Summer in East Dolomites, the Italian Mountains – What to See, Eat & Do

Italy

Roy called this a father and son trip. A time for boys to be boys. They would scramble over impossibly craggy terrain, summit massive rocks with boyish glee and pick their way along narrow paths with steep drops on one side—all under my disapproving eye if I could help it. I never truly saw how alike Roy is to his father until this trip. The impatience on the road. The generous flood of sauce over every forkful. The calm assurance that glowed as pure positivity. If Roy’s mother and I had gone off shopping for the day, they would have raced a rented Harley Davidson through the winding mountain roads. We always ensured that one stayed behind of course, to watch over the mischief.

LAGO DI BRAIES

If there was a place that could save us from the summer heat, it would be the Lago di Braies. We were exceptionally inept at the Dolomites. There was no air conditioning and no fan. The air was still, even at night in our Ortisei apartment. The La Bar restaurant just downstairs did serve Neapolitan pizza, which by Roy’s standards made the apartment almost perfect. And so, the lake came as a respite from the heat and so did the two-hour walk around it. People in swimsuits were jumping into the emerald glacial waters and we watched enviously, wishing we had thought to bring our own. Close to lunch, Roy’s father was eyeing the tempting hot dogs but we had other plans: Daniel and Manuel’s lake fish and seared tuna at Thara See Lounge. It was a 45-minute drive but in the grandeur of the Dolomites, it felt like nothing. And of course, for the promise of good food by a fishing lake.

CORTINA D’AMPEZZO

Like many, we were curious about Cortina d’Ampezzo. The first time I heard about Cortina was from The Talented Mr Ripley with references to a ski getaway for a group of wealthy American vacationers. Naturally, I pictured an ultra sophisticated clientele: men and women in fur-trimmed coats sipping après-ski. Alas, reality did not quite match the dream. While it did have its fair share of boutiques, it seemed that the weather had turned unkind. The rain clouds rolled in after a whole morning and afternoon of pure sunshine. All of this happened so quickly and thankfully, we managed to have a gelato before it started pouring. In the end, Cortina felt less like a film set and more like a pretty town where we ran in the rain to our car, our scarves flying in the wind.

RIFUGIO SCOIATTOLI

It did not take much convincing for us to take the cable car up to Cinque Torri. I was completely unprepared in my dress and sandals, imagining it would only be a simple drive. But as it so often happens in Italy, the road was closed with no prior notice, as some hikers informed us while inspecting the sign. It was either an expensive cable car ride or a sweltering hike up. “It’s very very steep,” he said discouragingly after casting doubtful glances at my outfit. So the cable car it was. The views of the five peaks were as breathtaking as Roy’s father had promised and when we got to the Rifugio Scoiattoli, we did not want to leave. We had a cream-filled bombolone earlier and had the good sense to come back for lunch. The mountain views through the glassed facade were spectacular and with them came even more spectacular plates of venison ragu and beetroot ravioli. I was in the mood for something regional and there it was: mountain ingredients with Italian sensibilities. Italy still manages to surprise every now and then.

Summer in West Dolomites, the Italian Mountains – What to See, Eat & Do

Italy

It was Roy’s father who first sold me the idea of the Dolomites in June. It would be a summer. The sky would be a startling blue with fluffs of piercing white clouds. There would be the most stunning mountains in the world and don’t forget the alpine meadows. But I love the Italy of the coast and the languid blues of the sea. The Northernmost point we had ever gone was Lake Como. You can imagine that it took much coaxing, much back and forth, for me to settle on the idea. I would have to acclimatise to the mountains of the North and inevitably, their rich cuisine. But Roy reminded me, “It will be an adventure. A very different Italy.”

