Traveling and Eating in the Beautiful Piedmont Region
Fresh Nutella is way better than the kind in a jar!
No question about it — it’s heavenly to be in this sunshine-filled area of rolling hills edged by the distant, not always visible Alps.
In four days of walking, eating, and driving to some of the little towns in the region, we’ve learned that the land is extremely valuable, a hectare is worth over one million Euro, which is at least 2.5 million per acre.
That’s some crazy expensive real estate, which explains why the ONLY crops worth planting in the Piedmont are grape vines where it’s sunny and high, and hazelnut trees on the lower slopes. It looks like nearly every inch (or 2.5 centimeters) of open land is taken up with row upon row of vines or trees. We wondered if there are laws preventing landowners from cutting down the old trees to make space for vines or trees — hoping that’s the case.
We’re learning all this from Giuseppe, our driver. We were going to rent a little Fiat (manual of course) but balked when rain was predicted for our entire stay. Every time Giuseppe spins around a tight curve or makes his way up streets so narrow that we’d smash a wall if we opened a car door, we squeezed each other’s hand. It was a good decision not to drive.
Can I speak honestly about touring vineyards and going on a truffle hunting expeditions, both big tourist activities here? First, we learned from touring several vineyards in California that it all boils down to selling you their products after you’ve tasted and spat out cup after cup. Second, we learned from Giuseppe, who was previously a driver for the Ferrero family, that truffle hunting expeditions are basically theater.
We listened to a long discourse (mostly in Italian, so we understood every other word) about the difference between black and white truffles, one being less expensive than the other, and picked up that right now in May, only the “summer black truffle,” the least expensive, is available. They should be hunted in the evening. How do they make sure that guests who’ve paid a LOT to hunt truffles are successful? They plant a few beforehand. Tricky, but probably fun in terms of drama.
Giuseppe drove us to several of the small towns dotting the area, all similarly charming with stone streets, little shops, awning-covered tables set outside of restaurants and so near the street that a wayward car could plow right into several people having their “pasto” (meaning lunch, not to be confused with “pasta,” meaning noodles.)
He was shocked that we wanted to just walk around each town and didn’t stop to tour a winery and visit either the Corkscrew Museum or the Museum of Wine. I was shocked when he ordered a plate of raw meat topped with cheese for lunch (we invited him to join us).
I loved the enormous plaza that rose above the entire region, in which the concrete had been designed with arrows pointing to 7–8 towns in the distance, including the Langa section where we were staying.
I don’t mean to complain about the luxurious but isolated hotel (definitely a first world problem). It was miles away from anything and drivers had to be reserved for a minimum of several hours, so we couldn’t grab a taxi to go out to dinner. Instead, we were stuck inside our small room (although it was deluxe), not able to sit out on the freezing balcony, and forced to eat three excessively fancy, gourmet meals of the kind our stomachs are not used to.
Even though they were accommodating about vegetarian food, it was rich, salty, and super expensive. Two nights in a row, we dined in the elegant, probably-soon-to-be-Michelin-starred restaurant. One night, we sat looking out the large windows overlooking the distant Alps, and the second night, when fog prevented us from seeing anything, we faced the kitchen.
There were also large windows on that side, so we could watch the head chef and his sous chef (both young men in their thirties) and all the other cooks, each with a specific task. I LOVED IT!
The mixing, stirring, discreet tasting, waiters bustling in and out with artfully arranged plates, a piece of wood with one picturesque bite, a tiny bowl with one Brussel sprout, a medium bowl with fourteen different ingredients — everything delicious but more than I could handle.
I had to leave after the cauliflower course, to run back to our room and suffer an evening of….well, the details don’t matter. I tossed and turned all night but woke up feeling fine. Happily, I was able to consume the usual gigantic breakfast of homemade breads with freshly churned butter, eggs whose yolks were a bold orange that we rarely see in the states, exquisite fruits with a bit of tart yogurt, and, although it was unnecessary and probably unwise, croissants and breakfast cakes.
You know what’s funny though? By the fourth morning, we’d had enough, we’d both gained a few pounds, and we both longed for our usual simple breakfast. Not going to happen while we’re still traveling. We drove from Italy into France yesterday afternoon, and I can’t even begin to describe the breakfast here, mostly because I haven’t yet had a chance to try every single thing on the buffet.
