heat. Add the pancetta, onion, and garlic; cook and stir until the onion softens and the pancetta is brown and crisp, about 7–8 minutes. Add the parsley and chives; cook and stir until wilted, about 1–2 minutes. Serve the topping over the potatoes.

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Udine's Osteria Al Vecchio StalloOne evening, more than a dozen years ago, I was invited to a life-changing dinner at Osteria Al Vecchio Stallo in Udine, Italy. Read my story “A Culinary Tale of Seduction” at bloggingauthors.com.

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Tolmezzo's DuomoWhen I woke up the next morning, I turned on the news to hear reports of another heat wave sweeping Italy, with temperatures climbing once again into the upper 90s. I was glad to be in Carnia, cooled off by the refreshing breezes that swept effortlessly down from the mountaintops. For breakfast, I tried one of the crostate I had bought in Paularo. About three inches in diameter, the tart was made with a shortbread cookie crust and filled with raspberry jam. A thin glaze of gelatin glistened underneath the neatly woven lattice top.

My plan was to take the bus from Piano d’Arta into Tolmezzo for the day, but I had one errand I needed to do first. I wanted a photo of Albergo Ristorante Salon for my book Flavors of Friuli, but it was always too dark by the time I arrived there for dinner in the evening (I didn’t have a flash on my old SLR film camera). So I hiked up to the restaurant, where a group of older men sat lounging at the tables outside the entrance. I was relieved not to see the creepy guy who had tried to pick me up the previous night. The sun, however, was still low in the morning sky; the shadow cast across the front of the building meant that I would have to return for my photo later that afternoon.

With plenty of time to catch my bus, I ambled back down the hill to wait at the stop. Within minutes, a car drove by and parked across the street. It was the old sleazeball, stalking me again. He waved, got out of his car, and came to sit next to me on the bench. Had he spotted me at Salon and followed me? Or perhaps one of his cohorts had played the informer? This was starting to freak me out! Though he obviously didn’t speak any English—and I tried not to let on that I understood his Italian—he attempted to explain about the previous night, to make sure that I hadn’t misunderstood his intentions and that he hadn’t offended me. “Va bene,” I said, “non c’è problema. Arrivederci.” Instead of dropping the issue and moving on, he offered to drive me wherever I was going. Of course, I listened to my instincts and refused. But at the same time, I remembered overhearing him tell someone at dinner the night before that he was going to Tolmezzo today. With my luck, I would run into him there, too! Finally, my bus pulled up, giving me an excuse to flee.

Tolmezzo storefrontWhen I arrived in Tolmezzo, I spent a long while wandering around the town center. Most of the shops were located on one main street, and it was here I spent most of my time. I found the arts and crafts galleries especially fun for window shopping. My favorite featured a display of fantastical characters, such as fairies, gnomes, and sbilfs (woodland elves in Carnian folklore). Other stores showcased locally made furniture, jewelry, and textiles. But it was at the bookstore that I felt most at home, browsing through the cookbook section and adding four Friulian cookbooks to my growing collection.

Albergo RomaI was excited to see that the restaurant at Albergo Roma had finally reopened. Home to renowned Carnian chef Gianni Cosetti, it had closed for renovations after his death in 2001. But at lunchtime, I was the only guest in the massive banquet hall. With tables around me dressed in yellow and white linens and studded with crystal glasses and elegant china, I felt uncomfortably out of place in my casual shorts and hiking boots. When the menu arrived, I was disappointed not to find any of the traditional dishes that Cosetti was known for—little, in fact, that sounded even remotely Friulian. Apparently, the new chef had made significant changes to the menu. Feeling rather awkward, I tiptoed out before the waitress could return.

Cooperativa CarnicaTo this day, I still feel somewhat ashamed of myself, since the food at Roma was most likely very good. Nevertheless, it was my mission to scope out authentic Friulian cooking. There was not nearly enough time on my trip to visit every restaurant in each town—and therefore very little room for error—so I headed to a place where I knew I would find exactly what I was looking for: Antica Trattoria Cooperativa.

