Spring Break, part 2: Lake Como, or, I Discover the Fifth Food I Don't Like

After three days in Milan, we hoped a train to Lake Como. Here is what I knew about Lake Como before leaving: a) it seemed likely to involve a lake b) George Clooney owns a house there, and c) rich people go there. What I did not know, and in fact continued not to know even after we arrived, was that Lake Como is in the southern edge of the Alps, and is surrounded by high, craggy mountains. The combination of lake, snowy peaks, forest, and small Italian towns make Como a spectacularly beautiful place. I think more of Clooney now. He may have questionable taste in contractually obligated girlfriends, but he has fantastic taste in real estate.

The day we arrived was rainy, foggy, and cloudy, so much so that I never saw the other side of the lake, let alone the mountains. There were some indications that we had made a couple of strategic errors in our planning. We knew it was off-season, but we had not realized that meant the inter-village ferry ran on a much reduced schedule. Como is a long, skinny glacial lake, with a series of very to only somewhat small towns every five kilometers or so around the shore. There are buses that run up both sides of the lake, but to get to the other side of the lake by bus would have required several transfers. Our rather odd Liverpudlian bed and breakfast host gave us a ferry schedule and helped us read it, only to then announce that the first ferry out of town the next day didn't leave until after noon. Since we only had one day to explore, and the ferry was our best form of transportation, we were concerned.

We went into town and had a perfectly tasty lunch, and then, armed with our ferry schedule, we tried to go to another town via ferry. We figured if we were going to go anywhere, we should do it then. We went to the boat launch and waited. And waited. No sign of the ferry. By this point the fog had lifted and we could see most of the lake: no sign of the ferry. Eventually, we gave up and just relaxed in the B&B.

(not my photo)

Fortunately for us, we found our way to La Piazetta in Argegno (that's the town we were staying in) for dinner. From the menu, it looked like a typical, casual Italian place -- pastas, pizzas, some more expensive secondi. But, from the second we were seated in the upstairs dining room, we knew we were in for at least something different. The waiter was very formal, as were the table settings. The (turns out only apparently complimentary) prosecco was excellent. When we asked his recommendation for an appetizer, he suggested we go off menu and try a sturgeon pate and cold smoked salmon combination plate. I'm so glad we did. That sturgeon pate was exceptional -- so creamy and rich, with all the sweetness of the fish but no fishiness. Even Jeremy liked it. The cold smoked salmon was also unusual, in that it had the texture of lox, but a good deal of real smoke taste. That they served this with fresh wasabi was also unexpected, especially in Italy!

Our pasta dishes were refined comfort food. I had a leek and pancetta chitarra; Jeremy had a ravioli filled with fresh farm cheese and served with browned butter and balsamic. Both were well balanced, well seasoned, and both featured perfectly chewy handmade pasta. But the real surprise was the brick chicken that we split for our secondi. It was, as we were expecting by that point, perfectly executed, with tender meat and crispy skin. What we didn't expect was that it was seasoned with some pretty serious and sophisticated Indian spices. We definitely tasted fenugreek and coriander, and I'm pretty sure there were black mustard seeds in the mix. After months of Italian food -- delicious, but basically spice free -- it tasted like heaven. If you find yourself in Lake Como (and you have some cash burning a hole in your pocket), I would definitely recommend a dinner here.

The next morning dawned warm and cloud free, and for the first time I realized that our room had the view with which I started this post. Rather than wait for the ferry, we decided to take the funivia ride up the sides of the lake, and were rewarded with some spectacular views and some very tempting hikes. We went down, discovered the bus wouldn't come for a while, so we decided to head up to the next town on foot. We were lucky that, when we were nearly there, we discovered the beginning of the "greenway," a combination hiking trail and pedestrian-friendly route connecting the next several towns. We hiked the greenway to Lenno, and then decided to try our luck with the ferry again. Turns out that not only did our landlord have no idea how to read the ferry schedule, the one he gave us was entirely wrong. Hence the waiting the day before. Fortunately, a boat was just about pulling up, so we jumped on and headed to Bellagio, armed with a new schedule.

