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The next morning it was apparent that I was no longer the only guest at Hotel Gortani. The breakfast room was crowded with visitors who had come for the Festa dell’Asparago di Bosco, del Radicchio di Montagna e dei Funghi di Primavera. After a sumptuous breakfast of prosciutto, cheese, and two types of cake—raisin brioche and chocolate-marbled pound cake (called kugelhupf in German but referred to as “plumcake” by many Italians)—I returned to Piano d’Arta.

In both directions, along the wisteria-lined road, tables were being set up to display all sorts of arts and crafts: hand-knit scarves, animal figures carved from the volcanic rock of Mt. Etna, copper kitchen utensils, and lavender-scented soap and potpourri. Wildflowers seemed to be a particularly common theme, appearing on hand-painted ceramic plates, beaded ornaments, and wooden plaques for the home.

Tucked away in a corner near Albergo Salon, a couple of mycologists had arranged a display of local wild mushrooms. It was well-known that the elderly owner of the hotel, Bepi Salon, was an avid mycologist himself and made daily excursions into the forests to collect mushrooms, herbs, and berries for his wife to serve in their restaurant.

Around noon, as the sun peeked out from behind a patch of ominous rain clouds and a band struck up the tune “New York, New York,” I embarked upon a tasting spree of Friulian specialties. Bypassing a grill station loaded with ribs and sausages, I headed first for the frico cart. Frico was one of the first Friulian dishes I had tried several years earlier and may be given credit for sparking my interest in this region’s cuisine. There are two main varieties—crispy fried cheese wafers often served in the shape of a bowl and pancakes prepared with cheese and potatoes—but here in Piano d’Arta, I was introduced to yet another type called frico friabile. Instead of frying the cheese in a skillet, the cook was dropping handfuls of grated cheese into a pot of boiling oil. After only a few minutes, she removed what looked like a porous sea sponge and draped it over a small rack of copper rods, where it quickly crisped up in the shape of a taco shell. Unfortunately, while I simply adore frico made with potatoes, this version dripped with grease and tasted strongly of cooking oil.

I discreetly disposed of my plate and proceeded to the next food stall, where a young boy was handing out samples of frittelle (fritters) made with wild herbs and greens such as sage, acacia, melissa (lemon balm), sambuco (elderberry), radicchio di montagna (blue sow thistle), and sclopit (silene). I then spotted an array of frittatas and politely jostled my way into the line. When the woman ahead of me reached the table, she requested a piatto misto so that she could sample all three varieties: mushroom, asparagus, and sclopit. The server refused, explaining that this was not possible for just one customer. Eavesdropping on the exchange, I immediately piped in to express my similar wish, and we were each subsequently granted half a frittata sampler plate. Each slice was as thin as a pancake but loaded with savory flavor.

To conclude my feast, I ordered a plate of cjarsòns—half-moon-shaped ravioli filled with herbs, raisins, and chocolate and served with melted butter, sugar, cinnamon, and ricotta affumicata (smoked ricotta cheese). It was my guess that, given the quantity served to visitors that day, the cjarsòns were not homemade but produced in the small Latteria Cjarsòns factory at the bottom of the hill.

Fully sated, I spent the afternoon exploring the environs. Down the hill and across the Bût River, a Japanese-style pagoda housed the Terme di Arta thermal baths and spa. The spa building was closed for renovation, but I lingered on the bridge, listening to the roar of the currents and enjoying the warmth of the sun on my face.

A ten minute walk further along the highway landed me in nearby Zuglio, where I could investigate the ruins of an ancient Roman settlement right in the center of town. Before heading back I rested for awhile on a bench overlooking the river. The valley was abloom with purple, red, yellow, and white wildflowers and surrounded by forested mountains. A few snowy peaks were visible in the distance. While I sat there, a dozen cars pulled up and parked at the side of the road; as the families got out, I watched them don backpacks and head up the path toward the hilltop church of San Pietro.

When I returned to my hotel, all was quiet. I had hoped to have dinner at another of the hotels offering a tasting menu that weekend (the Hotel Park Oasi), but when I tried to make a reservation, I was declined on account of my dining solo. So, I decided to eat in my own hotel—after all, when I had returned the previous night after my feast at Hotel Gardel, the restaurant at Hotel Gortani was absolutely packed. Apparently, however, the hordes of tourists that had descended for the festival had only stayed one night, and so I was once again the only guest.

The restaurant offered no menu and no choices—not only was I alone in the dining room but I was completely at the mercy of the cook. Dinner started with a bowl of tagliolini in a bland cream sauce with what appeared to be bits of processed fish. This was followed by a grilled chicken cutlet, entirely devoid of seasoning and served with roasted potatoes. The mixed green salad was, I’m sorry to say, the only redeeming part of the meal.