There, I started with the insalata di pere e Montasio, a salad of lightly dressed greens topped with pear slices and a pile of shredded fresh Montasio cheese. I didn’t recognize the spice that garnished the dish, but when I inquired, I learned it was, of all things, ground coriander. Next, I ordered the cjarsòns, which came in both savory and sweet varieties. I requested half a serving of each type. The savory cjarsòns were filled with herbs and ricotta, while the sweet ones contained ricotta, raisins, and cocoa. Both were prepared with a rather heavy potato-based dough and served in melted butter.

On the bus back to Piano d’Arta, I breathed a sigh of relief, as it occurred to me that I had managed to avoid running into that obnoxious guy in Tolmezzo. Whew! Before returning to my hotel to rest, I made another trip up to Ristorante Salon. The same group of old men was still sitting outside—and my “friend” had since joined them. Although the courtyard entrance was still somewhat shaded, the sun was in a better position, and I was able to get my photo within minutes. This time, I slipped away without being followed.

Fides & Bepi SalonSeveral hours later, I returned to Salon for one final dinner. It was the busiest I had ever seen it there. A large tour group filled an adjacent dining area, everyone seated at one long table. Shortly after I sat down in my usual spot, the proprietor’s wife, Fides Salon, took a brief break from her duties in the kitchen to come greet me. We were cut short as the regular guests—all the families, couples, and singles that I had grown accustomed to seeing over the past several evenings—filed in, as if on cue. Being the only server, Matteo began bustling from table to table, rattling off the day’s specials. Despite the frenetic pace, he never lost his boyish ebullience.

I couldn’t resist ordering the cjarsòns one last time. In contrast to the doughy ones I had for lunch in Tolmezzo, these were prepared with regular pasta dough, delicate enough to allow all the flavors of the dish to shine through. The first element to register on my palate was the undercurrent of sweetness—not rich but rather ethereal from a light touch of sugar and crushed biscotti. Apples, pears, dried fruit, jam, and lemon peel balanced the sugar with just the right amount of tartness. Hints of salty and smoky savoriness peeked through from the butter and ricotta affumicata. Finally, the cinnamon, cocoa, and herbs proffered an exotic complexity of tastes and aromas that lingered on my tongue long after the last bite.

As usual, I ordered a salad to go with my meal. The array of choices on Matteo’s rolling cart was beyond compare. In addition to the usual fresh ingredients—greens, radicchio, tomato, shredded carrot—there was always a variety of cooked vegetables as well. This time, I selected a mix of string beans, yellow bell peppers, and tomato. Unexpectedly, Matteo also brought me a small side of purè (mashed potatoes), a complimentary gift from the kitchen.

Even though I was too full for dessert, I remained at my table long after most of the original diners had left. My stalker had finished his dinner and was now sipping an espresso at the bar. Six tables—guests that had arrived much later—were still being served. I was hoping to have one more opportunity to speak with Bepi Salon, so I waited and waited. Finally, when I had a chance to get Matteo’s attention, I learned that Bepi had had to leave early. Despite my disappointment, I felt gratified to have had the honor of meeting both Bepi and Fides on this trip.

When I left, the sleazeball was now outside in his usual spot, smoking and chatting with the same cluster of old men. This time, he jumped up and started to follow me on foot! He caught up with me at the base of the hill and asked if I wanted to accompany him to a Latin American dance somewhere in town. This was the third instance he had followed me from the restaurant, and once again, I vehemently declined the offer. Tomorrow I would be leaving for Ravascletto—while I knew I would seriously miss Salon’s cjarsòns, I was greatly relieved to get away from this guy once and for all.

