This is a story that begins at lunch. Or, more accurately, it begins earlier, with one of those underwhelming Italian breakfasts that make you wonder how people who make some of the greatest food on earth can eat cake with their morning coffee (basically taking an overly sweet croissant and calling it brioche). Breakfast should never be the last meal you have in Italy, especially when you are on vacation in Milan and about to drive the 12 hours home to Bordeaux in an old Land Rover Defender with no music or air-conditioning and without your wife (who has taken the plane home), but with three dogs and four kids in tow. So you make the irrational decision to swing by Turin for lunch, even if it means you won’t get home before 3 a.m.
It is a fact that some of us go about our lives looking for Italy, and sometimes we find it, momentarily, in the shape of a good pizza or the silhouette of a man on the street dressed in a sharp suit. That day, I found Italy at my table at Porto di Savona, on the Piazza Vittorio Veneto, a gargantuan square with views of the Po River. I found it in the scarlet shadow the wine glass cast on the crisp white tablecloth. In the sensational vitello tonnato, the famous Piedmontese creation of thinly sliced veal lathered in a creamy tuna-flavored sauce. In the beef that had been braised for hours in local wine. In the silky panna cotta. I found Italy in the simple marble floors, in the rustic walls the color of goldenrod that needed to be repainted but fortunately hadn’t been, in the noise from the lunch crowd of regulars in their Sunday best, in the view of the piazza, perfectly framed by our dining room window like a moving Piranesi etching.
In short, I got exactly what I came for, and I expected it to end when we walked out the door. Then we hit the streets of Turin. Beautiful Baroque buildings lined up before us, each embellished by quaint signage from bygone decades. A coffee shop with Art Nouveau interiors seemed to me the most beautifully preserved place I had ever seen, until I went into the next one, with plush red-velvet seats and waiters in white jackets serving ice cream on silver trays to old ladies with impeccable hair.
And so, because of the time we started driving, we arrived home not at 3 a.m. but just before breakfast. A French breakfast—which is frankly superior, except for the coffee, which is worse. But that lunch in Turin was still lingering in my head and on my lips. I wanted to sit at that table again, to gaze at that piazza, walk out into the streets, live for a while in that movie. Days later, the Defender was heading for Savoy, wife and young kids on board, charging at the Alps, taking us back to an everlasting lunch.
Turin is the city of the aperitivo, the art of drinking and eating before you start eating and drinking. It’s the city of Fiat and faded prosperity, the former kingdom of the most stylish man in the history of Italy, the car magnate Gianni Agnelli, known not only for his enormous wealth but for his sprezzatura, a studied nonchalance that is the province of certain Italian men. Turin is the opposite of bling; the charm lies in the patina, not the polish. The well-worn elegance is so unforced, so natural you hardly notice it. It doesn’t have the swagger of Naples or the monuments of Rome. In many Italian cities, you can find a smart-looking cigarette-smoking chap with a fedora walking in the half-light of the old arcades. If you see him in Milan, he’s probably putting on a show; if you spot him in Turin, he’s just being himself, doing his thing. There is nobody to pose for: The tourists are all in Florence and Rome, the fashion set in Milan, and the locals have seen it before. So he walks to the next beautiful café and orders himself a Negroni, then drinks it, unobserved, under the pink light of some old Martini sign.
Turin is a study in the worth of holding on to the old (if it’s any good), rather than constantly throwing it out for something more contemporary. Bicerin, a concoction of espresso, chocolate, and milk, is the official coffee drink of Turin. The original vermouth, Carpano—a bittersweet rust-colored liquid—was also born here. This may explain the sheer number of gorgeous gilded, mirrored places tucked under the arcades in this city: Its citizens have always needed pretty places to drink all that Bicerin and vermouth. It’s fitting or perhaps inevitable that Turin is where Italy declared war on fast food or, more specifically, on McDonald’s. The one in the center of town is disguised behind an old-fashioned storefront complete with silk drapes, out of respect or maybe out of fear.
