On my first morning in Sauris, I awoke to cloudy skies and a forecast of rain. After a yummy breakfast of muesli and yogurt, I set out to look for a market where I could buy some fruit. It was a habit of mine to always keep a supply of bananas on hand—for a quick breakfast or snack, or if I just felt in need of some fruit. There was only one small market in the village, next door to the only ATM. They had a good selection of groceries—including a cheese and salumi counter, where I would pick up some picnic food on my final morning—and although their fruit selection was limited, I was able to buy my bananas.
Since it was beginning to rain, I decided to spend the rest of the morning indoors working. This was my first trip to bring along my laptop (a slim, 3-lb Sony VAIO—perfect for packing in a small backpack but, unfortunately, now defunct), and so I carried it downstairs to the bar, where I made myself comfortable at a corner table, an ideal place to spread out my work and concentrate. I spent the next two hours transcribing notes and editing text, oblivious to the world around me.
By the time I came to a stopping place, it was time for lunch. I decided to try the dining room at my hotel, Albergo Morgenleit, where, shortly after I sat down, that noisy group of boys from the previous evening descended for their lunch—fortunately for me, they were seated in another room. I ordered only one dish, the gnocchi alle erbe (herb gnocchi), with an insalata mista on the side. To prepare the gnocchi, the cook had dropped spoonfuls of dough directly into the pot of boiling water—a rustic style I found to be quite common in Friuli. These misshapen, green-flecked dumplings were then served with melted butter and ricotta affumicata. While their fresh, grassy flavor was suggestive of the surrounding meadows where wild herbs grew rampant, the gnocchi were sorely in need of a little salt. My mixed salad proved to be equally disappointing, for at the bottom of my bowl, under a pile of radicchio, arugula, shredded carrot, and slices of unripe tomato, lay a plump, partially smushed insect, its little legs still wiggling.
To erase the image of that bug from my mind, I treated myself to a slice of torta di mele for dessert. Similar in texture to the torta di pere I had at Ristorante Kursaal, this cake was without flaw—rich with chunks of sweet-tart apple and garnished with a dusting of powdered sugar.
The morning showers had since let up, so I took advantage of the afternoon lull to go exploring. First, I walked down the hill, past numerous wood-framed houses, some wearing a cloak of drying hay around their upper-floor balconies. At the base of the village, I located the second restaurant from my list, Ristorante Alla Pace, where I would end up eating the rest of my meals in Sauris. Then, I backtracked and walked a little ways up the hill past Prosciuttificio Wolf Sauris, where I found the beginning of a hiking trail at the edge of the forest. Since the sky still threatened rain—and because there was a rather unsavory-looking man ahead on the path who kept glancing back at me with shifty eyes—I decided against an impromtu hike in the woods. (I often found it hard to shake my city street-smarts, even in such idyllic locales.)
Instead, I hiked a short distance up the highway toward Sauris di Sopra. I didn’t intend on making it all the way; I just wanted to see how far I could get in 15 minutes. When I rounded a curve in the road, the pointy steeple of Chiesa di San Lorenzo came into view, towering over the distant green hils. I decided it was too far to go that afternoon, so I turned back. Along the road, I passed a small cemetary, protected from the highway by a thick, stone wall. Taking a quick stroll through, I noticed that two names were most prominent on the gravestones: Petris and Schneider, names that are both associated with the town’s prosciutto factory.
For dinner that evening, I was excited to finally try Ristorante Alla Pace. The hostess was Franca Schneider, a warm, motherly sort who made me feel right at home. To start, she served two complimentary antipasti: a parchment-thin frico croccante (crispy fried cheese) in the shape of a bowl and a zucchini blossom stuffed with ricotta and garnished with tomatoes.
Naturally, I had to try their cjalsòns, which were made with pasta so paper-thin and delicate that they appeared pale green from the herbed ricotta filling. With a scalloped edge, these half-moons made an elegant presentation, served in a spiral pattern on the plate, with a topping of finely grated ricotta affumicata and poppy seeds.
Next, I ordered the gulasch (Hungarian-style beef stew) with a side of pan-fried potatoes. While I could detect the paprika and red wine in the sauce, Signora Franca assured me that there were no tomatoes—and so my gulasch quandary was destined to linger on for another few months.
As I savored my glass of red wine, I spoke with Signora Franca at great length about my cookbook project. After discussing my list of recipes, particularly the ones I was still uncertain about, she brought me a huge coffee-table book called Friuli: Via dei Sapori to browse through. A gorgeous, full-color compendium of Friulian cuisine—with profiles of many local restaurants, including Alla Pace—it would eventually become my absolute favorite in my growing collection of Friuli books!
