A dish of polenta, sopressa and buratta, well, that’s my suggestion. A seemingly impossible combination, but so delicious that it sold our souls to the Veneto.
The quest for the best continues as Northern Italy gallops swiftly into spring. Baby broad beans and peas, freshly podded in a hill town market, consumed at once with a tiny square of tangy, aged Asiago cheese is hitting a high score of must have moments. I’m sure there’ll be room a little later for the laughing contadino in his Ape Piaggio to provide me with a freshly sliced piece of porchetta served in a soft rosetta roll wrapped in brown paper. His straight faced wife sitting beside him watching carefully to make sure that the right amount of fennel and garlic filling has been added and not too much attention is paid to the young and beautiful walking by.
In the hope that surely this will keep body and soul together before the first Campari and soda crackles over the ice into a glass at sunset, I banish all thoughts of making a creamy radicchio risotto to bridge the gap between now and then. Not convinced at being able to hold out until then, the orange nectar is brought forward to mid afternoon.
So now which cicchetti?