After good night sleep, I woke to sound of rain pattering against the shutters. At breakfast, the server, Luciana, said there had even been a light dusting of snow at daybreak. Fortunately, by the time I left Hotel Principe and crossed the street to the train station, the pounding rain had turned to a mere drizzle. This would be my first visit to Gorizia, located on the Slovenian border and one of Friuli’s provincial capitals.
On the train ride, I was struck by an unusual sight: a giant chair, several stories high, sitting by the side of the road. It turns out that we were passing by the Italian Chair District, often called the Triangolo della Sedia (Chair Triangle), as it is made up of three towns, Manzano, San Giovanni al Natisone, and Corno di Rosazzo. Reportedly, 80% of Italian-made chairs are produced here—including, as it turns out, the ones sitting in our San Francisco dining room.
From Gorizia’s train station, it was about a half-hour walk to the center of town. Digital signs recorded the temperature at 5°C. I stopped briefly to visit the rather plain, white-washed Duomo but was more interested in seeing the stunning Chiesa di Sant’Ignazio. Recognizable from afar by its set of blue onion domes, the church opens up to a Baroque explosion in gold, amber, and rosewood hues.
After pausing to admire a row of purple and white cabbages gracing Piazza della Vittoria, I hiked to the hilltop Borgo Castello, the medieval district dominated by a fortified castle dating back to the 11th century. Given the gloomy weather, I decided to forgo the castle tour on this visit. (My next trip, planned for May, would see clear skies and a more expansive view from the castle’s ramparts.) As well, Gorizia’s oldest church, Chiesa di Santo Spirito, was closed.
For lunch, I headed to Trattoria Gostilna Alla Luna, where I was hoping to taste some of the region’s Slavic-inspired dishes. Given Gorizia’s proximity to Slovenia, the city has adopted many Slavic words and customs: a gostilna is the Slovenian counterpart to the Italian trattoria or osteria. To start, I ordered gnocchi di pane, which is Friuli’s version of the German semmelknödel. These oval bread dumplings were served con sugo all’arrosto, in a light, brothy gravy. Next I was pleased to try cevapcici—tiny, grilled sausages that were inspired by the Middle Eastern spiced meat patties brought to southeastern Europe by the Ottoman Turks. Especially popular in the Slavic countries, they are even considered a national dish in Bosnia, Serbia, and Bulgaria. These cevapcici were served with grilled polenta and a rather bitter red bell pepper sauce called ajvar.
It had become my custom, as part of my research, to ask restaurants and bakeries about their recipes. Until this day, I had always been welcomed warmly, and most Friulians seemed thrilled that an outsider had taken an interest in their local cuisine. (In fact, just the previous day, a bakery in Cividale had given me the gift of a cookbook.) Today, however, was the first—and only—time that my inquiries were ever met with disregard. When I asked the waitress if she might tell me how the cevapcici were made, she responded with a smirk, “No,” and disappeared to a corner where I spied her whispering to the other staff.
The day was so frosty—both the weather and the waitress’s reaction—I decided to take the train straight back to Udine. On my way to the station, my friend Steno called to invite me to dinner, along with his wife, Liviana.
That evening, the pair picked me up at my hotel and drove to Hostaria Alla Tavernetta, where I had recently dined alone on Valentine’s Day (and there had been a mix-up with my order). This meal would turn out to be so much more enjoyable! Steno strongly recommended the orzotto ai funghi (barley cooked in the style of risotto, with mushrooms) followed by guanciale di maiale (pig cheeks) served with potatoes, both puréed and roasted. To finish, we shared a tray of pineapple slices for dessert—this seemed to be an exotic treat for the couple.
It was during this meal that I started formulating the structure of my book Flavors of Friuli: A Culinary Journey through Northeastern Italy, and Liviana was my inspiration. She spoke in great length about the region’s cuisine and described what were, in her opinion, four culinary regions: Venezia Giulia (Gorizia and Trieste, plus the entire coast), Carnia (plus the Giulian Alps), Friuli (Udine and the Collio), and Pordenone. Later on, I decided to simplify it a step further and settled upon three geographical areas: northern mountains, central hills and plains, and southern coastline. Over the next year and a half, I would continue to explore the nooks and crannies of glorious Friuli-Venezia Giulia, falling in love at every step of the way.
