Traveling to do research for a cookbook sounds like a dream job, but in fact, it can be hard to keep up the pace. With a limited schedule, I usually found myself running nonstop, visiting a different town each day and attempting to see as many of the sights as humanly possible. Occasionally, though, I needed to give myself a break. This was one of those days, in between my excursion to Arta Terme and my upcoming meeting with cooking instructor Gianna Modotti.
I decided to spend the morning exploring Udine’s markets, bakeries, and food shops. I began in Piazza Matteotti, whose farmer’s market stands were overflowing with a bounty of spring produce: mushrooms, fava beans, artichokes, and the celebrated white asparagus from Tavagnacco. (This market has recently been relocated to the newly renovated Piazza XX Settembre.) From there, I headed to my favorite cheese shop, La Baita, where I bought an etto (100 grams) each of the three types of Montasio: fresco, mezzano, and stagionato. Next, I wandered a bit more around the city center, peeking into every food shop and bakery I passed. I ended up buying some prosciutto di Sauris and formaggio di malga at Alimentari Tami Galliano and a selection of small rolls—zucca, noci, patate e rosmarino, and patate e formaggio—at Panificio Pasticceria Bacchetti.
When the shops began closing their doors for the afternoon, I returned to my room at Hotel Principe for a picnic lunch. I unwrapped my cheeses and spread my feast before me on the bed. The sight was mouthwatering. As it was still too early in the season for fresh formaggio di malga (cheese produced during the summer in the mountain dairies of Carnia), the slice I had purchased had been aging since the previous summer. It was quite firm and had a flavor reminiscent of aged Asiago.
The three types of Montasio were easy to discern. The fresco (aged 2 to 4 months) was soft, creamy, and white in color, with a mild, delicate flavor. The mezzano (aged 5 to 10 months) was golden in color, firmer, and a bit more piquant. The stagionato (aged over 10 months) was extremely sharp and hard like Grana Padano or Parmigiano-Reggiano.
Produced at the Wolf Sauris factory in Sauris di Sotto, the prosciutto was sweet with just a hint of smokiness. The rolls were soft and fresh from the oven—the potato rosemary roll went especially well with the cheese and prosciutto, while the pumpkin roll with walnuts and raisins made a nice dessert.
I spent the remainder of the afternoon sorting my notes and reading through my new Friulian cookbooks. Earlier on this trip, I purchased Vecchia e Nuova Cucina di Carnia by Gianni Cosetti and Friuli in Cucina by Adriano Del Fabro. Today, I added to my growing collection the heavy tome La Cucina del Friuli–Venezia Giulia by Alessandro Molinari Pradelli—an encyclopedic compendium of Friulian recipes. By now I had compiled a list of those recipes that I felt were most characteristic of the region and that I planned to include in Flavors of Friuli. In addition to tasting those dishes in restaurants, my goal was to gather as many published recipes as possible, in order to jump-start the recipe-testing process once I returned home.
For dinner that night, I was determined to try someplace new. My plan “A” was a restaurant I had read about in my guidebook called Trattoria All’Allegria, but unfortunately it was closed—or rather nonexistent behind a wall of plywood and scaffolding. (It reopened several years later as a chic hotel and restaurant.) My plan “B” was the nearby Osteria Al Canarino; however, this one turned out to be filled with smoke and old men—not a comfortable environment for me. (Anti-smoking laws were not passed until the following year, 2005.) Therefore, predictably, I ended up back at Osteria Al Vecchio Stallo, where I felt right at home. I started with a bowl of sfregolotz agli spinaci. A recipe I had discovered in Gianni Cosetti’s cookbook only that afternoon, these were misshapen, pea-sized, emerald-green gnocchi topped with ricotta affumicata. Next, I ordered the cevapcici: tiny, finger-shaped sausages that are especially popular in the neighboring Slavic countries. They were served with polenta, chopped onion, baby greens, and a bitter red pepper purée called ajvar.
