Upon arriving, I literally spent about 2 hours just casing the joint - scoping the various indoor and outdoor pools, their tennis court, a lakeside beach and their beautiful lake-facing terraces.  The place is just pure magic.  The hotel (and Lake Como in general) really had an effect on me; at times, even causing me to conjure up foreign, romantic/cheesy ideas - like coming back another time with a lady friend to participate in some candle-lit, terrace-chilling, hand holding.  Yikes.

The area of the Hotel I always looked forward to visiting every day was the Terrace.  There were two main terraces at the Hotel - one for drinking/relaxing and another, where their restaurant was located, known as "La Terazza." On our first night, the crew settled in for a sit down dinner and was thoroughly impressed.  The view and atmosphere were literally breathtaking; La Terazza is situated on the 3rd floor of the Hotel, with a straight up unfair view of the Lake, neighboring towns, and Mountains.  Just an absolute visual treat. 

La Terazza's veal meatballs were spicy and perfectly salty.  The sauce was wonderfully tangy.

Elana's lake fish was a de-boned in front of our eyes, and was buttery fresh.

I ordered a veal chop with foie gras and black truffle (below).  It was amazing - the veal was as tender as a filet mignon and the truffle flavor did not disappoint.  The spinach was served was raisins and pine nuts.  It all blended together seamlessly.

Dessert was a marscapone shortbread combination masterpiece.

In the a.m., La Terazza functioned as the Hotel's breakfast scene, complete with some of the greatest cappuccino and freshly baked croissants on Earth (and that same amazing view).

Leaving the Grand Hotel Tremezzo was a sad, sad day in my life - evoking post-Bucknell graduation levels of sadness and nostalgia, despite staying there only 3 days.  One of the finest hotels I've ever stayed at.  Who wants to accompany me for a return trip?

I mentioned that OLF was fascinating - I cannot recall stepping foot inside a restaurant quite like this one.  It's a bit like an antique store, or an attic, or a trippy, slightly spooky, whacked out vintage furniture store or perhaps the love shack of an interior decorator and a hoarder. From everything to the plates, silverware, curtains and chairs - there is not a matching item in the joint. 

To say OLF is a bit cramped would be generous.  This place makes the coziest of Manhattan cafe's seem like a banquet hall.  I'm sucking in my gut just to walk to to my table.  But it's all so... cool.  Leave it to the Italians, of course, to generate such a magical atmosphere from a room filled with flea market type trinkets.  Waiting for my meal was never so entertaining.  Heck, I'd even say it's beautiful inside.

I recall the whole place only having about 8-10 tables, so while the 15 or so random, hanging tassles (among other things) provide an amusing atmosphere, OLF's prevailing tone is actually its intimacy.  It has a very private feel to it all.

And as for its food, it's really, really good.  Absolutely deserving of its Michelin Star status. 

Prior to the meal, OLF served up some wonderful and warm breads and foccacia.

Of particular note was my primi of scallops with a pumpkin puree and chopped mushrooms (seen above).  It was simply outstanding, like I was eating dessert.   Other highlights were Elana's baby pig ravioli, served in an insanely flavorful pear sauce; as well as her guinea-fowl coupled with an amazing potato cream sauce.

Service was also impeccable and warm, with the head chef himself shedding any potential "too cool for school" labels by serving us some of the dishes himself; a nice touch. We all thanked him for his expertise.  All of his dishes were excellent.

La Fontanina was truly a memorable and delicious experience, one that I sincerely hope I can revisit someday soon.

After rejoining the rest of the Iaciofano's in Bologna, all four of us made haste to the train station and headed to Verona.

I have to admit to being a bit disoriented, having just spent four days biking in France and getting blown over by hurricane-force winds. I kept saying "frommage" instead of "formaggio" and I couldn't get my outfits right.

Verona is a beautiful city. A combination of Medieval and Roman architecture, it's a feast for the eyes. 

We made camp at the Due Torre Hotel. Marmo scored us some prime suites with a balcony!

We were just a short skip away from the Piazza delle Erbe...and some serious shopping. And eating. Have I talked about the eating yet? I'm gettin' there, don't worry. Before there is food, there are usually some antics. You have to work up an appetite by doing something... 