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ZuglioDuring my three weeks in Carnia, I planned to visit at least one town in each of the area’s seven valleys. Today, I would be taking a bus to Paularo, in the Valle del Chiarsò, Carnia’s easternmost valley. But first, I wanted to revisit Zuglio. The town was within walking distance from Piano d’Arta, although the sharp turns and lack of shoulder along the highway made for a harrowing half-hour’s walk. Founded by the Romans between 58 and 49 BC, Zuglio still has a section of ancient ruins standing in the center of town. I stayed just long enough to take some photos before heading back.

Arta TermeThis time, I walked only as far as Arta Terme (Piano d’Arta was another 20 minutes further up the hill), so that I could catch the bus to Tolmezzo, where I would then change buses for Paularo. As I boarded my first bus, I immediately recognized the driver I had met the previous day on my way back from Timau. Even though it was his regular route, he was not driving but sitting toward the rear. With the comfortable familiarity that one quickly develops in such remote areas as this, I joined him across the aisle so that we could chat for the brief 10-minute journey. It occurred to me, in that moment, that I was just beginning to feel at home here.

Once in Tolmezzo, I transferred to the bus headed for Paularo. For some mysterious reason, this bus took an unscheduled detour through, of all places, Zuglio and Arta Terme! It stopped at precisely the bus stop where I had caught the earlier bus to Tolmezzo. If only I had known, I would have saved myself one bus ticket and an entire hour.

I arrived in Paularo with a bit of time to wander around before lunch. After spotting a bakery, I bought two types of crostata that I would save for my next couple breakfasts: a round tart with raspberry jam on a shortbread crust and a rectangular slice with blueberry jam and a lattice top.

Ristorante Al CavallinoFor lunch, I had one particular restaurant in mind, Ristorante Al Cavallino, and I was relieved to find it open. Given my current obsession with cjarsòns, I was excited to see the dish on the menu, but for the first time in my experience, it was listed as a dessert. So for my entrée, I ordered the gnocchi antichi sapori, which turned out to be tantamount to cjarsòns. Even though they were prepared with potato-based dough rather than regular pasta dough, the decorative pinched edges very closely resembled the shape of the cjarsòns at Ristorante Salon. The flavor, however, was not sweet but savory, with a complex filling of many ingredients. My palate detected pork, bread crumbs, and some herbs that I guessed might be oregano and mint. They were served in melted butter, with a topping of toasted cornmeal, dried herbs, and melted cheese. As I was enjoying my meal, trying to dissect the flavors, the waitress came by to check on me. As was my custom, I inquired about the recipe. Coyly, she replied that it was a secret. Pressing her further, I asked if I tasted pork. . Mint? . Oregano? No. Perhaps the dried herb on top was in fact mint, but her lips were sealed—I would never uncover the truth.

For dessert, I eagerly ordered the cjarsòns dolci. Also made with potato dough, they looked practically identical to the gnocchi, but with a topping of cinnamon, sugar, and ricotta affumicata. Letting my palate guide me, I searched for the flavors of the filling. It was smooth and dark and sweet—my first and only guess was chocolate. The waitress shook her head. The filling was in fact made with ricotta and pears—no chocolate! Even as I finished my plate, I could hardly believe that it was not chocolate I tasted. It seemed impossible for such richness to come from fruit alone.

PaularoBy this point, I had explained to the waitress that I was writing a cookbook. With sudden enthusiasm, she brought me a glass of homemade raspberry grappa—which I politely tasted, even though I found it too strong—as well as the gift of a hand-painted plate bearing the name Al Cavallino.

After lunch, I took a walk up into the hills above the town, admiring the rustic architecture typical of this part of Carnia: whitewashed masonry with dark wooden roofs and balconies. Outside each house, in row upon row of window boxes, bloomed a veritable rainbow of flowers. One 18th-century palazzo was now home to a museum called La Mozartina, featuring a collection of musical instruments and manuscripts. Unfortunately, the museum was open by appointment only, and I had not planned well enough in advance.

