I had this little conversation with myself during the umpteenth course at Agriturismo La Colti somewhere outside of Olbia, Sardegna on a warm spring night. Mrs. NH had sought out another great restaurant and managed to program the Garmin nüvi to get us there.
Before that thought hit, we were served with course after course of good food. We had artisan gnocchi (also called Gnochetti Sardi), gently fork-dimpled just enough to hold a generous coating of meat sauce. The gnocchi was a firmer consistency than I was used to but Mrs. NH was happy to finish what I didn’t. The other dish that stuck out was the puffy, pastry/lasagna-like dish. It’s pictured at the top-left of this post so if you know what it is, let me know. Topping that all off was a tender, fatty suckling pig (Porchetto Mirto) served on top of some myrtle branches.
But back to the burro.
So, there I was, in the middle of a freshly prepared, delicious, typical Sardegnian meal wondering if I was eating Eeyore. Donkey is apparently a typical dish in those parts. Luckily, I’ve eaten plenty of weird things in my life and the though of it didn’t bother me too much. But it did get to the crux of my only beef (pun not intended) with the meal at La Colti. There were some awesome dishes but as it was pre fixe, nothing was written down and when plates arrived I had little idea what most of them were. The girl who slapped them on the table said what some of them were in rapid Italian but others she just placed on the table and ran off looking like she was about to go put out a fire on the roof. Sure, I could tell there were tomatoes on the plate and I managed to catch the word for pork in the split second after she slammed the plate down and disappeared into thin air, but lots of other things just got devoured without knowing exactly what they were.
Also served were local wines in La Colti labeled bottles and a super-tasty jug of Mirto for dessert. Those, I had no problem identifying.
That said, it was all good. I’m afraid I’m just not in much of a position to tell you what all of it was. But I did catch one word in particular. “Pecora.” It sounded like Pecorino so even the slightly mirto-dulled synapses in my head fired enough to register it. And, I remembered the word until the next day, 99% sure it was Italian for Eeyore. When I pulled the Italian dictionary from my backpack, I was relatively pleased at what I found. Pecora – Sheep. Huh. Not baaaad. Better yet, I can still record episodes of “My Friends Tigger and Pooh” for Little NH with a clear conscience.