The hills are alive with the sound of ... chomping
There’s only one problem with skiing in northern Italy, says Penny Smith – you keep bumping into fantastic food and more delicious wine
Warning: this article may contain alcohol. That should have been printed on a tabard and handed to me as I arrived in northern Italy for an extended weekend of skiing, après-skiing and during-skiing.
In other words, over-indulging while allegedly exercising. And that means that, like eating straight from the fridge, it’s guilt-free calories.
If Italy is a thigh-high boot, our destination of Alta Badia is the stocking-top midway between Venice and Innsbruck. The bag-carrier and I are in the upmarket resort of San Cassiano, from where we will be experiencing a new angle on gourmet skiing, called Sommelier On The Slopes.
Take 14 top Tyrolean chefs, an equal number of mountain huts, a cornucopia of Italian food, a generous glug of local wine, and mix with over-excited skiers. Serve on a clear day in the Dolomites with blue skies and just the odd fluffy cloud.
There’s something special about scoffing warm food in the warm sun and drinking crisp wines amid crisp snow. It’s a joyful experience.
At the Piz Arlara chalet, we try some sauvignon from Bolzano and a Schreckbichl Prail (bless you) which Armin, who runs the business with his family, declares very good with celery.
There’s an aromatic gewurztraminer, a pinot noir which is infinitely quaffable, and then I get a bit confused and start writing random stuff down in my notebook, mostly about how to speak Ladin – a language used by about 30,000 people in the Badia area.
I know that the word for cheers is ‘vives’. I also write down the Ladin for very good, gorgeous, the best, and can I marry the owner of the vineyard?
It’s time for more skiing before our visit to another hut, Club Moritzino, where the manager, Francesco, serves us pasta with truffles, roast vegetables and fish.
Then we’re off again to another place for pudding, and biscotti and coffee, and my 1980s salopettes start complaining. Every time I bend over to unsnap my boots, the popper bursts open and then the zip on my jacket begins to strain. I’m starting to resemble an exploding sausage. Strange, though, how I can still devour a small fig in a chocolate cone.
It’s time to roll down the hill with the help of Marco, our marvellous ski guide. ‘You might want to concentrate more on your ankles,’ he says.
I do my best and promptly shoot into an enormous orange exclamation mark designed to stop people crashing into a fence. Luckily, I’m so padded up with food that I bounce straight back up.
The Alta Badia area is renowned for its first-class cuisine. There are three
Michelin-starred restaurants within a five-minute drive of each other. It’s unlikely you’ll leave slimmer t han w hen y ou a rrived.
TheLagacioM ountainR esidence eco h otel i s a ll w ood a nd c lean l ines, with supremely comfortable beds. It also has the first spa I’ve been to where there’s a big nest of hay in the c hillout a rea.
The Rosa Alpina Hotel and Spa has e normous b eds f urnished w ith cotton sheets with a stupidly high thread count, balconies, and hot and cold running staff. It’s unashamedly five-star and they really don’t like you carrying anything. They don’t exactly say ‘Let me take that small glass of grappa for you so that you don’t strain yourself ’ – b ut t he i mplication i s t here.
The Italians do effortless style. When we arrive in San Cassiano after a two-and-ahalf-hour drive from Venice, there are twinkling white lights twisted around trees, lampposts, houses and hotel balconies. On our first night there, we go to La Sieia, where head waiter Karim brings ricotta with chives, which we have with home-made breads. T hen t here’s c lear s oup w ith tortellini, a nd p asta w ith t ruffles.
And those Michelin-starred r estaurants? We visit them purely in the name of research. At one stage, we end up in the cellar drinking S auternes-type w ine a nd eating g orgonzola w ith b eer j elly.
On the final day, I do a quick check. Bruises. Check. Trousers too tight. Check. New guide, Damiano. Check. More food. Check (spaghetti with scallops at Utia I Tabla, and chef Matteo Metullio’s tortelli with goats’ cheese, beetroot puree and peanuts a t a nother h ut).
It’s relentless and marvellous in equal measure. The hills are alive with t he s ound o f c homping, I h um to m yself a s I s trap o n m y s kis a nd slip g ently d own a w ide p iste. A nd then I go and ruin it all by singing something stupid very loudly to the m ountains o n t he fi nal r un a nd come a c ropper.
There’s one ski up a tree, a pole down a hole and my wrist feels a little bit kaput. ‘Can you wriggle your fi ngers?’ a sks t he b loke. ‘Yes,’ I s ay, g ingerly. ‘It’s n ot b roken, t hen,’ h e s ays. Actually i t i s b roken – I l ater g et a f etching b right p ink p laster c ast.
But none of this makes me change my opinion that it was a darned fine holiday. And I didn’t feel h ungry f or a m onth.