So first, we visited Juliet's (of Shakespeare fame) house to find a place to put our used gum...

And then we made our way to the Roman theater surrounding the city center to check out some quality ruins, and play amongst the archways.

And then we got lost. So The Box had to pull out the map and both sets of his glasses.

Getting lost makes me hungry. So I suggested we forgo the usual tourist-infested, open-air panini cafe's and find something local. We found something local while I was getting everyone lost running them around the Verona looking for a cycling shop. Which we eventually found, along with a fancy wine bar - Osteria del Bugiardo.

The Osteria looked very local. There were no Americans inside. I could tell. This made The Box nervous. Things "outside the box" generally make The Box nervous. But I convinced him with the promise of cured meats and cheeses and perhaps even beer that it would be worthwhile.

Well, they were out of beer.

But they had wine! And LOTS of meat and cheese. I suggested to our server using my elementary Italian and some all-encompassing hand gestures (Italians love hand gestures), that we wanted enough meat and cheese for four people, a crostini sampler plate and some local wine.

Our server wandered away with what I hoped was our order (The Box was still wary at this point, perched atop his high bar stool like an owl on high alert). At this point, he and John started sketching diagrams of the perfect golf swing onto the kraft paper placemats.

Sheesh...Americans...

And then came the crostini!

Some of these were unidentifiable! Others were just strange, like the purple one which turned out to be a cabbage slaw type of thing. All were really good! Seriously. I have not, however, developed a taste for anchovies, so that particular crostini didn't appeal to me.

This was just a precursor to the awesomeness that lay ahead in the form of:

Aaaaaand:

Not a scrap of either remained. Iaciofano's young and old devoured them all....diagrams of golf physics lay forgotten underneath piles of LARDO. Yes, my favorite meat butter made an appearance on this platter. This particular version tasted slightly smoky. It was expertly seasoned with fresh pepper...and it just melted...like butter. The best I've had to date.

As for the cheeses, we were presented with a lovely arrangement of semi-hard to hard cheeses accompanied by a selection of jams. John preferred the raspberry, while I fought Marmo for the pear flavor.

The Box was now full of wine, cheese, beer, and some random crostini and acting like going to the wine bar was his idea all along.

He does that, get used to it.

As for the rest of us, we were ready to go get lost all over again, in an effort to work up an appetite for dinner...

While we Iaciofano's were cavorting through Italy, Marmo found a beverage she liked very much. So much, that she would order it wherever we went.

Marmo isn't much of a drinker. In fact, I usually have to cut her off after one glass of wine. Her normal speech velocity increases threefold and it becomes even more challenging to follow her thought patterns.

Luckily, an Aperol Spritz isn't a heavy hitter in terms of alcohol content. It's an aperitif...think of it as your warm up drink before you pull out all those fancy bottles of Brunello (or whatever) that you'll be enjoying with your main meal.

It's simple to concoct as well. Because warms ups should be simple. You don't want to strain yourself before the main event.

So ease into action with this aperitif.

What you need:
Aperol
Sparkling white wine - we used Martini & Rossi Asti Sparkling Wine

What to do:
The recipe is simple: 3 parts Asti to 1 part Aperol.
I used a shot glass to measure and poured three shots of the sparkling wine and one shot of the Aperol into a large wine glass filled with ice.

Dunk in a slice of orange if you like.

Oh, and try to have some nice, meaty olives on hand. And maybe some peanuts too. Got it?

Now go find a sunny spot and enjoy. Cheers!

And by "we" I mean, the Iaciofano Family - not Montell Jordan and his crew - but when traveling with Mom, things are always a tad "gangsta" in a sense, so the reference has some relevance.  You see, Mom owns and operates her own culinary cooking/travel business to Italy, so when she dials up an itinerary for the fam with all of her connections and contacts, it gets pretty effing filthy. (See definition 2)

Last week, the whole foursome (Mom, Dad, Elana, and myself) followed Mom through Bologna, Verona, and Lake Como - in that order.  It was an absolutely wonderful experience, with each destination having its strong points in terms of exploration, sights, shopping and food.