ALPE DI SIUSI

I have often heard that the food in the Dolomites is very different from the rest of Italy. It is entirely landlocked, sharing borders with Austria and Switzerland. Menus are in Italian, German and Ladin. In a way, it is a very un-Italian region with food that feels like a distant cousin of their neighbour Lombardy. Here, the alpine meadows shape the menu, as is the cuisine at Franz’s place Gostner Schwaige. Dora, who has been working here for decades, declares that he is the chef. She never allows anyone to over-order and with a reservation, she will seat you at the best table—right by the meadows. Franz’s dishes are his beautiful creations—a love letter to the Alpe—but it’s when Dora brings them to the table that they truly come alive, carried with pride and care. Carob-flour ravioli, folded in the shape of mezzelune half-moons, are dressed in tomatoes and pine pesto. Hay soup stewed in herbs and flowers. Goulash in red wine served with golden polenta. Then comes dessert, the hardest choice of all. While we manage to settle on scrambled pancakes and apple strudel, we could not decide between honey or cream. But of course, Dora has the best idea of all, “I’ll bring both!” While the charm of the Alpe di Siusi is the slow walk to everywhere and anywhere, the satisfyingly long lunches are what makes the walks worthwhile.

SECEDA

If Michelangelo had hidden one last masterpiece in the Alps, it would be Seceda. The peaks rise like great sand dunes turned to stone, shaped over centuries by the hands of time. If it is a clear day (which usually is in summer), you can see the far-off mountains gleam under Carrara-white snow caps. Even after a few rounds on the trek, every view would feel new. By mid-day, hikers would be stretched out like silver hairpins on the sunbeds at Baita Sofie Hütte for their hour of alpine sun followed by a lunch of speck and eggs and local Alto Adige wines. With the sun high up in the sky, it is easy to savour the slow stretch of time at a rifugio, the world below all forgotten.

ALBERGO STUA CATORES

It can be hard trying to find a restaurant here in this part of Italy. There are a million tourists and hardly any locals in sight. This is also hardly the place for the great Italian classics like tagliatelle al ragu or spaghetti alle vongole. But Stua Catores is exactly the kind of place that speaks to me: family-run, local cuisine and in the middle of nowhere. Decisions were made as quickly as the moment we walked in. They are known for their dumplings and pork knuckle, Mara told us, the daughter of owners Sigrid and Markus. Everything was no doubt wonderful and we were kept busy guessing the ingredients in the pork knuckle. In the end, Sigrid revealed one little detail but from the look in her eyes, there was clearly much more to it. Some things are meant to stay secret and the pork knuckle would remain a dish we would all travel for.

Food & Travel Guide to Ronda, Spain – What to See, Eat & Do

Spain

Not everyone is fond of lamb but when they do, they would fall for it, deeply. There is no in-between. When we were heading to Tambor del Llano, we had decided early on that we would have the lamb. It was a specialty there and we would understand later on why. For us, Ana was the heart of the finca. On the day we arrived, she showed us the secret to the lamb. Salt and generous pours of Spanish olive oil were key. The rest was the lamb itself and nothing more. It was a flavour that would gently tug on my tastebuds. I still remember that in the days following on, a group of men had a second round of the lamb before they left. That was how good it was.

TAMBOR DEL LLANO

Our favourite place in all of Ronda is Tambor del Llano. Or rather, it’s Roy’s favourite place. Maybe because it was wild, perched right inside the national park. But mostly, it was comfortable. Mornings would start with hams and fresh cheeses while Cati kept our glasses filled with sun-kissed orange juice. There would be cakes baked with autumn fruit which would be saved for an afternoon nibble—something that was much appreciated after long drives through the park. But what Roy enjoyed the most were the gentle hikes to the vegetable garden or just the wandering, to soak it all in. From afar, we would see tiny white dots moving in the plains which we knew were the grazing sheep. Dinner was always a surprise. Corvina fish a la plancha. Baked apples served warm with yogurt. Pork cheeks braised very slowly in red wine. We would always order one of each, and finding that both were equally delicious, would find it impossible to choose which to dig our forks in.

