By Arthur Berman
Fifteen years and a lifetime ago our family of five—my wife, our three school-aged children and I—lived in Italy. It was our la dolce vita period. That experience reawakened a love for many things—family, simplicity, beauty, adventure, and notably, all things food-related. Upon returning to my American home, even as I resumed a conventional career and lifestyle, I was changed. Among other things, I spent more hours creating in the kitchen, relishing every moment. I was even inspired to enroll in a formal culinary arts training program. Life continued, enriched.
More recently my comfortable world was upended. First, there was the pandemic’s disruptive impact. Concurrent to social isolation and its attendant lifestyle constraints, I retired, was widowed after thirty-eight years of marriage, and became an empty-nester, all within a short period of time.
Navigating a still-fraught emotional landscape, I am now exploring ways to move forward, hoping that contentment and joy will, at some point, be discoverable. Traveling, especially when combined with novel food experiences, is something I always enjoyed with my wife and children. I figure that maybe it can be a part of my personal journey “back,” providing both palliative and stimulant—soothing, nostalgic, exciting, comforting, and pleasingly disruptive.
Not a gourmet, but solidly gourmand, I booked a culinary tour last summer to Italy’s off-the-beaten-track Romagna region. Esperienza, the small travel-oriented nonprofit that curated and led the program, offers “an Italy of small towns and villages where one can slow down and experience the gentle rhythm of everyday life. An Italy filled with unique culinary treasures… untouched by tourism.” Perfetto! It turned out to be just as advertised and hoped for. One evening’s singular experience stood out.
The tiny village of San Piero in Bagno, hidden deep in Romagna’s Apennine mountain region and thirty miles from the closest city, could be the definition of “the middle of nowhere.” It certainly feels that way. Surrounded by vertiginous summits rising up to 1,000 meters, its 3,000 residents are packed into one square kilometer of narrow valley hugging the tiny Savio River’s shoreline. Those mountains, splendidly verdant during my late summer visit, created a pastoral beauty that underscores the town’s geographical isolation. If Brigadoon, the 1950s musical about an idealized Scottish village that appears once every 100 years, was set in Italy, it could be staged here.
What an unlikely location to find a Michelin-starred restaurant. How could daGorini, started up just before the hospitality world came to a standstill in 2020 due to Covid-19, possibly stay afloat in this small, out of the way town? There has to be an extraordinary story here, I think, and there certainly is.
Thirty-something Gianluca Gorini, a rising culinary star and recently named Italy’s number two top chef, is the owner and driving force. He confounded the Italian culinary world when he chose San Piero in Bagno to open this high-end restaurant. Gorini explains his decision this way: “This place is magical, authentic, and unspoiled. I feel responsible that our dishes express the (local) culture and traditions.” He does this by partnering with small, local producers; focusing on items that can only be found in Romagna such as raviggiolo cheese; and transforming simple, local cuisine through creativity, extraordinary talent, and artistic flare, “elevating it to something really important” (in his words). A leading Italian culinary organization described Da Gorini this way: “In this small village Gorini has built… a bond with the territory and its producers, a cuisine that tells the slow passing of the seasons… that speaks of passion, of small producers, who are not only suppliers but are the main part of this project.” Making this particular location choice even more personal was the fact that his life and “front of the house” business partner, Sara, grew up here, and wanted to return to her rural roots.
Da Gorini’s minimalist charm vibe begins before even entering the front door. Down a commercial side street, the restaurant is housed in a pleasant but nondescript storefront with small, simple signage that is easily passed if you blink twice. Entering the front door, one’s visual senses are immediately, soothingly engaged by the dining room’s tasteful, soft lighting and beige walls. They are pleasingly adorned with earth-toned pottery from Italy’s ceramics capital, Faenza. A second small dining room has monotonal canvas prints of oversized outdoor scenes—one strikingly of a birch tree grove after a snowfall; another of a small mountaintop—reminding us of our warm, rustic setting. Throughout both dining areas there are quirky accents—my favorite being a floor lamp mounted on a fully assembled trombone—that provide stylish touches.
As our small group of eight culinary travelers first strolled through the dining room, the rich aroma of baking bread reminded us that we were closing in on dinner hour. We had pre-arranged a cooking demo, so we arrived early and headed directly into the kitchen, where we were warmly greeted by Gorini and one of his assistants.
