The Walking Dead

Last Friday we hopped a plane and side-tripped our way to Barcelona. It was quite surreal, but I think that might have been the exhaustion we were suffering from.

Don’t tell my dad, but the reason we had such a substantial side trip (east coast Italy to northeast Spain) was because we got dates wrong. We were a month off kilter.

C'est la vie, I say. We had a brilliant time. The trip was in honour of one of my Dad’s old friends, Jim Rodford (The Kinks, Argent), who now plays bass for The Zombies. The band was formed in the mid-1960s and their album Odessey and Oracle (1967) seems to be gaining more popularity as the decades roll on. Jim very kindly added our names to the guest list, met us for a drink before the gig and though I had heard them all before, took the time to tell us tales from the good old days.

My Dad's mum Peggy, had worked with Jim's mother in St Alban's, England, when the two boys were but babes-in-arms. Dad returned to the motherland (the family had emigrated to Australia when he was four) years later after a stint in the army, met up with Jim, now playing for the Mike Cotton Sound, joined them on tour as a roadie and the rest, as they say, is history.

Mick gracefully played amateur photographer for Jim's fans as we stood at the bar, prior to the gig. Requests for signatures and photographs though alien to us, must be familiar and comforting to a band that will celebrate it's 50th year in 2011.

The gig itself was incredible, having grown up on their tunes, I was in awe from the first strike on the organ. I didn't even let the stoned blond girl thrashing her lustrous locks into my face, time and time again, ruin my night.

So, now we are back in France, in the Côtes du Rhône region, to be precise. After getting back from Barcelona we spent a few days near Turin, drinking Barbera d'Asti, Dolcetto d"Alba and the more famous Barolo. We visited the newly opened Barolo museum, perhaps I used the word surreal too early in this blog. We learnt nothing about the wine, but rather got an insight into some madman's view of the world.

Chin chin!

Tainted love.

I am sure that we are sleeping on the hardest bed in Tuscany. It feels like stone bedrock covered with a sheet. For the last six nights we have woken up, time and time again throughout the night with achey limbs and clickey joints. This bed is essentially an old age virtual reality synthesiser.

Now I don’t want to whinge too much, but the bed has tainted our week in Tuscany. When I asked Michael what he thought I should blog about, he yawned. I yawned back. We just aren’t getting enough kip.

We thought we’d found a solution to my travel sickness on Wednesday. I would take the wheel. I was naively convinced that it couldn’t be all that difficult.

I only hit one thing.

Just a car; side mirror to side mirror, no damage done (to our car, I was too traumatised to stop) but I still hear Mick’s voice sometimes... “you’re too close, too close! TOO CLOSE!!!” *THUNK*

At least it wasn’t a puppy, right?

So, yes we are in Tuscany, staying in an otherwise lovely villa just outside of Chianti. The region is home to dirt roads, terracotta sunsets, Florence, loud Americans on vaca and a vast and mouth-watering selection of local food and wine specialities.

One of these I experienced last night. Out to dinner in Siena, I ordered Papardelle con Tartufo (it’s white truffle season FYI). As the dish was served Mick and I locked eyes and exchanged a “wow that’s a whole lot of truffle” look. Then the waiter returned to the table, at first we thought he had a parmesan grater but he proceeded to micro-plane sliver after sliver of whole fresh truffle over the already monumental pile. We had to stifle our smuggles (smug giggles) as we guestimated what the dish would cost to prepare and purchase in Melbourne.

I believe I acquired a taste for them way back when I first visited Tuscany with Ma & Pa. Excerpt from E-vine 1993.


Tuscan cheese on toast
A villa in Greve in Chianti. Our hosts, the Anichinis, invited us to dinner and offered an entrée of what looked like grilled cheese on toast. Absolutely delicious, and my ravenous eight year old daughter scoffed three or four pieces in a couple of minutes. I asked Signora Anichini for the recipe. 'First you lightly grill the bread, then drizzle a little olive oil on it, then you add generous shavings of fresh white truffles..." 

We drank:

Castel Giocondo, Brunello di Montalcino 2005. C- brick edge, heart of ruby red, N- anise and red capsicum, P- dry and velvety with just ripe strawberries and a herbal finish

Salute!

We have a half bottle of Gaja Sperss 2000 breathing downstairs, I’m wrapped in a brand new cashmere (the real stuff) shawl, we’ve just been sipping Prosecco on the banks of Lake Como and I'm about to tell you how we are having a difficult time splurging. After scrimping and saving for so long, we are finding it extremely difficult to spend our money. Truly.

I guess that means our parents (and our Dolomite Accounts) trained us well.

Today’s wine and shawl aside, our trip has been riddled with moments of indecision. Pros and cons weighed and in most instances the object of desire being left behind (and quickly forgotten) for the next cashed up tourist. I think we are trying to find a balance.

We left Burgundy on Sunday morning and drove through Lyon towards The French Alps. We spent the night at a chalet style apartment with divine views of Mont Blanc.

The mountain seemed to make a mockery of Australia’s cherished peaks. Epic is overused in current vocabulary but I’ll use it here with no hesitation. Straining our necks skywards we could just capture the sheer immensity of the Mountain. For me, it made the scale of Everest and K2 inconceivable. Everywhere we turned cried out to be photographed and framed. It’s like we had view-finder goggles on. The valleys were scattered with timber framed alpine villages, some rising steeply up the neighbouring mountain sides. Milky green glacial rivers and streams ran along the motorways, often fed from waterfalls cascading towards the valley floor.