The first stop was Bologna which, in comparison with Verona, was the slightly grittier, international, more substantial of the two major cities.  With the University of Bologna right in town, the city is slightly dominated by young, interesting looking creatures overflowing into the piazzas and supplying energy throughout the entire town.  It's a 10 out of 10 from a people watching perspective.  From an architectural standpoint, I found it simply amazing; everywhere you walked, there were marvelous old archways lining the streets like the one above.  In addition to its usefulness during a passing rain shower, the thousands of columns and covered marbled sidewalks really injected some "this place must have been really sick back in the day" type imagery.  

Eataly in Bologna (one of its seven Italian locations) - which had little, if any, in common with the one in Manhattan.  It was a smaller (like many things in terms of an Italy vs US size comparison), modern deli serving fresh panini's and espresso, but not much else.  Still, the locals weren't scared of it.  I had to take this picture but don't be fooled, Bologna had plenty of homegrown, boutique delis and salumerias of its own.

Of the meals we had, our dinner on our final night at Pappagallo - which was almost like a quaint medieval church inside and out - was definitely the highlight.  For a primi, I had Lasagna Bolognese (I mean, how could I not?) which featured a crispy, golden crust, and meaty, warm delicious center.  I was not disappointed whatsoever.  I also stole some of Mom's artfully homemade tortellini in a pesto sauce with butter and sage.

But the main event was the dinner - the "Veal Bolognese for Two" - a pounded, breaded veal chop with melted cheese and prosciutto on top.  Salty and satisfying as all hell, this sucker had me and dad administering an NJ fist pump between every fourth bite or so.  Just a bad ass, serious meal for men on a mission.  The veal was purely white, with a perfectly toasted exterior and mouth watering aftertaste.  The  cheese and meat was like sprinkling crack on your frosted flakes - perhaps overkill, and yet irresistably amazing. As an added bonus, our server cut the chop at the table.

Not to be forgotten were the scrumptious zucchini fries - moist, cracking, salty.  Ooph, was that a meal.

And when the meal was complete, I sampled some gelato from what I concluded was probably one of the top 3 greatest gelatos I have ever experienced.  No lie.  This little storefront seen above was serving up some of the best gelato I've had.

Bologna was truly a marvelous, beautiful city and I feel like I only scratched the surface, but something told me that the better part of the trip lied ahead. Onto Verona the Iaciofanos went.  Stay tuned for more information on the remainder of the voyage...

The title of this post is in honor of my Full Throttle Endurance teammate Guillaume, who organized my triathlon team's recent cycling trip to France. The team was taking a break from cycling, gawking at some beautiful French scenery, and having our photos taken by obliging tourists ("say, 'frommage!'"), but it was time to get on with the ride. Turning to Guillaume, someone innocently asked, "Hey, Gee, where are we going?" His response, "I don't know, but we are going there."

In much the same spirit, John and I have returned from our European vacation. We have many stories to tell  - food related and otherwise. But the first story is mine. It's an epic tale with action, adventure, 125 km per hour wind gusts, an airborne dog, a nervous breakdown and a champignon omelette with hot chocolate.

So, tuck in, reader, because you are going there.

As I mentioned, the first leg of my vacation was spent cycling in the south of France with my triathlon team. We cycled a challenging terrain, covering anywhere from 50-75 miles a day and riding some segments of the Tour de France course.
I imagined rolling hills peppered with crumbling but cozy stone farmhouses, fields of lavender and wild flowers, medieval towns, and lots of post-ride cheese plates. The trip delivered on all those counts. Headed by Guillaume, our hotels, meals and cheese plates were all lined up like canards in a row.

Two memorable meals for me included the softest, richest nuggets of beef I have yet sampled....something like melted chocolate truffles of the meat variety.

Restaurant Le Parvis, Orange, FranceWhile another finished with an elaborate cheese plate, in which I partook heartily and have no clue as to the identities of the individual cheeses.

Restaurant at the Hotel Clos de la Glycine, Roussillon, FranceOur riding courses were also predetermined. We were all aware before the trip commenced that we would be scaling the intimidating Mont Ventoux. With an elevation of 6,273 feet and an average grade of 7.43%, we were all appropriately intimidated, scared, apprehensive and downright terrified.

The night before, we soothed our terrified bellies at a French gelateria. I chose a salted caramel flavor, but was tempted by the blue "Mont Ventoux" marshmallow gelato (as that is how your legs feel after ascending to the peak).

