It was my final day in Forni di Sopra. With absolutely no agenda other than to take in the gorgeous scenery, I headed out after breakfast to explore the other side of the river. At this time of year, the Tagliamento River was merely a wide, nearly dry riverbed, with only a shallow trickle of water zigzagging through the gravel. Across the bridge was the Centro Sportivo, an immense recreational complex comprising a swimming pool, gym, spa, tennis courts, soccer fields, and so much more. Not being quite the height of the holiday season, there were no crowds yet. All this would change on the upcoming weekend, the last one in July, when families throughout Italy would be embarking on their lengthy summer vacations.
Crossing the bridge back into town, I then turned to head up into the hills, where the grassy meadows were strewn with yellow, purple, and white wildflowers. To the west, I could see the jagged, gray Dolomites peeking up over the softer peaks of forested mountain. The sky was a brilliant blue, a sea of tranquility stirred only by the giant puffballs of cloud drifting by. When I felt I had hiked far enough, I retraced my steps down to Forni di Sopra and back across the bridge. There, I found a bench on which to rest until noon.
For lunch, I returned to the restaurant that had caught my attention two nights prior but had been closed: Osteria Agli Sportivi. They were open this time, though I seemed to be the only customer. I ordered a plate of agnolotti, which were filled with Montasio cheese and served surrounding a mound of grated pear. Reminiscent of cjarsòns, the dish was topped with cinnamon and grated Montasio.
After lunch, I returned to Albergo Centrale for an afternoon of writing. Like I had done in other hotels, I set up my laptop computer in the bar downstairs. I worked without distraction for several hours, then returned to my room to rest and take a nap. As soon as I plugged my computer back in to charge, however, the electricity in my room suddenly went out. I had blown a fuse! Embarrassed and full of apologies, I found the owner, and he lackadaisically climbed the stairs to reset the circuit breaker in the hall.
I then collapsed onto my flimsy mattress, my body sagging deep into the spongy valley of foam, but soon I began to feel antsy and claustrophobic. Around 5:00pm, I decided to take another trip to Cella. Yesterday afternoon I had made the 15-minute walk there, but the Chiesa di San Floriano had been closed. This time the church was open, and the frescoes by Gianfrancesco da Tolmezzo were as colorful as I had imagined.
From there, I returned to Forni di Sopra, crossed the bridge over the river once more, and walked to the Parco Giochi Comunale “Pineta.” Located directly across from Cella, this park featured several small lakes and a children’s playground. I took a long stroll around one of the lakes, watching as a couple of children were feeding some mallard ducks. While the sky to the north was still sunny and blue, dark storm clouds began to creep over the western Dolomites. A cool wind picked up, blowing ripples across the placid pond.
With a storm obviously brewing, I made my way back for one last meal at Osteria Al Tulat. For the first time that I could remember on this trip, I was actually starving at dinnertime. I arrived a little early, so that I could spend some extra time perusing Chef Rocky’s cookbook La Cucina Friulana by Emilia Valli. A wealth of information on Friulian cuisine, the book had been immensely useful in my research.
When it was time to eat, the waitress invited me to help myself from the antipasto buffet: a cart of vegetable dishes that included marinated bell peppers, eggplant, pearl onions, and string beans, as well as some delicious, briny anchovies. On my first evening, as there was no written menu, the waitress had given me a verbal list of choices. The second evening, I had agreed to let the chef determine my dinner. Tonight, I was wondering how exactly my meal might evolve when Chef Rocky stuck his head out from his tiny kitchen and asked if I would like some gnocchetti. I assented, although I actually misheard him to say due (two) rather than degli (some) gnocchetti—my mistake became clear when a small bowlful of dumplings arrived at my table. Prepared from the same green spinach-and-potato dough as last night’s cjarsòns, these diminuitive gnocchi were topped with melted butter and ricotta affumicata.
Finally, Rocky brought out a plate holding two fried sardines—to be precise, as I later surmised, they were European anchovies, a type of “blue fish” caught in the waters off Friuli’s coast. The fish were only about three inches long, butterflied and flattened, then coated in very fine bread crumbs and fried.
It was a real treat for me to hand over the culinary decision-making to Chef Rocky. While the dishes were rustic and uncomplicated, there was a certain charm to their simplicity. Although Rocky is no longer cooking at Osteria Al Tulat, I have never forgotten his hospitality.
