Il Om Nom Nom-o
Another few days later it’s time for another blog.
We’ve left Lake Garda behind along with its pristine waters, verdant meadows, and (allegedly) topless beaches. Next is Milan.
Everything I know about Milan comes from some vague associations with the fashion industry and an abiding respect for the Pepperidge Farms cookie. I can therefore expect to find women wearing ridiculously uncomfortable shoes and a dark or mint chocolate filling whenever two identical things are near each other… possibly between uncomfortable pairs of shoes.
If you ever want to see if a woman is a tourist or not, check the shoes. From what I can tell, no self-respecting Italiana would ever embarrass her country by wearing something as pedestrian as a sneaker. It simply isn’t done.
But more on Lake Garda. We took the train from Venice to Desenzano, then a bus from Desenzano to Salo’. Of course, in keeping with the rest of the trip, our hotel was cheap by virtue of the fact that it wasn’t exactly in Salo’. It was somewhere around San Michele, 7 km away, home to heartbreakingly beautiful outlooks, several dozen hairpin switchbacks, and presumably, warring factions of hermits, mountain lions, and crotchety farmers telling the bambinos to “stay the hell off my lawn!” which, according to Google, is "sospendere il diavolo il mio prato!" Sarah is skeptical.
We waited for an hour and a half for the infrequent bus to come, passing the time with playing 6-degrees of Jon Favreau, and eating hot, cheap kebabs and crepes. Yes, we were outside of a kebab and crepe place. They had a crepe kebab, but I opted for the kebab panino, and Sarah destroyed a nutella crepe with characteristic vigor.
Anyhoo, two hours pass, and there’s no bus that says San Michele. There’s an unmarked white molester van that stops briefly and some guy who wanted his family to cash in on his life insurance got in, but that’s about it. About the time when we’re nearly closer to the next bus than the last one, we ask a stopped bus driver where the San Michele bus was. I caught the words for “small” and “white,” and if my Italian had been better, I probably would’ve heard “creepy guy with aviators offering free candy.”
So it turned out San Michele’s bus service was provided entirely by the van that your parents warned you about when you were in kindergarten. We were pretty much done waiting, so we found a taxi stop, called a taxi and within 15 minutes we had made a new friend, Fabio.
I don’t really know how to write about it, but we had two of the best meals ever at our little countryside hotel/restaurant. I’m unpracticed at food porn, but I’ll give it my best shot.
The first night, Sarah had the lightest, pillowy gnocchi filled with minced mushrooms, and topped with garlicky olive oil, aged parmesan, and leaves of fried sage. I had a 5 layer-lasagne with buttery ricotta and a powerful ragu, much of which had been baked into the handmade noodles. They were 5 Euros for each, and we even sopped up the cheesey oil with flour-dusted dinner rolls.
Tentatively we sat down to dinner the next night, wondering if it had been a fluke. We lowered our expectations accordingly. Even if the meal was just as good, which was unlikely, there was no way we would enjoy it as much. We just had to accept whatever we got.
Sarah ordered ravioli filled with pumpkin. I had malfatti, a gnocchi-like spinach dumpling, and each plate was topped with olive oil, a few scattered handfuls of melted cheese, and more delicate leaves of fried sage.
The food was even better. Each bite dissolved when it hit your lips, and you wanted to weep afterwards. First, because you were so lucky to eat this food. Second, because you were so unlucky as to grow up anywhere else in the world besides this small town in Italy. And third, because every bite brings the best meal you’ve ever had a little closer to its end.
After this meal there’s no way to follow it up. Even great food would taste like salted dirt. However, we didn’t have this problem, as our next meal in Milan was the worst food we’ve ever had.
More on that later.
We’ve left Lake Garda behind along with its pristine waters, verdant meadows, and (allegedly) topless beaches. Next is Milan.
Everything I know about Milan comes from some vague associations with the fashion industry and an abiding respect for the Pepperidge Farms cookie. I can therefore expect to find women wearing ridiculously uncomfortable shoes and a dark or mint chocolate filling whenever two identical things are near each other… possibly between uncomfortable pairs of shoes.
But more on Lake Garda. We took the train from Venice to Desenzano, then a bus from Desenzano to Salo’. Of course, in keeping with the rest of the trip, our hotel was cheap by virtue of the fact that it wasn’t exactly in Salo’. It was somewhere around San Michele, 7 km away, home to heartbreakingly beautiful outlooks, several dozen hairpin switchbacks, and presumably, warring factions of hermits, mountain lions, and crotchety farmers telling the bambinos to “stay the hell off my lawn!” which, according to Google, is "sospendere il diavolo il mio prato!" Sarah is skeptical.
We waited for an hour and a half for the infrequent bus to come, passing the time with playing 6-degrees of Jon Favreau, and eating hot, cheap kebabs and crepes. Yes, we were outside of a kebab and crepe place. They had a crepe kebab, but I opted for the kebab panino, and Sarah destroyed a nutella crepe with characteristic vigor.
Anyhoo, two hours pass, and there’s no bus that says San Michele. There’s an unmarked white molester van that stops briefly and some guy who wanted his family to cash in on his life insurance got in, but that’s about it. About the time when we’re nearly closer to the next bus than the last one, we ask a stopped bus driver where the San Michele bus was. I caught the words for “small” and “white,” and if my Italian had been better, I probably would’ve heard “creepy guy with aviators offering free candy.”
So it turned out San Michele’s bus service was provided entirely by the van that your parents warned you about when you were in kindergarten. We were pretty much done waiting, so we found a taxi stop, called a taxi and within 15 minutes we had made a new friend, Fabio.
I don’t really know how to write about it, but we had two of the best meals ever at our little countryside hotel/restaurant. I’m unpracticed at food porn, but I’ll give it my best shot.
The first night, Sarah had the lightest, pillowy gnocchi filled with minced mushrooms, and topped with garlicky olive oil, aged parmesan, and leaves of fried sage. I had a 5 layer-lasagne with buttery ricotta and a powerful ragu, much of which had been baked into the handmade noodles. They were 5 Euros for each, and we even sopped up the cheesey oil with flour-dusted dinner rolls.
Tentatively we sat down to dinner the next night, wondering if it had been a fluke. We lowered our expectations accordingly. Even if the meal was just as good, which was unlikely, there was no way we would enjoy it as much. We just had to accept whatever we got.
Sarah ordered ravioli filled with pumpkin. I had malfatti, a gnocchi-like spinach dumpling, and each plate was topped with olive oil, a few scattered handfuls of melted cheese, and more delicate leaves of fried sage.
The food was even better. Each bite dissolved when it hit your lips, and you wanted to weep afterwards. First, because you were so lucky to eat this food. Second, because you were so unlucky as to grow up anywhere else in the world besides this small town in Italy. And third, because every bite brings the best meal you’ve ever had a little closer to its end.
After this meal there’s no way to follow it up. Even great food would taste like salted dirt. However, we didn’t have this problem, as our next meal in Milan was the worst food we’ve ever had.
More on that later.
Comments
I know you love trying gnocchi at any Italian restaurant in the US that has at least the possibility of being good. But now that you found the ultimate, will you give up the quest?
Going to Trader Joe's in a bit to buy some salted dirt.