It’s a shame the weather gods did not favour us. Thick cloud cover continually rolled through the Alps, hiding the mountains and villages. Call me paranoid but this seemed to happen every time I got the camera ready.

After watching the sun rise from behind the mountain we gathered up our belongings and drove into Italy.

We are starting our Italian sojourn in Mezzegra, a small hillside town in Lombardia, on the west bank of Lake Como. Our townhouse is on a very steep property with its own olive orchard. Built in 1690, we are told it was where Mussolini stayed the night before he was shot.

Continuing a theme, we asked our gracious hosts Natalie and Mario where we should have dinner. As it was Monday and most restaurants were closed she suggested a local Trattoria. She called on our behalf and made us a booking. Trattoria Nana is the kind of local eatery you wish was just around your block. Fresh, cheap and authentic. As soon as we’d scoured the menu, picking up on the dishes Natalie recommended we try, we were already deciding to book for another evening.

We shared an entree to start, Pizzoccheri; a highlight of our trip thus far. As the smell of butter wafted towards us, we knew we were in for treat. Homemade buckwheat pasta, chard stalks cut fine, plenty of sage and potato cooked until soft all combined with an oozy, buttery and cheesy sauce. Wasn’t much to look at, but it tasted seriously good. Wash that down with a glass of vino di casa (Bonarda @ €4 for a half litre) and we were well on our way to foodie nirvana.

For mains we shared Coniglio (rabbit) and Cotechino (slow cooked pork sausage) and for dessert Tiramisu and Fromaggi Misti. Molto molto benne! The cheeses are made by the family who run the restaurant, some of the best I’ve tasted. Of the three served our pick was a three day old sheep’s cheese that you eat dressed with a little extra virgin olive oil. It was zesty, had a fine crumb and really made the local oil sing.

It’s dawned on me that those of you who receive the blog via email, might not be enjoying our photo stream. Click the link to the blog home page to have a look.

Over and out.

And... we’re back.

For all ye naysayers who thought I’d gone down the path of many lost and forgotten bloggers. Cop this.

We had a self imposed holiday from our holiday. If we wanted to sleep in, we did. If we couldn’t be bothered with another wine tasting, we weren’t. We decided the pressure we had put ourselves under not to “miss” anything was making our adventure less enjoyable by the moment.

It is Autumn in the Northern Hemisphere and this, I’ve decided is my favourite season. It’s the perfect mix of the last rays of summer and the invigorating chill as winters flexes itself forward to greet us.

We are staying in a Gite next to the Suze River near the town of Arnay le Duc. It’s a story book perfect, not-quite-a-village nestled deep in a green river valley. Despite our Burgundian location, the area where we are staying is strictly beef country. The local Charolais breed are ivory coloured beasts, large and majestic.

Burgundy (Bourgogne) is however, more famous for its wine (of which, we have sampled plenty). The region is famed for producing the crème de la crème of Pinot Noir and Chardonnay. Autumn here heralds the harvest season and the seemingly endless crosshatch of vines changing from impenetrable green to a fractured tapestry of golds, umbers and lipstick reds.

I think I should abandon D.H Lawrence now. This is all getting a bit Sons and Lovers-esque.

Our host Liz is an eccentrically entertaining ex-pat Brit (who was schooled in Griffith, NSW) who moved here three years ago. She is worryingly forgetful and has a kookily familial manner that makes you forget you barely know her.

She recommended we eat at local restaurant owned by friends of hers. Patrice and Marianne run a restaurant from their home. Les Poulettes des Tables has the ambiance of your fondest childhood memories, children running up and down stairs, mewing cats greeting the guests, friends and family dropping by, plenty of good food and wine and a open armed generosity not often shared with outsiders.

Their main business, Patrice explained was actually artisanal linens. The restaurant was simply an outlet for the couples other passions. Enough to make Tom and Barbara green with envy.

Now I won’t tell you everything that we’ve done since my last proper blog, or else we’d have nothing to talk about upon our return. But I will share another curiosity we noticed at a restaurant in Lille. Chez Max was tres chic, to the extreme of serving pop rocks with fois gras. When the waiter handed us each a menu we didn’t flinch. It wasn’t until we started choosing wine that we noticed our menus were different. Mick’s had prices while mine didn’t! They had his and hers menus!

We figure it is meant to go down something like this. The lady orders to her heart’s desire, whilst the man (the money) sits there uncomfortably trying to calculate how much he thinks she is worth and wishing he hadn’t bought the paper that morning. It wasn’t even a snooty Michelin starred place or an archaic French institution.

Wouldn't sit well with the liberated (cough) and equally paid (cough cough) women of Australia.

We tasted-

Hugel Jubilee 2004 Riesling. C- golden hay, N- nectarine and lime, P- dry but rich, well structured, honey, lemon and a hint of melon.

Etienne Sauzet 2008 Puligny Montrachet 1er cru. C- Pale gold , N- ripe peach and lemon blossom, P- crisp lemon acidity, balanced by a rich honeyed creaminess