In Turin they like their meat—veal tartare, probably better than you can find anywhere else, or beef marinated in Barolo or Barbaresco, then braised for hours—and like to wash it down with one of their famous wines. Not to mention bollito misto, the more stubborn parts of meat brought to heel by being boiled in a delicious broth for hours, or the intriguing finanziera, a hearty stew made from sweetbreads, testicles, and chicken parts, gamy-flavored and refined. The typical pasta in the region is taglierini, which locals call tajarin: fine strands of egg-dough pasta served with white truffles (from nearby Alba), a meat ragù, or a delicious creamy sauce made with the local Castelmagno cheese from the province of Cuneo. Then there’s the panna cotta, or cooked cream—my favorite Italian dessert of all. Does it really need to be served under a blue light on a glass table, with lightly smoked prune confit, marinated in anchovy and wasabi oil? Or is it maybe just best like Nonna used to do it, in a setting she would have liked.
Outside the historic center of Turin, on a quiet residential street, is a restaurant called Al Gatto Nero. With only a small drawing of a black cat on the door, it doesn’t really look like a restaurant. The inside is equally unassuming: mid-century modern decor and old-school touches like white tablecloths and silk curtains. Everything on the small menu is delicious, although it could hardly be called inventive in these hard-core gastronomic times.
I spent a morning at Al Gatto Nero, in addition to my four meals there. It was all very Big Night, if you know that film (and if you don’t, you should): the quiet, steadfast professionalism standing in for passion and pride. The small staff had all arrived before me and were preparing for lunch—making stock and basic tomato sauce, setting the tables, stacking wine. Then they sat down, just before service, each staff member making his own version of a light salad. They remained there in silence, some reading the paper. Andrea Vannelli, the dignified, soft-spoken heir to the place, finally said to his chef, “I think we need to order more porcini.” “You are right,” the chef responded. Then they donned their white jackets and waited. The restaurant is always full in the evening, but that day they would have no customers for lunch. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that they were ready. When lunch hour had passed, they gracefully removed their white jackets, turned off the lights, and headed out into the world for their little break. Soon they would do it all over again for dinner.
Where to Eat, Drink, and Stay in the Piedmont Capital
Al Gatto Nero
Founded in 1927 as a Tuscan trattoria, then upgraded in the fifties with a move to a mid-century building, Al Gatto Nero earned two Michelin stars in the sixties, then lost them in the eighties—not because the quality fell but because the critics bet on nouvelle cuisine. Dining here (tagliolini with a simple bottarga or pappardelle with duck ragù before pepper steak) is a special experience: understated, modest, delicious. The maître d’, Andrea Vannelli, a grandson of the founder, is as humble, knowledgeable, and commanding as any I’ve met. His love of wine is reflected in the well-chosen, reasonably priced list.
Caffè Fiorio
A voluptuous ice-cream parlor/café with uniformed waiters, marble counters, and salons covered in red silk wallpaper, serving an impressive lineup of aperitivo nibbles—tiny sandwiches and canapés. Long the preferred haunt of artists and politicians, after more than two centuries it emanates a slightly faded glory.
Caffè Torino
This quintessential Turin hangout is at the heart of the action in the Piazza San Carlo. Its interiors are grand yet quirky: an endlessly long bar carved out of wood, painted murals and gilded mirrors, displays of pastries and sweets. The clientele is a mix of locals and oddball regulars, like the plump middle-aged man who sat in the same place at the same time every day I went by. Most important, they have great coffee and Negronis, and the best vintage Martini sign.
Del Cambio
The grand lady of Turin is one of the city’s landmark restaurants, with the biggest dining room, the tallest mirrors, and the most impressive army of waiters. Founded in 1757, Del Cambio has counted Mozart, Verdi, and even Casanova as regulars and is worth a visit for the room alone. The food is delicious, particularly the finanziera, and somehow stays true to its Piedmont roots, but they have admittedly gone the route of “chef-y” cuisine.
