I arrived on a gorgeous spring morning after a 50-minute bus ride from Udine and a quick change of buses in Tolmezzo. Not being terribly familiar with Arta Terme, I had made reservations at Hotel Gortani in the lower part of town, where there turned out to be nothing but a few hotels and the tourist office. (I would later learn that the bus also makes a stop in the upper part of town, where there are more hotels and shops.) Although it was mid-morning, the town’s main street seemed deserted. Even the lobby of my hotel was empty. As I wandered the halls, searching for someone to check me in, I began to wonder if I was the only guest!
After finally settling in, I made the hike to the upper half of Arta Terme—and then a little further uphill to the hamlet of Piano d’Arta. It was there, I had read, that Albergo Salon served the region’s best cjalsòns, a savory-sweet filled pasta that I was determined to sample at every possible opportunity. Since this was the weekend of the annual (and lengthily named) Festa dell’Asparago di Bosco, del Radicchio di Montagna e dei Funghi di Primavera, however, the restaurant was not serving their regular menu but a special tasting-menu instead. Those cjalsòns would have to wait until my next visit.
The tasting menu was a seven-course feast of small plates, showcasing the local bounties of spring—particularly wild asparagus, mountain radicchio, and mushrooms. I began with a glass of prosecco accompanied by delicately fried frittelle di erbe (herb fritters). This was followed by marinated trout with wild fennel and greens, dandelion soup with tiny Montasio cheese puffs, orzotto (barley cooked risotto-style) with morel mushrooms, lasagne with hop shoots and wild asparagus, pheasant breast with marjoram and roasted potatoes, and a wild strawberry spumone for dessert.
That evening, I splurged on yet another tasting menu at Hotel Gardel. I arrived early and was treated to a glass of Tocai in the lobby while I waited. The dining room was spacious, with white walls and a chandelier hung from the high, wood-paneled ceiling. With a banquet table of about forty French tourists already seated and a live musician crooning at his keyboard in a corner, the atmosphere initially felt like that of a bad wedding party. Once the food started arriving, though, my focus shifted to the countless plates that emerged from the kitchen. But this time, still sated from my lavish lunch, I barely made it halfway through the feast before admitting defeat.
After courses of breaded asparagus, pear and cheese salad, asparagus and potato tortino (layered like lasagne), asparagus gratinati (baked with melted cheese), and bleons (buckwheat pasta) with a sauce of mushrooms and what was listed vaguely as carne bianca (“white meat” could signify poultry, rabbit, or even pork), I had no room for mushroom soup, another mushroom orzotto, stuffed rabbit, mixed vegetables, or strawberry tartlet for dessert. The banquet hall was packed, and the air buzzed with the hum of foreign conversation and the electric tunes of the keyboardist—so I knew I would not be missed when I ducked out to pay my bill.
