The Tasty Food Guide
Tasty Culinary Journeys:
Lunch in Montova
-In Search of the Real Italy-
By Sasha Birkin
We ran all the way from the hotel to catch the train. Luckily, the Stazione Centrale is only just across the street from the hotel. We didn’t sleep well that night; the idea of oversleeping and missing the train plagued us until the wee hours when we finally dozed off. The rush to the train platform got the blood pumping and shook off the sluggishness we were feeling. On the train I opened the window and watched the scenery rush by as the current of wind cooled me after my train station sprint. The sun was shining, a refreshing change from the cloudy gloom that had settled itself over Milan for the past week. I sat down in my seat and readied myself for the 2 hour ride to Montova, a town just to the east of Milan that the concierge suggested as a good day trip destination.
We arrived around lunchtime, took a brief peek at a map at the train station to get the lay of the land and set off to investigate the town. We found all the usual suspects; old city walls fortified with castles, grandiose churches, cobblestoned streets, small piazza lined with outdoor cafes, and most of the other details you’ll find in a small city in Italy. I don’t mean to sound unimpressed or unappreciative; Montova was lovely, it’s just that we have spent so much time in Italy that these things just aren’t so novel to us anymore. We are always in search of the “real Italy” and that “back door” experience Rick Steves often speaks of, and this day was no exception. We wanted to catch a glimpse, a taste, dare I say a mouthful of the real essence of the town Montova. Sometimes though, when you least expect it, you find that what you seek is just under your nose; or in this case, on the next street, four doors down on the left. We realized we were hungry and ready for lunch. We were really hungry and ready to settle on one of those cafés lining the main piazza that cater’s to tourists. We peeked at a few menus but nothing looked that exciting. Finally my trusty traveling companion looked at me and said “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to walk down one of these side streets, go into a shop and ask one of the workers where they eat lunch.” I agreed to the plan and we proceeded down a small street and into a snazzy little dress store with all sorts of sequined numbers hanging in the window. I hung back as my traveling companion ventured forward, over to the young man folding a spangled silver sweater. I could see them exchange a few words and out came my traveling companion clutching a small scrap of paper. I took it from his hand. It said “Quattro Tette”. Wow I mused to my self, that sounds like “four teats” , how odd.It turns out that tette means breast, thus the name of the place is four breasts in English. So, on to the next street over, and four doors down. We walked past the restaurant four times before we finally noticed the very small sign in the window announcing the presence of the Osteria della Quattro Tette. The very small sign contained a hand painted likeness of a lovely maiden graced with an overabundance of mammaries, four to be exact. Not exactly something you’d see in America! We entered the door, and simultaneously the lunch crowd appeared and trickled in behind us. What words to describe this place? Rustic? Down home -Italian style? It was very basic with whitewashed walls, heavy wood tables and chairs, and not a thing decorating the walls except three curious paintings all in a row on the largest wall. A series depicting a swarthy skinned man and a Doge in the Doge’s palace, engaged in various exchanges. I still am wondering about those paintings! We were seated and presented with hand written menus on brown butcher paper. People began to be seated around us and the place filled up in all of about three minutes with local families out to enjoy a leisurely Sunday lunch. And not a tourist in sight, except us of course. The waiter came around to take our order and helped explain to us what goodies were on the menu that day. With a lot of patience and assistance on his part we ordered some fine fare that day. To start, we were brought a good sized platter of local salami and some nice chewy homemade bread. We then decided that wine was in order. We ordered some and were pleased to find the house red very drinkable and pleasant. Next a large wedge of frittata brimming with zucchini and sweet onions was delivered along with a plate of baked provolone cheese topped with small tomato slices and sprigs of rucola. The frittata tasted fresh and light while the cheese was rich and gooey from its trip to the oven, all in all a very nice paring. Last but not least, a plate risotto with a type of local sausauge crumbled into it accompanied by some curiously tiny braised short ribs. It was the most rustic and local of the dishes, something very typical of the region and very tasty. All around us locals feasted on this wonderful home style cooking, taking their time laughing and talking, sometimes going over to a neighbors table to say hello and catch up. My traveling companion and I began to relax and feel at home. We stopped looking around to try to see what the locals were eating and catch a glimpse of “real Italians” in their natural habitat. We savored our food, sipped our wine and were transported to a place where all that mattered was the present. We talked and laughed, and for a while we forgot about our day to day routines and responsibilities. We were just being us, talking of the future and reminisceing about the past. The owner of the restaurant, an elderly man who bustled about clearing plates and smiling seems very pleased when he saw that we had all but cleaned our plates. My traveling companion and I smiled at each other as we realized we had to get going if we would make our train back to Milan. We paid our bill and bid farewell to that little hole in the wall joint we had to walk past four times before we finally spotted it. We walked outside into the afternoon sunlight and headed back to the train station, down the cobble stone street, past the church and the piazza. We had found it. A glimpse, a taste and certainly a mouthful of the real Montova. We snuck in the back door and were welcomed inside. We had gone where only the locals go. We ceased being tourists, if only for a couple of hours and became temporary residents.