Wrapping Up Italy

The five days we spent in northern Italy proved to be one gastronomic delight after another, bordering on the gluttonous. Whereas France also will serve multiple courses in a meal, Italy does it in far greater proportions and at a much faster rate of speed. We viewed each ensuing dish with a mixture of delight and trepidation. Ken and Anna took us to no fewer than three of their favorite restaurants over four days.

One, Madonna della Neve in Cessole, I had visited in 2007 on Anna's recommendation, and I remembered it well. It's a family-owned and operated restaurant, famed for their delectable, handmade agnolotti, so tender and delicate that they serve it on a napkin without any sauce. We sampled it that way, followed by a second serving, this time on a plate with a butter and sage sauce. Delicious! The host, Massimo, who seated us, was the very same who'd greeted me when I showed up alone three years earlier, just days into my very first visit to Italy.

I had entered the restaurant a bit shyly and was relieved to see it was almost empty; just two parties sat in the dining room--three suited gentleman obviously on a business lunch, and a middle-aged couple, none of whom paid me any mind. I was acutely aware of my complete lack of Italian language skills and hoped I could blunder through. I realized at that moment that I'd failed to find out if tipping was expected. It had not been in France. I felt even more nervous.

Massimo seemed to pick up on my hesitancy and, before I could say a word, greeted me in English. (Admittedly, I'm a bit fair to pass as Italian. Still, it sort of bothers me to be recognized as a tourist.) Massimo's voice was filled with regret.

"I'm terribly sorry, but we do not serve parties of one."

I froze. In all my years I'd never once been refused a table simply because I was on my own. Massimo saw the stunned look on my face and quickly suppressed a smile. The twinkle in his eye, however, gave the game away. Luckily I'm fairly quick on my feet. I donned an exaggerated look of deep disappointment.

"What? Is it not tragic enough that I have been denied the pleasure of a gentleman's company, that I must also be denied the simple pleasure of a meal in your ristorante? Indeed, this is too much to bear!"

Massimo stifled his laughter and swept low in a gallant bow.

"I would be most pleased to make an exception in your case, signorina."

Phew, that was a close one. I thought I was going to have to miss out on those fabled agnolotti for a minute.

Madonna della Neve was a delight then and it was a delight this time as well. However, no modest meal for me this time. We began with an antipasti which I foolishly assumed would be a single platter with a variety of meats, cheeses, vegetables and olives. Instead, dish after dish was served, including paper-thin slices of pancetta, followed by a divine carpaccio, then, peppers with a tonnato (tuna) sauce, a courgette (zucchini) flan with cheese, asparagus wrapped in proscuitto topped with a cheese sauce.... I was beginning to fear each appearance of our server.

It was so rich, with one course following on the heels of the preceding one, that my friend Innis got up and stepped outside the restaurant for a brief walk just to give herself a respite before facing the lamb-filled agnolotti. I was afraid she'd decline it but she tried a tiny bit and pronounced it delicious. And it was--even better than I'd remembered.

It's after a meal like this that it becomes clear why the Europeans drink digestifs. A sip or two of a fiery brandy really does settle the stomach. Ken and I decided to go the distance and make ours a local grappa. To our surprise, Massimo brought several bottles for us to sample. I liked one in particular. Upon closer inspection, I saw it bore the restaurant's label with a notation that it was in honor of the festival for Sant' Antone, which had been held earlier that same day. On impulse, I purchased a bottle to bring back to France as a memento.

Idyllic Italy

We left Lake Annecy in the French Alps bound for Cessole, Italy, in Piedmont country, home to Barolos, Barberas and Barbarescos, white truffles, porcini mushrooms, to name just a few treasures.  Upon arriving at Casa Forcellini (www.casaforcellini.com), we were greeted with a glass of frizzante white wine and a lunch of epic proportions. Casa Forcellini was to be our home for five golden days.

My first visit to Casa Forcellini was during the summer of 2007, where I spent a heady three weeks housesitting for the owners, Ken and Anna. It had been a last minute, whirlwind post and slotted perfectly in the two weeks that I had to kill between the time I was due to leave Spain and arrive in Austria. Although it left me with just three frantic days to pack up and arrive instead of the thirteen leisurely ones I'd thought I'd have, it was worth every panic-stricken, jam-all-my-worldly-goods-into-whatever-corners-of-the-car-I-can moment.

The first moment I walked onto the terrazzo, overlooking a valley laden with hazelnut trees and manicured row upon row of grapevine, I felt as if I'd stepped onto a film set, a stereotype of every movie I'd ever seen of Italy. (Although, moments later, the charm took a backseat to my dismay when I realized I locked myself out while simultaneously locking the dogs, my purse, cellphone, laptop and owner contact information inside, but that story is best related in my upcoming book (whenever that will be).

It had been quite a weekend, what with, two days earlier, my sleepless, espresso-fueled Spain departure where a tractor-trailer jackknifed about 50 feet in front of me at 5am on the motorway south of Barcelona, just two hours into my trip, as I looked on bleary-eyed in disbelief.  Followed the next morning by me desperately to outpace the Tour de France which, to my horror, I discovered was just behind me as I raced to reach Italy. (That would explain the empty motorway!) Add to that getting hopelessly lost on local roads not far from Cessole because the Italians don't believe in street signs, and you get an idea of how thrilled I was to find myself locked out!

Anyway, that was then and this is now. I had only met Ken and Anna for the first time last year, en route back from Tuscany to the Loire Valley here in France, spending an impromptu night there after yet another lovely lunch served in true Italian style.

This time, because the clouds looked a bit ominous, we decided to forego eating on the terrazzo in favor of shelter so we ate instead in the dining room. We ate, drank, and laughed for hours. Melon with parma ham was soon followed by the local Toma cheese with red pepper flakes and drizzled in olive oil, eggplant, breaded chicken cutlets with almonds accompanied by sauteed carrots, zucchini and potato in butter, salad, a cheese course and then gelato. That meal, it turned out, was just a warm-up for what was to greet us over the course of the next few days.

There was one challenge—the one bathroom was in mid-renovation, leaving us neither shower nor toilet. Luckily, by the time my friend and I had arrived, the contractor was at least able to connect the toilet each night before leaving—no rocking, please, as it wasn't bolted down—but he didn't go as far as to hang the door! It didn't matter, however. We could not have enjoyed ourselves more. Good company, good food, good wine, good weather and, let's not forget, this was Italy after all.  Ciao!