Back in Piano d’Arta that evening, I returned to Albergo Ristorante Salon for dinner. It was my third dinner there in a row, and I was beginning to recognize many of the same faces. It seemed that all the other diners were staying in the hotel, for they were ordering off the daily pensione menu, which Matteo recited at each table. Hearing only three choices of primi piatti and three choices of secondi piatti—all rather standard fare—made me feel grateful to be ordering off their regular, and more interesting, menu.

Matteo MaieronTonight, I went with the capriolo in salmì, along with my usual insalata mista. The venison was stewed with juniper berries and served with polenta. My choice off Matteo’s rolling salad cart was a mix of roasted yellow peppers, potatoes, and string beans. When I finished eating, Matteo asked, with his characteristic boyish smile, if I might like something for dessert. I couldn’t resist the enticing manner in which he suggested, “Forse un po’ di sacherina?” So I indulged in “a little sachertorte,” although it was somewhat disappointing compared to the traditional Viennese version. Instead of the customary apricot jam, this cake was filled with cocoa-flavored whipped cream. On a positive note the chocolate cake was kept nice and moist by a generous dousing of grappa.

I lingered awhile afterward, in hopes that proprietor Bepi Salon would make an appearance. When he had finished eating his dinner in the kitchen, he finally came out to greet me and all the other guests. He did seem to be in a hurry, for he didn’t have the time to sit and chat as we had on my first evening. I did, however, manage to wrangle Matteo away from his duties long enough to snap a couple photos of him behind the bar.

It was getting late when I left the restaurant for the short walk back to Hotel Poldo. As I reached the bottom of the hill by the gray stone Latteria Cjarsòns building, I spotted one of the guests from dinner. An older man, perhaps in his late 50s or early 60s, he was leaning casually against his car—which was awkwardly parked in the intersection—and smoking a cigarette. Although I paid him no attention as I approached along the other side of the street, he called out to me in Italian, asking if I would like to go somewhere with him. As I pretended not to understand, it occurred to me that he had still been sitting at his table in the restaurant when I had left, just minutes earlier. Had he seen me leave and then jumped into his car to catch up to me? Was he actually stalking me? Aside from the fact that I was only 35—not to mention engaged with a ring conspicuously on my finger—this man struck me as sleazy and obnoxious. I said, “No,” with as much conviction and disdain as I could muster, and continued on my way.

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Arta TermeI awoke to blue skies—the first since my arrival in Sauris—and some uncomfortably sore muscles from the previous day’s hike. At least I could take it easy, for today I would be moving on to Arta Terme, where I would be staying for four nights. The bus did not depart until noon, so I had the entire morning free. After packing and checking out of Hotel Morgenleit, I left my bag at the desk and set out to wander for a couple hours. I wouldn’t arrive at my destination until 2:00pm, so I needed to take along a picnic lunch. At the town’s only market, I picked up an etto each of prosciutto di Sauris and Montasio cheese, as well as some more bananas.

From Sauris, I had to take three buses: Sauris to Ampezzo, Ampezzo to Tolmezzo, and Tolmezzo to Piano d’Arta, a hamlet up the hill from Arta Terme. I arrived on time and checked into my hotel, Albergo Poldo. I’d say that Poldo was right in the center of town, but then the town was only one block long, with a few hotels branching off on side streets. Even though I knew I’d be eating my dinners elsewhere—at Albergo Ristorante Salon!—I had decided to play it safe and stay at Poldo, since it sat practically next to the bus stop. Salon was located up a steep hill, and I didn’t want to get stuck dragging my suitcase all the way up there.

My room at Albergo Poldo was tiny, with creaky floors and just a single bed. A small window looked out onto the main street. Even though the sun had been shining in Sauris that morning, the rain had begun to fall once again. I collapsed onto my bed, worried that the rain would continue for my entire three weeks in Carnia.

Terme di ArtaFinally, around 4:00pm, the rain did stop. With the clouds rapidly dispersing, I went for a walk down the hill to the Terme di Arta. Located on the other side of the Bût River, a tributary of the extensive Tagliamento River, this spa has been operating its thermal baths since the late 19th century. Standing out conspicuously against the surrounding forested mountains, its Japanese-style pagoda made an interesting juxtaposition of time and culture. As I stood midway across the bridge, I felt the warm sun on my face and watched as the sparkling rays of light danced across the water. All was quiet except for the roar of the current coursing over the rocky shoals.