Bellagio is, the internets tell me, the most visited of the Como towns, and I believe it. We were surrounded by Americans and Brits. The Floridian weatherman we met seemed typical -- he and his girlfriend were hitting about a European city a day. They seemed disappointed by all of it (especially Milan). At least Como was pretty, they said, and the restaurants catered to English speakers (if only they had catered to them with better food). I felt bad for them -- especially her (he was a little too slick to engender much sympathy). Like so many Americans, she had been so excited to see as much of Europe as she could, but then the whole trip was spent on trains, getting too trains, hitting the top five sites per city, and then getting back onto a train. If I could give one piece of advice to someone planning a trip to Europe, it would be to spend at least three nights in any given city. You always spend the first day hitting those "must sees." It's the second and third days, where you seek out the things specifically interesting to you, or you have no idea what you are going to find, that you get a feel for what a place is like. Plus, you need to give yourself a chance to make some restaurant mistakes in your search for a good meal or two. Okay, two pieces of advice: I would also say that investing money in good walking shoes and time figuring out public transportation are essential. The only way to enjoy most of these places is to walk around. A lot. In the morning, during the day, at night. It is much easier to head out walking if you have some confidence you can hop a bus to get back.

(also not my photo. Obviously)

Back in Argegno, we decided to try the other restaurant in town, rather than returning to outstanding but pricey La Piazetta. Mistake number one. Mistake number two: we went at Florentine dinner time, not Lake Como dinner time, so we got nearly the last dishes out of the kitchen. Mistake number three: I ordered the spaghetti Lario, made with missoltini. I was told it was a local specialty. I was told it was made with dried lake fish. I was told I could get it nowhere but near Lake Como. I had very much enjoyed my other Lake Como specialty, pasta with white fish roe, the day before for lunch. I knew I had made a mistake when my plate was set down before me and my head was enveloped in a cloud of the nastiest old fish smell I have ever smelled. I'm talking pungent, funky, perhaps even slightly fermented fish fume. But, I'm game. I like fish. I like Thai fish sauce. Heck, I even like Thai dried shrimp in small doses, which is the closest thing edible I can come up with to describe this scent. Imagine Thai dried shrimp mixed with kim chee, but without the peppers. Anyway, I tried. I really did. I take a certain amount of pride in my willingness to eat anything and try everything. But this stuff tasted just like it smelled. Worse, it was chopped up dried tails, fins, and skeleton, so it was basically noodles with rotten fish bones. As I picked a long spine out of my teeth, I cried uncle. Alas, the kitchen had already closed, so I was reduced to eating some pasta with leftover (and highly salty) mushrooms. I guess you win some and you lose some.

And for those of you wondering about my title, the list has almost doubled since coming to Italy. I now don't like the original trinity -- Doritos, licorice, and gummy candy -- and also tripe (not gross, but I do not like that internal organ flavor that builds with every bite) and missoltini. I realize I might be being unfair, and that perhaps the missoltini I had was of poor quality, or had in fact turned bad. Perhaps under different circumstances, I would discover missoltini is my new favorite food. But those circumstances will, sadly, never occur, because I plan to avoid that stuff for the rest of my days.

Were I to go to Lake Como again, I might do some things different. I would definitely bring hiking boots. My Fluevogs are as comfortable (and stylish) as two inch heels can be, but by the end of our ten km hike, my dogs were screaming. I would not go to Bellagio, but instead spend time in the towns with less name recognition. I would almost certainly rent a car or a scooter or a boat. I would not order missoltini. While not perhaps the most effortless leg of our trip, I am still incredibly happy we went, and that I got to see what may be the most spectacular lake outside of Glacier. And believe me, there is no where within a state of Lake MacDonald to get food even half as good as that at La Piazetta.

Next stop: London!

Spring Break, part 1: Milan

The near month-long hiatus since my last post has not been due to a sudden cessation of eating, or a tragic lack of topics, but rather for the much happier reason that Jeremy and I have been far too busy traveling to write. Spring break began back on March 16th, and we went a blissful ten days without our laptops. Even Jeremy managed to leave his beloved Macbook at home (although he did take both his iPhone and his iPad. Nerd. I can say that because I only brought my iPhone. Although, that is mainly because I don't have an iPad, which I otherwise would have brought.) We spent time in Milan and Lake Como, before heading north to London. The eating was good, the people watching was better, and all the travel connections worked the way we thought they would. Could anyone ask for more?

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.