Régal Tendance, Orange, FranceOur ride began benignly enough. I was quiet during the ride to the mountain, inwardly terrified of what lay ahead.  As Guillaume warned us, "it will be a battle only with yourself."

View 5km from the top. We had to stop to put on extra clothes, as it's very oold up there.Luckily, I had company. My teammate Colleen and I ascended the mountain together. I honestly don't think I could have done it without her, so I must take a moment to thank her (THANKS!). In the two hours it took us to climb to the top, we didn't talk much. Talking was impossible in the face of the effort of climbing, but it was enough to know she was there. She and I climbed for two hours. Sometimes slowly and painfully, sometimes just slowly, and sometimes we threw in a little "weaving action" to give our legs a break.

Colleen and I just before climbing to the very top of the mountain.So what happens when you've been climbing a relentless, switchbacked mountain for 2 hours, finally see the top and are greeted with hurricane force winds? You get blown off your bike, that's what. Or at least I did.

No sooner did I reach the summit area (grunting like a wild boar from the effort) than the full force of the winds that Ventoux is famous for launched me right off my bike and into a cozy snowdrift. I had three consecutive thoughts during this episode:

1. Thank goodness I landed in the snow....those rocks over there look sharp.
2. I should get up, this is going to get cold quickly.
3. I can't get up, I'm pinned to the ground by the wind.

At this point, I made some very dramatic "leave me, save yourself" arm motions at Colleen, which she graciously ignored. When I was finally able to get up, I noticed a stream of my other teammates making their way down the hill, by walking, staying low and hanging on to their bikes for dear life (lest they blow away and take the owners with them).

I made my way across the top, trying to get to the pathway downhill, only to be smacked down again in the middle of the street. So, I sat there, in the street, holding my bike by its back wheel so it wouldn't blow away. As I was using all the strength in my right arm to hold it down,  I had the following thoughts:

1. Well, I could just sit here and wait for the wind to die down.....sometime next month?
2. I should let go of this bike and just let the mountain have it if it wants it so badly.
3. I should really move, I'm in the middle of the street and there are cars.

So, I began pushing my bike to the side of the street, as I still couldn't manage standing, to avoid the cars that refused to stop and help.

Finally, I got up for the second time and began walking downhill, crouching low so I would be less of a flight risk.

At this point, Colleen asked me if I'd like to get on my bike and try riding downhill. I had a hard time conveying the terror in my soul at the very idea, as the winds were still raging full force, so I said meekly, "I think I need to walk for a little while longer."

After a while, I tried riding. I went full white knuckles, clenching the breaks with all my hand strength, one foot clipped into my pedals, the other one out just in case I had to make a quick escape....to where I do not know.

This was really not the best way to achieve forward motion. I would have done much better to ride, as the wind was taking advantage of my slowness and messing with me. But I was really, really scared. Really scared.

When I finally made it to the restaurant, where we were meeting the team for lunch, I had a meltdown. I cried about three separate times, on various people's shoulders (thank you Billy, Tommy and Stacy).

I then consumed two hot chocolates and a champignon (mushroom) omelette with fries, without much idea of how it tasted, or if i was even hungry. I also realized I was very cold.

My teammate Billy summed up the adventure accurately, when he told our guide and van driver, "You said it would be hell, but you didn't mention it would be life threatening."

Luckily, our destination village of Mazan was quaint and charming. I found the following diversions, including an ages-old bread oven (can you say pizza?), a man selling white asparagus from his flat window, and a very friendly salumeria (French sausage!).

I did get back on my bike the next day. I had a fantastic morning ride, packed with lovely French bucolic scenery, medieval towns and a pizza lunch!

The pizza was average, but I enjoyed sitting in the restaurant's warm porch, surrounded by carbohydrates and teammates retelling their Mont Ventoux stories, which included other people being knocked sideways by the wind, a small dog being launched straight into the air (subsequently caught by his owner), and bikes lifted into the air like kites.

As I had to leave the group early to make my way to Milan for Iaciofano family madness, I took a car to Aix en Provence the next day with my teammate Nicole. In Aix, we found a plethora of gourmet shops, including one featuring a cookie bar of epic proportions.

