Le Langhe

ALBA, CHERASCO, SANTO STEFANO BELBO, AND NEIVE

Alba, gentle word. Dawn. I’ve wanted to come here for many years. We’ve tried a couple of times to reserve for the divine October white truffle feasts but everything is always booked. Not today; hardly any tourists about. Alba, though only around thirty-two thousand inhabitants, seems like a real city, elegant brick, with open piazzas in the old centro, surrounded by cafés and blooming oleander. It’s hot. We do what we seldom do, just sit with coffees and merende (mid-morning snacks). There are churches and museums to see but still we talk, watch people, spread out the morning. Alba must be a fabulous place to live. The best wine and food, and obviously enlightened people who keep their town impeccable.

I’ve read that the Saturday market branches into many streets. Even on Monday morning, bicycles stream by, women are intent on shopping, and aromas of pastry and bread exhale from open doorways. First, we visit the Cattedrale di San Lorenzo, Romanesque, from the early 1100s, but remodeled and shape-shifted a few times in the intervening years, including a front-and-center rose window opened in the nineteenth century. Added in 1512, fabulous marquetry choir stalls intrigue the three of us. Inlays of various woods tint the designs of plants, books, landscapes with villages, musical instruments, fruit baskets, and religious symbols. An awkward modern altar and throne chair and aggressive suspended lighting are intrusive and, to my eye, ugly.

We pass stylish wine-tasting rooms, Cignetti for chocolates and confections (since 1878), good-looking clothing stores, and Franco Fedele, a high-end carpenter’s shop where I would want to have my bookcases made if I lived here. Just the way the tools are displayed in the window tells you a true artisan works inside. William buys a jar of Nutella, nostalgic childhood treat of every Italian. He wants to see if it tastes different in Alba, where it was invented.

“Look up,” we keep saying. Medieval towers everywhere. Arcades and umbrellas: shade is necessary in summer. I love the Chiesa della Maddalena, a fantasy of brickwork and a wild frescoed dome with winged priests frolicking among the putti. William is more enchanted with the portal of San Domenico. Rounded bricks—sage, rose, coral—stacked into rows of columns frame the entry.

Food dreamers come from everywhere to dine at Piazza Duomo. They’re closed, and besides we didn’t reserve months in advance. (Who does that?) Instead, we get to have lunch at La Piola, their more informal place right on the duomo piazza. Airy and open, the café couldn’t be more inviting. The name, in dialect, means “very local osteria.” The day’s menu posted on a chalkboard says casual, plates designed by American artists say hip; and quirky: two fun chandeliers of curved wire and pictures of birds, made by Kiki Smith. We love everything—squash flower soup, vitello tonnato, agnolotti filled with Castelmagno cheese with black truffles and hazelnuts. We’ve neglected the white wines of Piemonte and rectify that with a glass of Ceretto Arneis, soft and soulful. The Ceretto vineyard family, art patrons and important winemakers, owns this restaurant as well as Piazza Duomo.

Finally, the classic local dessert, bonèt (little cap), similar to a flan, but made with cocoa and crumbled amaretti cookies. This treat was born in the thirteenth century, although cocoa, a relatively new accoutrement to the dish, was added after the discovery of the Americas. Italy is where you taste time.

A SHORT DRIVE to Cherasco—what a surprise. Deserted during the pausa, elements of the town remind me of renaissance paintings of an ideal city. There’s also that strange emptiness of towns in cowboy movies—a place holding its breath—just before the bandits arrive. The one bird sounds like it’s chirping into a megaphone. Why the grand triumphal arch at the end of the wide via Vittorio Emanuele II? And the row of seigniorial palazzi with beautiful doors, the arcaded sidewalks like those in Torino? Castle, yes, all local towns have one. Ed and William want to sit outside a bar and have a gelato. I dash off to see the slender, brick Madonna del Popolo. On one side, there’s the Orto dei Padri Somaschi, a re-creation of a hortus conclusus, walled garden, of the Somaschi, a charitable order. The wooden boxed beds look modern but planted in them are the same flowers, herbs, and shrubs that have graced this place for centuries. On the other side of the church, the magnificent monastery has been converted into the pleasant-looking four-star Hotel Somaschi.