RONDA

It can be hard to pry the city away from the region, especially when it has a bridge as grand as the Puente Nuevo overlooking the even grander El Tajo gorge. By the time we reached the city of Ronda, the tour buses had already let loose their crowds who filled the bars as soon as they opened. We passed the forever-queue at La Cana in favour of their more discreet neighbour Bodeguita El Coto. Unlike the gilded glamour of Granada’s bars, Ronda has maintained the casual dressed-down charm of theirs. The kind where waiters moved from table to table with effortless rigour. They never forgot a single order, nor the best drink on the wine list. On each wood-varnished surface was a earthenware of caracoles that had been boiled in tomato with slices of bread to dip the sauce with. Then, little plates of chicharrón, meatballs, potato cream and a bright tomato salad. The waiters were still moving to an endless tapas tune, never missing a beat in Ronda’s mid-afternoon.

ZAHARA DE LA SIERRA

Over the days, we had come to realise that Alvaro, part owner of Tambor del Llano, was almost always right. This was especially so when he casually slipped in a few recommendations. Just a few towns to visit. There was Ronda or the Setenil de las Bodegas. But first, the timing was just right to go to the Zahara de la Sierra. For a few days, this once sleepy town would come alive in red, green and yellow in honour of the San Simón y San Judas festival. Alvaro had promised us that it would be “very funny” and he was right. The locals, dressed as Jews, Christians and Moors, performed their battles in a theatrical fashion. It was all very pretend play. Some were captured in ropes. Many swords were drawn. There was music and there were skits. We ended up right at the top of the town where captives, hiding their laughter and feigning injury, were exchanged. But our attention was drawn away by the taverns where a whole leg of lamb was roasting on a spit until it had become a blushing shade of rose. It was exactly as Alvaro had promised: endless entertainment and a feast to be remembered for the ages.

RABBIT ARROZ

I have to tell you about the rabbit arroz in Grazalema, because it might be the best I’ve ever had. When we reached, the town was still. Too still. No voices in the streets. No football games in the square. It was as if the town was having a siesta and had forgotten to tell us. We slipped into two small shops just before the shutters came down for jars of wild game pate to take home. Then, the mystery was solved: everyone was at El Torreon. The bar downstairs was alive. We edged past the locals and their unhurried conversation to the restaurant, which was completely empty save for the waiter and a well-suited man guarding the jamon. The choice was easy. Rabbit arroz for two and wine. “Definitely the red.” The waiter did not hesitate. There was no discussion and we were thoroughly glad as we were famished. The rabbit was braised in peas, tomatoes and a sauce so soft and rich it was velvety. Long after the plates were cleared, I still remember this as the best rabbit dish I have ever had.

LA UMBRÍA IBÉRICO ECOLÓGICO

Sylvain is a man of many words, most of which are reserved for his favourite part of Spain. He spoke of Andalusia, of the region and most importantly, of Pruna where La Umbría Ibérico Ecológico lives and breathes. He admitted that it was a place that was not the most prosperous, but he was still fiercely proud of. The South, he said, is the food-producing region of Spain. It is essential. The heart of Spain where food begins. We followed him to the dehesa where the pigs wandered freely through the scent of earth and acorn leaves. Afterwards, he laid out chips homemade from Pruna, pickled green olives, phyllo pastries stuffed with meat and a pot of chickpeas, pumpkin and sausage stewed by the mother of Sylvain’s business partner, Antonio. There were cured hams, after which came a tray of jamon that melts like honey. It was not showy, but rich in every sense. “We want to keep it real,” Sylvain told us. And real it was.

BODEGA GARCIA HIDALGO

Our best meal had to be at Bodega Garcia Hidalgo. There was much wining and dining, courtesy of Miguel and Maribel. It started with a tour of the cellars. For a few moments when the rain let up, we stole out of the cellar to see the vineyards in full autumn bloom, hoping that the weather would not find out. Then Maribel brought us to the dining room all set with little bowls of cream, pate and red pepper and green tomato jams. From her oven came the most sensible thing next: a loaf of bread. Then one by one, she began the parade: a frittata, tomato salad (sliced from the largest she had ever grown in her garden), ham and cheese, paella, cheesecake discreetly topped with dark chocolate sauce. Miguel never stopped pouring our glasses. We left feeling somewhat tipsy from the long, generous lunch.