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.
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