BESIDE THE TRIUMPHAL arch stands the pretty blue-gray oratory of Sant’Agostino and a graceful bell tower. The arch, built between 1672 and 1677, looks as if it hasn’t been touched since the last stone was laid. I photograph the palazzi doors: one is imposing, one painted the palest dove gray; another, the color of pistachio gelato. I have to run my hand over a dark walnut double door with huge nail heads and a knocker shaped like a woman’s ringed hand.

San Pietro is the town’s important thirteenth-century church. I get to see another garden, the re-created monks’ garden of simples. Built concurrently with the founding of the city (1243), the church has been at the mercy of various interventions. It has a rather forlorn appearance, but I give it a closer look. The façade retains blocks of carved stone recycled from earlier buildings: spolia. I’m always curious to see these. Several show vegetal designs, two are of worn-down birds, and one appears to be two horses. The walled garden is laid out in the shape of a cross. The four squares are divided again into four more, all planted with roses, aromatics, and vegetables known in Italy before the discovery of the Americas. (Imagine Italy without the tomato!) Four trees represent the seasons: holly, apple, medlar, pomegranate.

WILLIAM AND ED have not been idle over their gelato. “Did you know this place is known for snails? That’s a local specialty. There’s even a snail farm. I saw a recipe with snails, leeks, and apples. Not sure—sounds good but…” William is on his iPad. “And it’s antique central. Several markets a year and shops. Too bad everything’s closed, Franny.” Heavy irony, since he would never allow himself to be dragged into an antique shop.

Ed adds, “One reason this place is so refined is that the Savoys escaped the plague of 1630 by setting up residence here. It was always a retreat from the city. That Palazzo Salmatoris we saw was where the shroud of Torino was hidden from the French.”

“We should have come earlier when everything was open.”

“Well, that’s Italy. Sidewalks roll up in the afternoon. You’ve got to just live with that.”

“Yes, years and years here and I am always surprised that the custom endures.”

A lone man rides by on his bicycle. Someone backs a car out of a garage. Things may be about to stir, but we are done for the day.

JUST OUTSIDE LA MORRA, we get to dine at Bovio, outdoors on a summer night overlooking the hills. Obviously, we’ve happened upon a special-occasion kind of place. It’s refined but not fussy, rooted but not rustic. We sit down among families and groups of friends and we know that we are going to eat well, drink well; the evening will be glorious. The menu showcases the territory. Hard to choose but we order quail salad with chestnuts and truffles, onions stuffed with sausage and Taleggio, duck cannelloni with spinach and truffles, veal filet with mushrooms, roasted kid with vegetables. As the wine list is voluminous, Ed confers with the waiter and chooses Barolo Arborina 2012, made by this restaurant’s family vineyard, Gianfranco Bovio. We are sitting on the home turf.

Memorable, I know, as I snap a photo of William having his first sip of Barolo. He takes it seriously and wants to know if what he tastes is what we taste. The waiter has poured just a half-inch.

Blissful food, wine, blissful evening in La Morra.

I KNEW THAT Cesare Pavese was born in nearby Santo Stefano Belbo. Although a city person, he remained close to his earliest home, but never in a sentimental way. He valued the rural life’s struggles, poignancy, fatalism, and the primal connection to the land. When the bookstore owner tells us about the foundation devoted to Pavese’s work in his hometown, I have to go.

The director of the small museum, a welcoming woman, takes us around. Photographs, reproductions of his working notebook—page after page of fascinating lists of words—artwork framed with quotes from his books, and a brilliant portrait of him. She tells us how to find his villa and grave. We set off walking; it is farther than we thought but we find the house, still lived in except for the side where he was born. A faded peach-colored, two-story house in the shape of a U, paint flaking off its shutters: never grand, but with a sense of itself. A short distance away, we find the cemetery and his crumbling grave with his name and an epitaph: HO DATO POESIA AGLI UOMINI. I gave poetry to the people.

