Vistas of Veneto
Alessandra Zecchini
Nowhere else in the world I have been conveys such a sense of history as Veneto. The cuisine in this north-eastern region of Italy speaks of the many years of rule by the Austro-Hungarian Empire, and of the rural mountain resources. Houses and churches remain untouched (or have just been restored) from the Renaissance, some are fenced by clumsy medieval walls, and streets are Roman.
Walking through the streets around where I’m staying, old villagers stop me to ask about New Zealand, and then tell me their own stories of immigrants, the wars, and relations I barely knew. Even the Dolomite Mountains that surround these valleys are a veritable treasure chest of information; just outside my door I can dig up 40,000-year-old flint remains of the first inhabitants and million-year old fossils of shells.
Naturally I feel connected: this is my mother’s birthplace, the tiny village of Teven in the municipality of Pedavena, four kilometres from the ancient city of Feltre. As a child I used to come here every summer. Now I’m returning with my own children in the hope of exposing them to a bit of the history and culture that surely must also run in their veins.
We’re driving north-east from Vicenza, along a road that is basically one long bridge suspended above the villages and creeks, seeming to touch ground only to go through tunnels. Then we enter the green Valley of Feltre, encircled by its stunning mountains, the Vette Feltrine.
 Being here in the mountains makes me instantly feel at ease. This must be why in Auckland I ended up living in the Waitakere Ranges: as soon as the road curves upwards into the bush I relax, embraced by a sense of altitude, even if modest. But the Dolomites I adore with the feeling of a teenage love, gasping with a tight chest and a hole in the stomach every time I see them.
My Mum, Maria Giuditta Zancanaro, and her sister, Aunt Alice, are waiting for us with a pot of minestrone, the family restorative de rigueur after every long journey. The entire dinner is based on produce from their vegie garden, which offers its best in summer, so a warm (not hot) minestrone is the logical outcome. This is an almost vegetarian family and more vegies follow: radicchio, tomatoes and other raw vegetables, new potatoes and teghe, my favourite – long green beans cooked almost too much from a nouvelle cuisine perspective, but here it works, dressed simply with olive oil and salt.
 A big tray of cheeses provides protein and I go straight for the asiago, a cow’s milk cheese that manages to hold an interestingly pungent flavour even when fresh. A bit more space for the local piave cheese, which holds similar qualities, and some for the children, who aren’t colby types, too. A glass of red wine completes the fare, and even placates the emotional hole in the stomach. No dessert, as sweet treats are kept for special occasions. I am the family’s baker; in my absence a tray of pastries is usually purchased from Garbujo, the best pâtisserie in Feltre.
Food is simple here. It is a reminder that although Veneto is now the export engine of Italian industry, until a few decades ago it was poverty stricken and its greatest export was people. Polenta and beans or schiz (melted fresh cheese) were the staples; Mum had so much of it as a child that now she cooks polenta only if requested, never for herself.
She takes out a big copper saucepan and places it over the wood fire of the stufa (the Italian equivalent of the Aga), which is found in every house of this province, even in modern apartments, and then stirs the yellow mass for nearly an hour.
Beans are in fact quite renowned now, especially those from the nearby village of Lamon, and they are utterly delicious. Schiz, meanwhile, is appearing on menus in restaurants.
 Of course, I fancy myself a bit of a gourmand, always looking for elaborate and challenging recipes. But the taste of this simple, hearty food takes my breath away. In some ways it can’t compare with the super-tasty cuisine of Emilia Romagna, where I grew up, but it is filling, healthy and ageless. Mum comes here often from Milan to help Aunt Alice with the hay and vines (they make about 150 litres of red table-wine a year for home consumption).There are a few chickens, a cornfield lined with borlotti beans and pumpkin plants, fruit and nut trees, and grapevines, as well as several vegie gardens all in strategic positions away from the chickens. Mum and Alice never drink milk, but a fresh supply for me and the children is available from the farm next door.
More food grows wild in the fields, and I’m fascinated by Alice’s knowledge of herbs. She goes out to pick farinelle (Chenopodium album), a kind of wild spinach that is steamed and eaten cold with lemon juice, olive oil and salt. Then she shows me a wide range of plants, both to eat and to put on cuts, as well as all her books on cooking flowers and making various medicines.
Stinging nettles abound. We must wear gloves and pick only the new tips, and Mum transforms them into lovely risotti and frittate. But my favourite dish is fried courgette flowers. Aunt Alice picks them early in the morning, before they close, and Mum fries them in a batter of egg, flour and a drop of beer (the rest of the bottle is handed to me as they both prefer wine).
 Personally, I am not too keen on the Teven wine, but the beer here is special. Two kilometres down the road is the Pedavena Brewery, the oldest in Italy (dating from 1897) and well worth a visit when in the area. Now it is owned by Heineken, but the Pedavena brew is still produced, together with a special Pedavena Centenary beer, unfiltered and unpasteurised, served out of the cask.
