Our spring break began in Milan. We were hungry for a taste of a big, thriving city, and we were hoping to do some serious shopping. Milan, being as it is the fashion and the economic center of Italy, seemed the place to go. People here say that Milan is either the southern edge of Europe or the northern edge of Italy, and I think what they mean is that it feels at least as much like a northern European city as it does an Italian city. It is not nearly as rich in beauty as Rome, for instance, or as rich in history as Florence or Venice. It is, however, rich in riches. There is money in Milan, and lots of it, and all of it on spectacular display. From the massive modern building projects to the high profile designer fashion, from the cars people drive (we sighted many Maserati, Ferrari, Bentli, Porsche, and Ducati) to the way Milanese walk the way only Important People with Important Places to Be walk, Milan oozes capital.
As most of you know, I have something of a penchant for shoes, particularly those of the high-heeled variety. Generally, I operate under the assumption that I am quite fashionable, at least by Spokane standards. I read fashion blogs. I watch video of runway shows. I was looking forward to meeting some actual high fashion face to face. I even went to Milan with the explicit intention of blowing a ridiculous wad of cash on a pair of shoes to match the entirely lickable pair Jeremy bought in Rome last year. And believe me, we found shoes that cost a ridiculous wad of cash. They were next to the purses, dresses, coats, pants, sweaters, and everything else under the sun that also cost a ridiculous amount of cash.
It hit me while we were in 10 Corso Como, something of a mecca for the directional dresser. It is sort of a department store of high fashion, bringing under the same roof the current collections of pretty much every designer you have ever heard of and many that you haven't (unless, of course, you are really in the know). There was not a thing in that shop that was under 1000E except for the 10 Corso Como canvas totes, and even those rang up at an impressive 150E. Much of the stuff was beautiful, and I have to admit that I was surprised by how dense and lux many of the fabrics were. The silks used in Azzedine Alaia's frocks were thicker than any upholstery fabric I have ever seen, thicker than I knew silk could be, and the colors were dazzlingly saturated. But, what really hit me was how . . . dull everything was. The clothes seemed designed to be recognizable as truly expensive rather than to be expressive, either of the designer's or the wearer's vision. Fashion should be an kind of art form rather than a walking price tag. This was typical to almost exactly half of my response to Milan: wretched excess on display.
Fortunately, the other half of my response to Milan was far more positive. Milan claims to be the birthplace of aperitivi, and it does early nightlife better than any other place I have been. We spent two of our nights in a neighborhood south of downtown called Navigli, after the three confusing and unpractical seeming canals that bound the area (they were empty and rather unsightly when we were there, but I imagine could be quite pretty). The streets were lined with bars lined with bountiful buffets of food. We saw Indian, Japanese, and a surprising number of tex-mex places. To be honest, I would have been surprised had there been only one tex-mex aperitivi. Even better was that the streets were full of that peculiarly Italian mix of people: young and old, Prada and Converse shod, all mingling in happy, drunk-free, conflict-free social harmony. On Saturday night, we even found our way into a live music venue featuring The Kolors, a very good eighties cover band. I'm impressed by any band that can do convincing versions of both Michael Jackson and Nirvana, and somehow make both seem like their own.
Our final night in Milan was a Sunday, and rather than do another aperitivi crawl, we opted to search out some risotto. After all, Milan is famous for the stuff, and almost all of the rice production in Italy happens in the vicinity. After consulting Chowhound, we decided to try Abele Trattoria Temperanze (many thanks, Irene65!). It was a bit of a subway ride out into a neighborhood that was not, shall we say, displaying its wealth. The restaurant itself seemed a typical Italian neighborhood place, and certainly privileged comfort over decor. A place with Turkish toilets cannot, after all, have pretense.
We began our meal with an antipasti of smoked duck and goose, with a little salami thrown in for good measure. Both were delightfully balanced between smoke, salt, sweet, and meat, but the unctuousness of the goose fat made it the star of the plate. Then we moved on to the risotto. Now, there is much debate about the perfect consistency of risotto: should it flow across the plate, or have a certain internal coherence? Should the rice grains be completely tender, or have a little bit of tooth left?
I believe I can now offer a definitive answer. My apologies to Tom Colicchio, but it does not need to flow. It should gently mound. And yes, one should be able to identify a firm center to each grain, although I would describe it as slightly softer than al dente pasta. I ordered mussel and broccoli rabe, which was a master class in seasoning. How did the mussels stay salty while the risotto was slightly sweet? The bitter-sweetness of the rabe was the perfect bridge between the two flavors. Jeremy got the ricotta and chestnut, and that to me was a revelation. The ricotta was almost too much, almost too creamy, the natural starch of the rice almost overpowered by the dairy. Almost, but not. The chestnuts were sweet and meaty without being mealy or bitter or burnt. The whole effect was as close to dessert as one could get without a hint of sugar.
As they say in Big Night, it's just rice. But oh, who knew what rice could be. It's enough to redeem an entire city of wretched excess. Thankfully, there is so much more to Milan than merely rice and excess.
The next day, we headed out of Milan to Lake Como. But that is a discussion for another day.
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