At Ape Wine Bar at lunch, the curly-haired waiter who looks as if he could be a tenor in an opera pauses to feed his baby a bottle. The mother is lunching with friends; he’s serving. Pavese, I’m thinking, is part of their consciousness. Their parents may have known him. The waiter tells us that The Moon and the Bonfires is still celebrated on a night in spring when farmers cut back their vines and burn the old wood. That I would like to see. The baby, utterly content, falls into a milk doze. Ed and William attack their fried fish; I look out over the town, trying to imagine the child Pavese here and the grown writer returning. From The Moon and the Bonfires: “We need a country, if only for the pleasure of leaving it. Your own country means that you are not alone, that you know there is something of you in the people and the plants and the soil, that even when you are not there it waits to welcome you home.” The waiter brings a bowl of perfect strawberries. And that’s the last of the Pavese quest.

EN ROUTE BACK to La Morra, we swing by Neive, listed as one of I Borghi più belli d’Italia, the most beautiful small towns in Italy. Yes, it is. Two gates, an almost circular layout. Like other gems we’ve visited, Neive has the long history, the towers, churches, chapels, palazzi. All well preserved. “Can we go back to the hotel? I’m getting Stendhal Syndrome big time.” Ed hardly ever flags.

“Me, too,” William says. He’s traveled enough to know what Stendhal Syndrome means.

Back in La Morra, they head upstairs and I go over to the bookstore to thank Maurizio and to say good-bye.

We stay in for dinner. UVE’s courtyard is quiet and candlelit. Everyone on the staff here has been exceptionally friendly. We order pastas and yet another great Barolo. After dinner, we stroll around town. All quiet. The park at the end of the street looks over a swath of dark vineyards with a few lights in farmhouses and more glittering in the clear sky.

BACK IN TORINO, we turn in our car and walk. I pick up a few tomini cheeses and store them in the minibar at the hotel. I love these little white pillows; the delicate cheese is so good spread on bruschetta.

Turin Palace Hotel, right across from the train station, just underwent a makeover and is pitch-perfect. High ceilings, a terrace off our room, snowy duvets, and lots of space. We rest with books, have a drink on the rooftop bar, and an excellent dinner.

Early, we catch the Frecciargento, fast train to Florence, then the pokey train to Cortona. William is looking out the window. “Franny, do you think I could go to college in Torino?” That he even has the thought thrills me.

Damn, I left the cheeses in the minibar.

NOTES:

Three paintings of an ideal city were created in the 1480s at the court of the Duke of Montefeltro in Urbino in Le Marche. Attributed to several artists, such as Piero della Francesca, Fra Carnevale, or Francesco di Giorgio Martini, the panels remain a mystery. Ideal architecture was an interest of the duke. His palace reveals the extent, not only in its architecture but in various marquetry panels showing utopian visions of towns. The ideal city most associated with Piero della Francesca remains in Urbino. The other two hang in the Walters Art Museum in Baltimore and the Gemäldegalerie in Berlin.

Ape Wine Bar: In Italian, ape means bee.

Stendhal Syndrome: Travelers who are overwhelmed by too much beauty are in the grips of a state described in the nineteenth century by Stendhal (Marie-Henri Beyle), who wrote The Red and the Black. After contemplating a fresco in Florence, his character’s sensations and passions collided: “I had palpitations…the life went out of me.” Such travelers are in need of a break and a cold glass of water.

Cipolla Cotta al Forno Ripiena di Fonduta e Salsiccia di Bra

BAKED ONION STUFFED WITH FONDUE AND BRA SAUSAGE, SERVES 6

Chef Marco Boschiazzo’s savory roasted onions travel well from lunch to antipasti to first course. The particular spreadable veal sausage from Bra probably will not be available, but do try it when traveling in Piemonte. I substitute a mix of ground veal and a small amount of pork fat. Not at all the same but rustic and savory. My friend Susan tried using sweet Italian sausage with happy results.