Albergo Ristorante SalonI lingered a long time by the river and, when the breeze off the water became too cool, leisurely made my way back up to Piano d’Arta. When it was dinnertime, I headed directly to Albergo Ristorante Salon, where I had stayed with Mike on our trip in May 2004. Their cjarsòns were the best I had ever tasted, and I was anxious to give them another try. When waiter Matteo served my plate and I took my first bite, I closed my eyes in order to fully savor the flavors on my tongue. The cjarsòns were everything I remembered them to be: a perfect combination of sweet and savory, salty and smoky. Filled with a complex blend of eighteen ingredients—including potato, apple, pear, cocoa, cinnamon, and an assortment of fresh herbs—these delicate ravioli were served in melted butter, sprinkled with cinnamon, and garnished with ricotta affumicata.

For my secondo piatto, I ordered the stinco di vitello, which came with a side of purè (mashed potatoes). The roast veal was sliced thin and pretty tasty, although not quite at the level of La Subida’s. I also had an insalata mista, which Matteo prepared tableside. From the cartful of garden-fresh produce, I chose some radicchio (green baby leaves, as opposed to the bitter, red radicchio from Treviso), sliced tomatoes, and tegolini (string beans).

After dinner, I had the privelege of meeting the owner, Bepi Salon. A spry man in his mid-80s, Signor Bepi sat with me for quite some time, answering questions about his restaurant, his life, and his passion for Carnian cuisine. A budding mycologist in his youth, Bepi pioneered the use of local ingredients and regional specialties—a novelty among the town’s many tourist hotels that once primarily featured national dishes such as lasagne and spaghetti al ragù. His wife, Fides, ran the kitchen, transforming all the wild edibles that Bepi brought back from his early morning treks through the woods—mushrooms, herbs, and berries—into dishes inspired by her mother’s family recipes. (Bepi Salon passed away on December 4, 2010; his daughter Antonella is now in charge of the kitchen.)

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Chiesa di Sant'Osvaldo in Sauris di SottoThe day I had been waiting for was finally here! I would be leaving Udine for a three-week stay in the mountains of Carnia. I had hotel reservations in five of the major villages and had worked the timing to coincide with several local food festivals. First on my agenda was Sauris. In May 2004, Mike and I had spent the night there, at a quaint hotel in the hamlet of Lateis. This time I would be staying in Sauris di Sotto, where the Festa del Prosciutto was being held over a period of two weekends.

From Udine, I needed to take three buses to get to Sauris. With fairly tight connections in Tolmezzo and Ampezzo, I left early so that I would have plenty of options in case one of my buses was running late. I would soon learn that Friulian buses are some of the most reliable in Italy; even connections that seemed too close for comfort ended up working out, since the connecting bus often waited for the first bus to arrive before departing. The schedule was like a well-oiled machine.

The first leg of my journey went off without a hitch. I boarded the double-decker bus, sitting on the upper level for the best views, and precisely 50 minutes later arrived in Tolmezzo. There, I had a comfortable 10-minute wait for the next bus to Ampezzo. This bus was a regular-sized coach, and we were required to put our luggage in the compartments underneath. This was a nerve-racking proposition, because now I not only had to watch the street signs vigilantly to make sure I didn’t miss my stop, but I also had to make sure the driver didn’t pull away before letting me retrieve my suitcase.

Along the way to Ampezzo, the bus picked up two large groups of children. The first was a group of at least forty grade-school kids; the second group was slightly older, likely a sports team as they were carrying bags of athletic gear. The bus was now packed beyond capacity. Boys were crammed into the aisle, laughing and shouting at the top of their lungs, as kids of that age will do. I could barely see out the window and was growing even more nervous that I’d miss my stop.