I remember, as a child, stopping here with my Dad for a small glass of beer. Alcohol is not a taboo for Italian kids. Both my brother and I were compelled to drink only beer with pizza, and wine (usually red) with all our other meals, initially highly watered down, but pure by age 12 or 13. As a result, during my rebellious adolescence I’d drink Coke secretly with my meals, or experiment with other prohibited fizzy drinks.
Now older and wiser, I go back to the brewery for a glass. There is no pizza here, so I settle for polenta with melted tosella cheese (a kind of haloumi) and wild mushrooms. Above me there is a large 1940s fresco depicting the myth of the Dolomites, or Pale Mountains, and in the faces of queens and warriors I see portraits of my grandparents’ generation, the peasants of Pedavena who ate and drank the same food and beer.
From here I move a few kilometres down the road to Feltre, a trip that winds the atmosphere back 600 years. In fact the city is even older, proven to be pre- Roman by several archaeological finds, but the apex of culture for its citizens is the Renaissance. The city centre, except for two 19th-century palaces, is entirely 16th century and, because there aren’t ever many tourists here, the preservation seems even more charming.
 This year is also special as it is 600 years since the city’s defining historical event, the alliance with Venice of 1404. This kind of alliance was quite normal at the time for smaller states in need of protection, and Feltre certainly qualified, positioned as it was right on the raiding routes for the barbarian hordes of the Huns, Visigoths, Ostrogoths... A few disturbances continued after 1404, but nothing in comparison to the previous centuries, and the prosperity that La Serenissima (Venice) brought was felt through a great period of Renaissance.
To celebrate the fortunate alliance the city instituted a Palio, in which the city’s four quarters challenged each other in traditional games: archery, relay running, tug of war and a horse race.
The Palio, resurrected 25 years ago, falls every year in the first weekend of August, when over 200 citizens dress up in Renaissance costumes to re-enact the occasion. The streets of Feltre become thronged with parades, drummers, flag wavers, medieval markets and carousels, and open dinners centred on gigantic spits. The festivities, open to all, stretch for three days.
This is my chance to wear a noblewoman’s velvet gown, made by the local costume designer, Luciana Moretto. It is an exhilarating experience to walk so adorned among these streets and palaces frozen in time, except for the weight of the red and cream gown which makes me melt in the hot summer sun. My ancestors already knew the sacrifices of Italian fashion.
The final connection has to be made with the mountains that I have admired from below for too long. Accompanied by a guide from the Mazarol group I start the ascent into the southern part of the National Park of the Dolomiti Bellunesi. First we pass through shaded woods carpeted with wild strawberry plants. The berries are so tiny you cannot eat just one at a time, but need to collect a few in the palms of your hands and munch them all at once to awaken your taste buds. Fortunately the raspberries are not ripe yet, or I would never make it to the top.
 As the path climbs upwards, becoming rockier and steeper, an amazing number of tiny flowers and succulents reveal themselves. I have never seen so many different types packed together outside a garden centre and feel ashamed that I don’t know more of the names. Some vindication comes when the guide tells me that a third of all Italian flora can be found in these mountains, many species are endemic, and that the orchids alone contribute 49 species. Some have a strong scent of vanilla.
I do attempt to extend my botanical vocabulary beyond edelweiss and then we reach the G. Dal Piaz refuge at 1993 metres, where a glass of cold tap beer awaits. It is fantastic to have these kinds of establishments up in the mountains, often located one day’s walk from each other. This refuge, run by Elisabetta and Gianpaolo, along with Aunt Giuliana and eight-year-old son Elia, is particularly welcoming.We dine together on barley soup with porcini mushrooms, followed by the omnipresent polenta with melted tosella cheese, stewed capsicums then apple strudel – all basic staples due to logistical reasons, but perfectly filling at 2000 metres.
I sleep like a log in my bunk, and in the morning, after a bowl of caffèlatte, we walk to a malga, the traditional high pasture for the summer months. A few malghe exist today. They are difficult to reach for farmers and their stock, but owner Saverio still comes up every year with 70 cows and makes cheese on the premises (his was the tosella I ate the night before). He shows me the cheeses, the fruit of the unpasteurised milk made by the cows that munch on all those precious, endemic and protected orchids and flowers.
Another walk up to the next mountain top before the long descent to Pedavena. I get the opportunity to photograph the endemic Cortusa matthioli flower, which admirers from all over the world come to see. A chamois stood his ground as we passed by him, and dozens of butterflies sprang out across the path (there are 94 species in these mountains).
Now I just need to pick some wild strawberries for the family back home. I will marinate them with lemon and sugar for a night and offer them for breakfast, just to observe the rolling of those big eyes after the first spoonful. “Mamma,” says my five-year-old, “my favourite foods now are fried courgette flowers and wild strawberries!” “Mine too!” echoes her three-year-old brother. And I agree.
PHOTOGRAPHY BY LUCIO DALLA GIUSTINA
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