  • 6 large yellow onions, unpeeled

  • 1 cup fresh cream

  • ¼ cup whole milk

  • 11 ounces Taleggio cheese, cut into small pieces

  • 7 ounces Bra sausage, cut into small pieces (or sauté ½ pound ground veal and 3 slices finely chopped pancetta)

  • Salt and pepper, QB

  • 1 tablespoon butter

Preheat the oven to 250˚F.

Roast the onions on a sheet pan in the oven for 2 hours. When they are cool enough to handle, cut off the first third. Scoop out most of the insides (reserving the outer shells), let drain in a colander, then chop the insides and set aside.

Increase the oven temperature to 350ºF.

Pour the cream and milk in a medium saucepan, then bring almost to a boil. Lower the heat and add the Taleggio. Stir as the cheese melts. Remove the saucepan from the heat and continue stirring for about 1 minute.

Meanwhile, sauté the sausage or meat mixture in a hot pan until browned. Add the chopped onions and about two-thirds of the cheese fondue. Stir to combine, and season with salt and pepper.

Stuff the onions with the filling and dab them lightly with flakes of butter. Bake the onions in a 350°F oven for 15 minutes. Heat the rest of the fondue, then serve the onions on a warm fondue bed.

Ristorante Bovio, La Morra, Piemonte

Fiori di Zucca Ripieni di Ricotta, Verdure Piccole e Pomodori Freschi

PUMPKIN FLOWERS STUFFED WITH RICOTTA, SMALL VEGETABLES, AND FRESH TOMATOES, SERVES 4

Chef Dennis Panzeri’s stuffed flowers bloom again on the plate, delicate and summery. Zucchini or squash flowers may be used—just pick the males, the ones not developing into a vegetable. To remove the pistil, I use tweezers. If the flowers are small, halve the recipe for the filling and sauce.

FOR THE STUFFED FLOWERS

  • 1 carrot, diced

  • 1 stalk celery, diced

  • 1 small white onion, diced

  • 2 to 3 tablespoons olive oil

  • 1 zucchini, diced

  • 4 button mushrooms, diced

  • 1 clove garlic, minced

  • 1 bay leaf

  • Salt and pepper, QB

  • 2 cups whole-milk ricotta

  • 3 ounces grated Parmigiano-Reggiano

  • 4 basil leaves, torn

  • Nutmeg, a few grates

  • 12 flowers, pistils and stems removed

  • 1 tablespoon unsalted butter, cut in small pieces

FOR THE SAUCE

  • 6 ripe tomatoes

  • Juice of a half orange

  • 3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

  • Salt and pepper, QB

  • 1 tablespoon balsamic vinegar

  • Basil leaves, for garnish

Prepare the stuffed flowers:

In a medium skillet over medium heat, sauté the carrot, celery, and onion in 2 tablespoons of the oil until translucent, about 3 minutes, then add the zucchini, mushrooms, garlic, and bay leaf. Season with ½ teaspoon salt and the pepper. Continue to sauté for 5 minutes. Transfer to a bowl. Discard the bay leaf. Gently stir in the ricotta, half the Parmigiano, the basil, and the nutmeg.

Fill the flowers and put them in an oiled baking dish, scatter the butter over them, and sprinkle with the remaining Parmigiano.

Prepare the sauce:

Cut the tomatoes in fourths and blend them to a very fine consistency in a food processor, then pass them through a sieve.

Put the tomato pulp again in the blender, add the orange juice, and whip with 1 tablespoon of the extra-virgin olive oil. Add salt, pepper, and the balsamic vinegar. Chill until ready to serve.

Bake the flowers in a 400˚F oven for 15 minutes and serve them with the chilled tomato sauce. Garnish with basil leaves.

Ristorante La Piola, Alba, Piemonte