Presently, we came upon yet a third group of kids, just as large as the first two. There was obviously no room left, so the driver got out to do some negotiating with the chaperones. The minutes ticked by, and I became worried that I’d miss my connection. Without a clue what was happening, I then watched as one group of kids began filing off the bus, while the waiting group piled on. Just as jam-packed as before, the bus finally took off. Luckily, I managed to ring the bell in time, for I was the only one getting off the bus in Ampezzo. All the kids on the bus, it turned out, were continuing on to Forni di Sopra.

Sauris di SottoRight on schedule, the bus to Sauris pulled up, and to my suprise, it was already full. On the bus were the same kids that had gotten off the earlier bus to make room for the group going to Forni di Sopra. The first driver had called the driver of the Sauris bus and asked him to make an out-of-the-way trip to pick up this group. While this was far more accommodating than I would expect from any driver in the U.S., it meant that I had to squeeze myself onto a standing-room-only bus with my suitcase. This bus didn’t have a luggage compartment underneath, but luckily there was a free seat behind the driver—no one could sit there, because there were cases of water bottles stacked in front of it, but it was just the place for my bag—and one of the children generously gave me his seat next to it. In addition to the kids that had been on my original bus, there was yet another group, even larger than the first three, going to Lateis.

The road to Sauris was long and steep, with nearly continuous hairpin turns the entire way. As we began the winding ascent, the schoolkids began getting carsick left and right. The chaperone nearest me handed out plastic bags and guided the sickest kids toward the front of the bus. One poor child threw up right next to me; he partially missed the bag and got vomit all over himself. It was a relief when we arrived at Lateis and the carsick group could get off.

Albergo MorgenleitIt was then just a short ride back down the hill from Lateis and up again toward Sauris di Sotto. Although I immediately recognized the town when we arrived, I still needed to ask someone on the street to point me in the direction of my hotel, Albergo Morgenleit. My room there turned out to be fairly spacious and comfortable, with a large bed and a desk where I could work. I was to stay here five nights and would have plenty of extra time for writing. The only view was through a couple of small windows, looking out toward the Prosciuttificio Wolf Sauris. When I checked in, the hotel was fully booked with yet another group of kids; I was told they were leaving in a few days and that I could move to a terrace room across the hall if I wanted. Looking back, I wish I had taken the hotel up on its offer, but once I got settled in, I felt it was a chore to have to move.

After unpacking my bags and organizing my notes on Sauris, I headed out to find some lunch. The mountain air was cool and a little breezy—much nicer than I had expected and a huge relief to get away from the sweltering heat of Udine. The pace of life seemed much more tranquil, too, despite the incessant hammering as tents for the weekend’s festival were being erected.

There were only two restaurants on my list for Sauris di Sotto, and since one of them was closed that day, I ended up at Ristorante Kursaal, where chef Daniele Cortiula—protégé of the late Carnian chef Gianni Cosetti—had made it his mission to continue the legacy of Carnian cuisine. The restaurant was split into two levels, with a casual osteria downstairs and a more elegant dining room with a prix fixe menu upstairs. Both rooms were empty, and so I seated myself at a table downstairs.

I began my meal with the cialzòns (alternate spellings include cjarsòns and cjalsòns), which were filled with fresh ricotta, raisins, and herbs. Drowning in a pool of melted butter, they were topped not with the usual ricotta affumicata but with shavings of aged Montasio cheese.

It was here that I began to question the pronunciation of this dish. Until this point, I had always heard it pronounced with an English “ch” sound, as in chawl-ZOHNZ or chahr-ZOHNZ. At Kursaal, however, the waitress pronounced the word with a hard “k”: kee-awl-ZOHNZ. Over the next several years, I continued to be perplexed over the true pronunciation of the word, having heard as many disparate pronunciations as there are spellings. I finally concluded that the true Furlan pronunciation begins with a “k” sound, despite several variations in endings (-ZOHNZ; -CHOHNZ; -SHOHNZ), and that the “ch” variation that I had previously heard may in fact be simply an Italianization; since there is no letter “j” in the Italian alphabet, it may be that the letters “cja” were spoken as “cia,” which are pronounced in English as cha.

