We are in the expensive embrace of white truffle season. Around Alba, in Piedmont, Italy, they are there for the taking, growing deep in the woodlands of Langhe between the Tanaro and Po rivers, around the Alps and Apennine mountains as gems awaiting the snuffling snouts of pigs.
I cannot stand Alba in the high season. The crowds – Americans and the like – make it stifling, eager beavers running amok through ancient stone streets, spending cash like Sean Combs does on lawyers; a frenetic, whirling fungal infection of a time.
You cannot get a table at a restaurant and you cannot find space to breathe in the many shops. I respect the hustle but I cannot abide the drama.
In quieter months, when there might be (are, if you know who to ask and who to pay) truffles still quietly about, the town is less bombastic; magnificent all the same. A relaxing amble brings pleasures still: pastas, vitello tonnato, light reds to be sipped slowly in Piazza Duomo, home to an imposing cathedral of fairly restrained design.
A visit to La Piola is recommended: here, agnolotti del plin, neatly folded pockets with butter, parmesan and thyme, soft in a rich stock. It costs €16 for a generous bowl or €48 with white truffle, tartufo bianco, the treasured ingredient that pulls the earth up into the mouth with a tang of wood and gentleness.
Begin with a glass of Alta Langa extra brut, a sparkling wine made with chardonnay and pinot nero, before exploring the Nebbiolo. Barbaresca? Barolo? Both, in that order.
Alba is a necessary punctuation to the joy of Nordelaia, a guest house bedded into a hill overlooking quiet vineyards. The road up is bendy, among the vines.
It is a tranquil place with a small hotel and a tall structure fronted in elegant glass. It’s the sort of bolthole where the pools stop at the horizon and the gym equipment, rather than black plastic, is constructed of hardy wood as if designed for a Gucci shoot rather than the sweaty climes of post-pasta tourists.
Nordelaia is also home to one hell of a restaurant. It is manned by Charles Pearce, a British chef. Might he be the first to win a Michelin star in Italy? Quite possibly, certainly if his cuttlefish spaghetti is anything to go by.
The flagship restaurant is Lorto, and Pearce is as intent on winning over diners as he is on accolades. On the first floor, in a pastel-hued dining room perched over Alto Monferrato, is a kitchen focused on seafood and vegetables, detached from the standard in Piedmont: meat.
Locals were curious and possibly affronted at the concept, but thanks to the guidance of Andrea Ridaldone, a typically mad Italian with an enormous wine cellar, the community has welcomed Lorto, trusting a British chef to cook.
And the food! It is majestic. That cuttlefish spaghetti in a fish stock so deep, rich and warming it is as if you are a pig being rewarded for a lucrative find.
Risotto is expert, the sort served by chef Primo in Big Night – seafood, but as sauce and flavour. There might be crudo enlivened by toasted nuts, dazzled by foam and leaves; a piece of turbot, hung and then barbecued, plated under the lightest of herbal sauces which is circled in part by a heavier, umami-punched caramel made from fish bones.
One dish, kohlrabi in satay, kimchi and purple basil, could be a standout, especially in Italy where tradition reigns. Shiitake mushrooms in miso, coffee and chocolate might upset a handful of the old guard but must persuade many more.
I don’t know how many British chefs have opened a restaurant in Italy, or at least been given the platform to cook and serve there under their own name. Michelin stars are an oddity in Italy anyway – it is a food culture fed by ingredients and narrative rather than the passing of butter or the shaking of molecules.
Still, in whatever capacity, is there a British chef who has conquered Italy? Don’t think so. It’s more the other way round.
I reckon Pearce could be the first to do so. His cooking is feverish, in the best possible way.