Porto Di Savona
The setting of my first lunch; the place that got me hooked. The room is charming if sparsely decorated, with marble floors, paneled walls, white tablecloths, and a little bar with a nice selection of aperitivi. All the dishes you want in the Piedmont are on the menu (agnolotti, vitello tonnato, braised beef, panna cotta), and all taste the way you want them to.
Ristorante Consorzio
A contemporary take on the classics, with decor so minimalist it feels raw yet oddly warm, thanks to the terra-cotta palette and the young, relaxed, and knowledgeable staff. The cuisine is market-based, with great pastas such as the ravioli di finanziera, and a large selection of classic and creative meat dishes, both cooked and raw (like the decor), and a great wine list.
Scannabue Caffé
The location near the train station in the reinvented district of San Salvario, the contemporary decor, and the young business crowd suggest that this might be just like any other restaurant, but it’s not. Scannabue is your grandfather in more comfortable clothing—maybe even, dare I say it, a tracksuit. But he’s still the same old guy serving traditional dishes, sometimes with a tweak that’s thoughtful enough not to spoil anything. They have most of the local classics: great raw meats, braised beef, and wonderful pasta dishes.
Tre Galli/Tre Galline
Tre Galline serves Piedmontese fare in a traditional wood-paneled room and is where I had some of the best raw meat in Turin. Tre Galli is the contemporary little brother on the next corner, done with eclectic vintage furniture. The kitchen is more relaxed, serving brunch and even burgers (which sounds sacrilegious but works) without eschewing its old-world roots. Tre Galline is ideal for a heavy, meat-based lunch, starting with agnolotti, then bollito misto (sausages poached in broth), and ending with a bunet, the chocolate pudding that rivals panna cotta as the ultimate Piedmontese dessert—washed down with a larger-than-life Barolo. Tre Galli is where to go in the evening, after a nap, for a simple pasta or even uovo en meurette (originally a French dish of poached egg in red wine and shallot sauce), and to play around with the wine list.
Where to Stay
The hotel situation is challenging. None of them are truly grand, nor will you find any boutique treasures—which reflects the fact that Turin is not a touristy town. The most storied is the Grand Hotel Sitea, centrally located near the Piazza San Carlo; alternatively, the Turin Palace is a smart, if safely bland, historic hotel.
Day-Trip: Barolo
Considering the stature of Barolos in the world, it’s surprising to see how small and humble are the estates where the wine is produced. About 50 miles south of Turin, the road gives way to hills dotted with farmhouses and vineyards. The owners get their hands dirty, making the wine themselves, and the production is typically small. It’s a fitting backdrop for the wine I enjoyed with every meal at my beloved Turin tables, and it’s even more charming to know that the name on the bottle (Rinaldi, Conterno, Mascarello) is also the name of the people you see producing it.
The restaurants in nearby villages like Monteforte and Serralunga d’Alba, which are surrounded by Barolo vineyards, are reliably good. My favorites are Vinoteca Centro Storico and Cascina Schiavenza in Serralunga and Trattoria della Posta in Monteforte. Barolo itself is a pretty village with a handsome castle, very decent wine shops, and two similarly named restaurants, Osteria la Cantinella and La Cantinetta. I can never remember which is which, but they’re both good so it makes no difference which you go to.
One Thing to Know About Barolo
You should resist drinking it too early—a good Barolo needs at least 10 years to fulfill its promise. “A 10-year-old Barolo is like a 30-year-old man,” says Chiara Boschis, a legendary winemaker in the region and one of the original Barolo Boys, a group of young winemakers who helped revolutionize winemaking in the region in the ’80s and ’90s. “It’s still got all its vigor, but it’s also grown interesting and deep.” A good Barolo, like a good man, will last much longer, adding complexity at the expense of youth. If you can’t wait that long, choose a “smaller” vintage. Decanting a young Barolo is a good idea—for up to four hours, to give the tannins a chance to mellow out. And an older vintage, especially a much older one, needs to be handled with care and poured slowly if at all—so you don’t shock it. In short, treat it like your grandmother.