We each claimed an empty tin which we loaded with strawberry, orange, anise, and chocolate "biscuits," some filled with jam or chocolate. I have only a few left, which I'm protecting like Golem watches over his ring. My PRECIOUS! Seriously, though, I'm sure this shop is a tourist trap, and I fell for it hook, line and sinker. And I would do it again. The cookies are buttery and soft - not too crunchy or crumbly. The fillings keep the round versions moist, while the oblong versions are perfect for coffee dipping.

For lunch we enjoyed a damp (it was raining) picnic of what Nicole called, "a fancy pig in a blanket." Her description is accurate, as it was essentially a challah-like loaf of bread stuffed with a mild creamy cheese (like a ricotta) and lardons. C'est magnifique!

By the time I arrived in Milan to meet the family, I didn't know where I was going, but I was going there.

I was four trains in, had tried speaking a few different languages of which I know not all that much, and had received a free extra croissant from the Milan train station cafe attendant. I must have looked hungry.

Confused and hungry seems to be a good way to introduce the Italian segment of the trip. John and I will continue to entertain you with our Italian adventures this week and next, giving you all the tips, tastes and triumphs.

Tommy consults the map. We all got lost repeatedly anyway.

Other weaknesses include, but are not limited to, pizza, truffles, the Jets, and youtubing moonwalk instructionals.  Oh, and grilled cheese.  Everyone loves a good grilled cheese; slices of snapping buttered bread separated by a layer of melted goondess.  So simple, yet so wonderful.  On a recent beautiful Saturday afternoon, I strolled into the West Village to give 'Ino a try, after I had read somewhere that their panini were of some fine craftsmanship.

Inside, it's a small, but interesting spot high on character.  It has a full bar, exposed brick, ceiling fans, and some Birra Moretti on tap. An older gent peacefully reads the newspaper in the corner as the staff lets him be.  It's a lot like a wine or coffee bar in Italy in a way, with an American, country deli twist.  And, they decorate their shelves with giant jars of Nutella (another weakness) which is absolutely cool in my book.

The hipster staff is friendly and knowledgeable, seemingly unoffended by the bright pink polo shirt and side part I'm rocking that day. Feeling summer on this Spring day, I order up an iced tea and, under the advise of the bartender - the Cacciatorini Panini: a grilled goat cheese sandwich with garlic cured salami and a black olive pesto.

The thing is really, really good.  The picture above may not capture it, but the bread is truly wonderful: it has a snapping and slightly golden crust, yet it's substantial, and perfectly moist underneath.  It's a bit airy, so the insides of the Cacciatorini - a perfectly portioned spread of goat cheese, salami, and pesto - seep into the inner portions of the bread quite effectively, keeping things from tasting too dry.  There is an excellent bitter sweet taste to it all.  A fine sandwich, indeed.

A sneak off to the bathroom for a look:

Nothing offensive here - a long, narrow private stall with painted brick, functioning appliances, and a full arsenal of soap and paper towels.  Perhaps slightly claustrophobia inducing but, other than that, just fine.

Overall - I left 'ino feeling full, satisfied and truly impressed.  Browse their panini menu - it's pretty dang impressive; from both a quantity and quality standpoint.  I'm going to make it a point to head back for more of these bad boys.  Or maybe I'll just try some of that truffled french toast.  Sounds SICK.

Overall experience: The Offbeat Success

We must now take a break from our regularly scheduled programming to bring you the anticipated BATHROOM OF THE MONTH AWARD! Is there an echo in here? I mean we are in the bathroom and all...

Anyway! This month's award goes to Perla - one of my new favorite Italian restaurants in the West Village. It's cozy, casual and particularly scrumptious! 

Trust me....check it out here.

I very much enjoyed the bathrooms which were loaded with amenities and art. I think it was the vintage-inspired light fixture that really won me over, though...look at that thing! 

Congratulations, Perla! We know this is the award you've been waiting for.

After 80 km on the bike, we stop in Tavel at Chez Gu (not named after the performance gel of the same name) and dine on eggs and fries. The fries were the freshest I've ever had - these guys must be diligent about changing their oil. And the sunny side up eggs were just runny enough with a healthy helping of herbs...only 30km to L'Orange...