Autumn’s white truffles long ago unearthed, the blacks of spring would now have to suffice. Redolent of farm and dank, fecund dirt, the veined black fungi are shaved with abandon onto vegetables, fish, bird, meat, pasta and grain; its uber-dark essence even wound into gelato. Unlike the lascivious aroma of the white truffle, which evaporates like a ghost when heated, the black does not squander its scent when warmed, but instead reveals greater intensity. While France claims 45% of the world’s production of black truffles, we found ourselves just across its border in northern Italy’s Piedmont region, where a smaller percentage of the gnarled black orbs are harvested.
But no poor Italian relations are those magical nuggets.
Italian haute cuisine in my childhood meant platters of Grandmother Turbina’s enormous stuffed shells, each fat envelope an entire meal, its seam bursting open with an alchemistical ricotta covered in a barely cooked, Modigliani red tomato sauce, and studded with Brando-sized fingers of spicy pork sausage. My people arrived from towns further south in the boot, where rustic foods served in hearty proportions prevailed.
The refinements of northern Italy’s Piedmont region are even further from the southern Campania province than the miles between them might suggest. Piedmont’s studied delicacy is encapsulated in the agnolotti, a tiny pasta stuffed with meat. Instead of mounding spoonful’s of filling onto a sheet of pasta, covering it with another layer, and cutting and sealing the two sheaths (producing the beloved ravioli square of my youth), each agnolotto is simply folded over the filling into either a small square or half-moon shape.
Laboriously produced by hand, these tiny parcels of meat can also be made in a smaller rectangular shape, referred to as ‘Agnolotti al Plin’. ’Plin’, meaning 'pinch’ in a distant Piedmontese dialect, are closed between the thumb and forefinger, sealing together the ends. If prepared correctly, agnolotti should resemble the indented hat of a Roman Catholic pope or priest.
The pasta is boiled in salty water until tender and served en brodo, (the broth made from the same animal as the stuffing), or dressed lightly with butter and sage. As tradition dictates no cheese in the filling, the agnolotti are finished with a grating of Parmigiano-Reggiano shaved from a fist-sized block.
Ancient history pervades everyday Italian life. The word agnolotti is mentioned in a tome dating to the 12th century, describing a Piemontese farmer who tried to please his boss by showering him with fresh vegetables and a precise number of agnolotti.
Legend has it these little pasta purses were named after their creator, Angelot (née Angiolino), who cooked for an important Marquis. To celebrate the end of one of Italy’s many sieges, this nobleman wanted a special dinner, but the war had left the larder bare. His industrious chef made a stuffing from leftover meats, and tucked it into dough made from egg and flour. The ancient spelling, still found today, is piat d’angelot or angelotti.
Given that it’s Italy, home to the hand gesture and honking horn, the more course explanation of the word agnolotti is anus ring (hailing from the Latin variant of anellotto, which is equivalent to anell (o) ring or the Latin ānellus, a diminutive of ānus ring). And while an argument can certainly be made for this similitude, I’ll always prefer to think of agnolotti as resembling a priest’s hat.
Dozens of ladybugs flittered on the window of a dining room perched high on a hill in the ancient town La Morra, but these little harbingers of good luck couldn’t obscure the view of the valleys stretched out before us. The famed vineyards of Barolo and Barbaresco, so well represented on the wine list through which I now paged, were splayed out below; world-class Nebbiolo grapes planted alongside vines growing age-worthy Barbera and Dolcetto. Lush vegetable plots were situated next to orchards of hazelnuts, their earthy-sweet yield lightly toasted and a common ingredient in the region’s cakes and cookies. Honeybee boxes peppered the valleys, blessing the entire poly-culture, and etched into the hills are the tiny back roads, or localitas, which thread each patchwork together into an elegant quilt that is the Langhe.
Eyeing the massive cheese cart displayed by the front door, I ordered lunch with unusual restraint. Traditionalists, of which there are many in Italy, dictate the cheese be local and served post-meal, and the agnolotti be stuffed with meat, preferably leftover from Sunday’s lunch. But in the more progressive kitchens of Piedmont, agnolotti are often filled with flavors of the season. While Altare’s Arborina Barolo took a bit of air before taking its flight, the chef’s heretical interpretation of an Italian spring was set before me: a dozen thin-skinned agnolotti stuffed with Sairass del Fieno, a Piedmontese cheese made with sheep’s milk and a bit of cow’s cream, nestled in a light butter sauce made from the milk of said bovine, and sprinkled with electric-blue, wild borage flowers.
Escaping the city for a languid lunch, exquisitely dressed Milanese men whispered to their mistresses, while lightly stroking fingers, and a married couple sat solemnly, discussing the food. An old man, dining alone in suit and tie, watched as a table of drunken Portuguese diners tried to smuggle out a crystal wine decanter. As the late afternoon sun shone through the heavy winter clouds, soon ferrying snow from the Alps, I was struck at the ease with which Italian daily life imitates high art.