| From
the Napa Valley Register, Jan. 6, 2002 (Version
without pix)
A visit to enchanting Sirmione in November By Paul
Franson |
 |
Those of us who live in Napa Valley know that the best time to visit
tourist destinations is off season, and it’s the same in Italy as St. Helena.
The air fares and rooms are cheaper, the people friendlier and the restaurants
more pleasant without crowds of German and English tourists.
This is especially true of jewels like tiny walled towns and islands
that are mobbed in summer. I’m always drawn to these out-of-the-way places,
and as I headed from Milan to Venice one evening, I noticed a skinny peninsula
poking into Lake Garda. A guidebook confirmed that Sirmione was a popular
tourist destination, but I hoped it wouldn’t be crowded on a cold night
in November.
Half way to Venice, I turned off the highway and headed across the lake.
The neck was very narrow, barely a block wide, and it looked dead; I feared
that I wouldn’t be able to find a room as I passed one closed hotel after
another. I was also getting very hungry and the restaurants looked equally
hopeless.
As I neared the end of the road, I saw the small walled town and castle
across a narrow drawbridge that prohibited cars. Fortunately, just outside
the gates next to a grand hotel shuttered for the winter were the bright
lights of a spa. I would have taken anything at that point.
| A spa for the
night The Hotel Fonte Boiola is a nice three-star hotel, but it’s primarily a spa and clinic where Europeans come to soak in smelly water and receive strange treatments like fisiotron and formostar. It’s one of many spas in the area. The hotel had a room, however, and agreed to skip the usual full board
and spa treatments. I signed in, and since it was approaching 9:30, asked
if any restaurants might be still open. They suggested two in the walled
town, and I headed out the door wondering what lay within the walls. |
 |
I crossed the narrow bridge and through a foreboding gate, passing the
ghostly castle. I then entered narrow streets under arches past closed
shops not seeing a soul in the dark pathways and alleys. With only a few
wrong turns, I saw a sign for La Botte, one of the recommended restaurants,
and headed inside.
I was surprised when I opened the door, for it was loud and lively,
with at groups waiting for seats while others enjoyed dinner as only Italians
can. The congenial atmosphere reminded me of Green Valley Trattoria in
St. Helena, the restaurant locals beg me not to mention to tourists.
A roaring fire warmed the room, or maybe it was the brick oven used
for everything from homemade flatbread and pizzas to casseroles and desserts.
The fire masked the smell of diners’ cigarettes, as inevitable in Italy
as the hip black-clothed young patrons talking on their cell phones.
The host, not surprisingly also the owner, quickly figured I was a lost
American, greeting me in English. He seated me in the outer room near the
bar; Italians wouldn’t eat there, insisting on the bustling inner cavern.
I was starving at that point, not having eaten since early that morning,
but was equally thirsty. I ordered a half liter of house white wine; though
I often write about fine wine, I always try the local wine in modest restaurants
in Italy or France. I was served a wine that would give a wine snob apoplexy.
It was slightly bubbly, crisp, low in alcohol without a trace of oak or
malolactic fermentation. It was the perfect accompaniment to the meal.
For bread, I got a paper-thin round fresh from the hot oven, slightly
seasoned with salt and local green olive oil; due to the influence of Lake
Garda, olive trees grow here but not elsewhere in northern Italy.
Trusting myself to the waiter, I ordered the assorted antipasto. In
Italy, the antipasti aren’t plates of luncheon meats, cheese and pickled
vegetables, but more interesting. I was served a plate of treasures, but
just a few bites of each: chucks of marinated octopus, delicate smoked
salmon, the classic caprese appetizer of fresh mozzarella and ripe tomatoes
(I don’t know where they got them in November), soft polenta with wild
mushrooms, three small but tasty shrimp in an unexpected Russian dressing,
grilled zucchini and tiny braised flat cipollini onions, the ones that
cost more than prime steak at Napa supermarkets.
Those appetizers and the bread could have been a meal, but the best
came next: smoked salmon in cream on fresh tagliolini. In spite of all
the variations of Italian regional cooking, I’ve been served almost exactly
the same dish on the coast near Rome, in Liguria — and in Antigua in the
Caribbean at a restaurant run by brothers from Naples. It’s a classic I
tried unsuccessfully to reproduce until I finally just thickened heavy
cream and added the salmon.
Service was leisurely as in Napa Valley, and at one point, I heard one
patron jokingly call the host on his cell phone to order more wine. In
Italy, it’s insulting to rush patrons, and La Botte was no exception.
There was no way I could have eaten dessert, unlike all the skinny Italians
in the restaurant, but I did have an espresso. It couldn’t keep me from
sleeping when I got back to my room at almost 12.
A day in town
The breakfast included in the moderate price was a buffet of breads
and coffee, with fruit, juice and sliced sausages and cheese for the few
northern European guests. The waiter questioned my request for coffee without
milk or sugar, but accepted it as a strange California custom.
| The sun woke me
in the morning in spite of the shutters, and when I opened them, I could
see the calm lake around the grounds of the hotel. I cleaned up and went
down to breakfast, where most of the other patrons were elderly people
in pajamas and robes, clearly there for spa treatments. After that, I walked around the town, visiting the picturesque 14th century castle built by the Scaligeri of Verona. Then I headed for the far end of the small island that contains the town, passing the 15th Century church of Santa Maria Maggiore and the small church of St. Pietro in Mavino, with portions dating to the 700’s. Both contain interesting frescoes. It’s about a kilometer to the ruins of the Grotto attributed to first
century Roman poet Catullus, though he may not have had anything to do
with them. If you visit, check the times the sites are open and have lots
of change. |
 |
On the way to the Grotto, you climb gentle hills and can look down on
beaches that would be packed with tourists in the summer. Overlooking the
most popular beach is a plaque to turncoat US poet Ezra Pound, who served
the Fascist cause in World War II. There’s also a nice walkway along the
lake shore.
As I walked along, local people tended their flowers and walked their
dogs, just like in St. Helena, pausing to chat with neighbors that had
probably known all their lives. A few even smiled and said, “Buon giorno.”
Maybe I didn’t look that American after all.
Back in the tiny town, the expensive shops and the inevitable gelato
parlors and caf‚s had opened for the day. Many restaurants and hotels were
closed for the season, but enough remained open for the few visitors. A
cup of caf‚ provided a nice break after the walk as I sat in the main plaza
and eavesdropped. The local people had reclaimed their town from the tourists;
it reminded me of St. Helena in February.
— end —
If you visit
Sirmione is off the main highway between Milan and Venice, close to
Brescia and Verona. It’s a good idea to make reservations and vital in
season. Two good web sites are:
ww.info-sirmione.it/index-en.htm
www.gardainforma.com/english/sirmione/sirmione.htm
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1/7/02