Next, I ordered the frico, which was quite possibly the best I had ever had. Served with grilled polenta, the frico was formed into a six-inch pancake. The outside was crisp and golden, while the inside had the velvety softness of mashed potatoes, with just enough cheese to melt in your mouth but not so much that it oozed grease. Cortiula also tossed bits of diced speck into the mix for added flavor.

For dessert, I indulged in a slice of torta di pere e noci: a light, crumbly square of yellow cake, baked with chopped walnuts and a slice of pear set into the top. The cake was served with a sprinkle of powdered sugar and a drizzle of chocolate sauce.

After lunch, I mustered enough courage to go meet Cortiula. I was a tad nervous, for I had made an embarrassing blunder in an email to him earlier that year. I was writing to inform him of my cookbook project and upcoming visit; somehow I got my vowels mixed up and addressed him as the female “Daniela” rather than the male “Daniele.” I made no mention of my error and couldn’t tell if he remembered, but still I felt that his reception was a bit chilly. Nevertheless, he agreed to prepare a couple of Carnian dishes for me that evening.

Prosciuttificio Wolf SaurisIn the meantime, I took a long stroll to explore the village. First, I headed to the Prosciuttificio Wolf Sauris, a barn-like factory that has been producing its special brand of smoked prosciutto since 1862. A tour bus sat outside waiting for a group of older folk to finish their guided visit. Upon inquiring, I was told that they only offer guided tours to large groups; however, there was a group scheduled for Friday at 3:30pm, and I was invited to tag along.

Next, I discovered the Tessitura Artigiana di Sauris, a shop specializing in traditional Carnian textiles. I selected and purchased four handwoven placemats—which I would later use as props when photographing my recipes—and then paid a visit to the onion-domed Chiesa di Sant’Osvaldo.

At the tourist office, I saw a flyer advertising an excursion to two local malghe, or “dairy farms,” high up in the mountains above Sauris di Sopra. The hike was scheduled for Saturday and would take six hours round-trip, with the closest malga being about an hour and a half away. I wasn’t sure I’d be up for a six-hour hike, but I thought perhaps, one of these days, I could undertake the hike to the first malga on my own.

For dinner, I returned to Ristorante Kursaal, which was still surprisingly empty. The first dish Cortiula prepared for me was toç in braide: a bowl of soupy polenta topped with a sauce of thinned ricotta, a pile of sautéed mushrooms, and a drizzle of toasted cornmeal in browned butter. Next came a plate of blècs: buckwheat pasta cut into triangles and topped with sautéed mushrooms and grated Montasio. Depending on the season, the thick, chewy pasta can be served with any number of toppings, from meat to vegetables to cheese.

As I ate, the waitresses intermittently passed through the dining room but seemed to avoid making eye contact with me. All of our exchanges were short and terse, even though I expressed a genuine interest in the preparation of the two dishes. Were the women merely tired and bored, or were they being intentionally brusque? This was quite unlike my typical experience here; most of the time, I had found Friulians to be exceptionally gracious. While the meal more than satisfied my hunger—it helped me to further appreciate the region’s history by experiencing its traditional cucina povera (cooking of the poor)—I was beginning to feel a dissatisfaction creep up on me. With the staff treating me so coldly and the room still devoid of other diners, I felt lonelier than I had in many years.

Back at Hotel Morgenleit, instead of retiring directly to my room as usual, I wandered around the halls and stumbled by chance upon a game room. While browsing the bookshelves—being particularly intrigued by a cookbook entitled Cucina & Vini Friulani nel Mondo—the room was suddenly stormed by a couple dozen screaming young boys. Although I yearned for company, this was not the company I desired, so I borrowed the book and fled to my room for the night.

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