On the final day before our flight home, Mike and I took the train back to Milano. After changing in Mestre, we boarded an InterCity train, which was already packed with people leaving Venezia. The compartments were all full, so we joined the countless others sitting on fold-down seats and standing in the corridor. After the three-hour ride, we finally arrived at Milano Centrale and took the Metro to the Duomo stop. By now, this part of the city was quite familiar to me, as I had stayed numerous times in the same hotel.
Located on a narrow alley just off Piazza del Duomo, Hotel Speronari lacked the comforts of a multi-starred hotel, but it more than made up for its flaws with a friendly staff, reasonable rates, and a convenient location. Our room, on this particular stay, was the most unusual of any I’d seen so far. To be more precise, it was the bathroom that was so strange. Obviously added as an afterthought, in a recent effort to try to modernize the rooms, the bathroom was scarcely large enough to fit a toilet and a bidet (the function of which, I, as an American, still can’t fully comprehend). The sink was on a panel that slid back and forth along the wall, so that you could position it over either the toilet or bidet. The showerhead was on the far wall, with so little leg room that I had to take my shower with one foot atop the toilet seat. There was no shower curtain, so this meant all clothing and towels—and even the roll of toilet paper—must be kept outside the bathroom in order not to get wet. At least there was hot water!
I loved that the hotel was so close to the Metro and just a 10-minute walk from the Linate airport shuttle—which I always needed to catch around 5:30am on the mornings of my return—but the best part of its location was its proximity to the Duomo. After settling into our room, Mike and I took a long walk, stopping first at the cathedral, where we drifted silently through the hushed interior. Shafts of sunlight streaming through stained glass and flickers of candlelight from the side altars illuminated its shadowy dimness. Muffled voices and footsteps echoed off marble walls, the dingy smell of centuries-old dust hanging in the chilly air.
Since we had plenty of time before dinner, we then took a meandering stroll past the Teatro alla Scala and along Via Brera to Via Solferino. There, I was hoping to find a dollhouse miniature shop that I had learned about while interviewing dollhouse-maker Salvatore Ciccorelli for an article two years prior. Unfortunately, the shop was closed. Mike and I retraced our steps to Piazza della Scala, where we lounged for over an hour, listening to a group of elderly men quarrel and watching fashionably dressed women saunter by in their trendy high heels.
For my solo dinners in Milano, I would most often grab an order of melanzane alla parmigiana from Rosticceria Fontana, located across the street from Hotel Speronari. This I would typically take back to my room to eat, after having selected a pastry from the next-door bakery for my early-morning breakfast at the airport. We did buy a couple pastries, but since Mike was with me this trip, I wanted to splurge on a nice dinner for a change.
Heading down Via Orefici toward Castello Sforzesco, we took a sharp left at Piazza Cairoli. Here, along Via Manfredo Camperio, we stumbled upon the romantic, art-filled Osteria Artidoro. As a special treat—and since this was obviously not the type of restaurant to serve house wine by carafe—we chose to order a different glass of wine to accompany each course. I began my meal with the involtini di melanzane, prosciutto e mozzarella and a glass of prosecco, while Mike enjoyed a platter of salumi di Parma, which included prosciutto, coppa, mortadella, and pancetta, with a glass of Gewürztraminer. Next, I had an amazingly flavorful lasagnetta di crespelle con fiori di zucca (crêpes layered with zucchini flowers) with a glass of Orvieto Classico, while Mike ordered the tortelli (half were served with a walnut sauce, the other half with mushroom sauce) and a glass of Shiraz. For our desserts, I indulged in a plate of sbrisolane con cioccolato fondente (chunky almond cookies with a dish of warm melted chocolate for dipping), while Mike had chunks of Parmigiano-Reggiano served with a syrupy balsamic reduction. This was one of the most memorable Italian meals I had ever had the pleasure to experience, and, once again, it set my culinary bar a notch higher.
