From La Buca to La Garda

Eager to fulfill our lifelong dreams of becoming groupies to Cuban geriatrics, Mara and I decided to nix Cinque Terre and follow Orquesta Buena Vista Social Club to their next gig in Venice.

En route, I proposed we stop for lunch at Trattoria La Buca, a family-run trattoria in Zibello, about thirty kilometres from Parma, in Emilia-Romagna. I had read about this trattoria in Bill Buford's Heat, and was bent on sampling the famed hand-made pasta and culatello, based on this write-up in Buford's book:

"I went to Italy, where, during my first lunch, I ate a homemade pasta, and my life, in a small but enduring way, was never the same. [...] My friend had mentioned several dishes in addition to the pastas: eel, frog legs, trip, and culatello, a specialty of the village. Culo means "ass". Culatello translates loosely as "buttness" and is made from the hindquarters of a pig—boned, stuffed into a bladder, cured, and hung for two years in the damp local cellars. The method is deemed unmodern by the U.S. Department of Agriculture, and culatello is forbidden in America."

We were beyond desperate to try the buttness.

When Mara and I arrived, we were greeted by Laura, who runs the show with her mother, Miriam, the fifth woman in successive generations to be handling the trattoria. Miriam, who so impressed Buford that she became a regular in his book, was in Milan filming an episode of MasterChef.

After a tour of the trattoria's cantina, where the culatelli were hung, "refrigerated by nothing more than the breezes off the Po [River]" (Buford's quite the poet), we settled on culatello, salame, tortelli di zucca, tortelli di ricotta ed erbette and tagliatelle con culatello. We had skipped breakfast in preparation.

The culatello and the pasta were, as Buford observed, life-changing. And perhaps life-creating? In the throes of our food comas, Mara and I were joined by Laura's father, a 88-year-old with a penchant for the shaka sign who definitely wouldn't have been issued the senior rate at the movies. His secret for winding back the clock? Culatello.

Oh, buttness. The fountain of youth.

Trattoria La Buca

Culatello hanging in la catina

Il culatello

Tortelli di zucca and tortelli di ricotta ed erbette 

When we were finally able to make a move, we drove northeast to Riva del Garda, at the tip of Lago di Garda. Compared to Lago di Como, I found Garda and its lakeside towns to be overrun by tourists and a tad tacky—this is the home of Gardaland, after all. Riva del Garda, while still (over) developed, occupies both a scenic and a strategic position on the lake. Tucked into craggy mountains, and straddling the provinces of Lombardy, Trentino and Veneto, the town makes a good base for exploring much of northern Italy, and is renowned for its hiking trails and its two prevailing winds, which create perfect conditions for windsurfing.

We spent the rest of the evening getting pampered at our Lido Palace, a historic Liberty palazzo whose guests over the years have included Archduke Franz Ferdinand and King Vittorio Emanuele II. Our peers, no doubt.

The next day, based on the recommendation of the concierge at the hotel, who suggested we head for the "chirp, chirp, chirp" of the hills, we opted against the groupie life, and decided to drive to the Dolomites instead. After a stop at the nearby turquoise Lago di Tenno, and a windsurfing session for Mara, we were on our way.

Lido Palace

Lago di Garda

Lago di Tenno

Windsurfers, Riva del Garda