We watched as they effortlessly prepared several items, all the while explaining their processes, patiently answering questions, cheerfully sharing tips and opinions, and haphazardly scribbling recipes on a nearby whiteboard. The culinary highlight was ciambella romagnola, a local breakfast cake. This was completely unexpected, as ciambella romagnola is a pedestrian, everyday food item you’d more likely find at an Italian airport takeout counter (as I did at Bologna’s airport one week later), rather than at a high-end restaurant. The closest equivalent food to American palates is a plain donut. But it’s not a completely fair comparison. Ciambella romagnola is denser, less sweet, and baked—not deep-fried—though it is just as common. I learned over the course of the evening that this is typical Gorini—taking a common item and elevating it to something memorable through his creativity and talent.
I knew I was in trouble before my first bite, just from the mouth-watering aroma as it was baking. Emerging from the oven, it had the look and shape of an oversized coffee cake, with a thick, crusty top that was caked in sugar. I have no doubt that my eyes bugged out a little. I kept telling myself, take just a small piece, you’ve got a big meal coming up soon. One piece—no more. As our group sampled it, biting through the thick, crunchy crust into the warm, dense, sweet center, the ooh’s, ah’s, squeals of delight, giddy laughter, and “Oh my God’s” reverberated for minutes. I don’t even like sweets, but this was to-die-for. I ate more. A lot more. It was just the beginning, and it wasn’t the last we’d see of Gorini’s ciambella romagnola.
Our tasting menu dinner was one exquisite course after another: seared trout on a green Panzanella salad, topped with a cucumber granita that astounded and delighted me (Cucumber granita? Whoever heard of such a thing?) with its pleasing texture and delicate flavor; a melt-in-your-mouth tomato “steak” that was first dried, then combined with an eggy mix, chargrilled and topped with fresh herbs; tortelli stuffed with almond cream, rolled out and shaped fresh by our group just an hour earlier, and served with a white vermouth butter, a light peach sauce, and topped with fresh rosemary; and grilled, locally produced guinea fowl, served with fermented plums and a light fresh herb salad. Every course was beautifully paired with wine or some other beverage concoction, often one that was home-produced.
Then came the coup de grace; dessert was classic Gorini. He took a simple, common, popular dessert item—zuppa inglese—deconstructed it, and then reimagined it in heavenly dimensions, adding his unmistakable artistic touch for local ingredients, a variety of textures, a diverse color palette, and a soaring three-dimensional presentation, creating a course for the ages. The base was a light yellow, vanilla- and cinnamon-infused, sweet, egg yolky cream that he had made for us in the earlier kitchen demo. On that base he carefully arranged a plump chocolate truffle; a small piece of ciambella romagnola that was colored to a medium crimson with alchermes, a regional liqueur; toasted, caramelized hazelnut pieces sprinkled in small clusters; and a miniature, pear-shaped scoop of raspberry sorbet. Around the base were additional small squirts of alchermes jelly for added color and eye appeal. The whole dish was capped like a tilted beret with a light-as-air, irregularly-shaped, crispy wafer. It was culinary performance art, a treasure in every dimension—color, texture, taste, and overall visual impact. Each deconstructed element was delicious on its own, as well in combination. At one point Gorini shared that when he puts one of his dishes in front of customers, he wants them to experience joy at just the sight of it. Boy, did he deliver!
On the hotel return trip, our group of dedicated foodies excitedly debriefed, trying to comprehend what we had just experienced. One said “I realized my legs were literally tingling… my senses were so stimulated my mouth couldn’t contain it all.” Others cited Gianluca’s passion, attention to detail, and artistry. I agreed with everything but said little myself. Where does one begin? I lacked the vocabulary. How does one find words to adequately describe four intense hours of culinary heaven? As others spoke, I also tried to quietly recapture details of every single course: every ingredient, every taste, and every sight, sound, and smell.
Stimulated, exhausted, and thoroughly satiated as we motored back through the dark countryside, I had other intermittently racing thoughts. The maelstrom of sensory wonders coursing through my mind was infused with something else—a dose of sadness, a longing for a warmly-recalled past. Continuing to reflect, I settled into a calmer, grateful state—that night and in the days that followed—for the gifts I had, and that kept coming.