As the gray months turn Technicolor, people living in northern Italy tend to reflect on some very important questions: Is it too soon to swap coats for jackets? How many times did I hit the slopes this year? And, most importantly—when was the last time I ate bolliti?
Bolliti, a smorgasbord of boiled meats, veggies, and sauces, has been a cornerstone of Northern Italian cuisine since medieval times. While Piedmont lays claim to its most famous renditions, bolliti also thrives in other northern regions such as Veneto, where I first encountered it years ago—and where, just last weekend, I found myself facing it once again.
Upon arrival at Verona’s Ristorante Cavour, renowned for its preparation of the dish, we promptly informed the waiter that all eight of us would be ordering the same. A glass or two of Valpolicella in, we spotted it—at first, a mirage, then a steaming cart rolling toward us, with hues of brown, marbled pinks and whites coming into focus. The waiter described what they had to offer that night, with the practiced air of someone who had delivered this performance countless times: lingua (cow tongue), ham, testina (calf head), cotechino (a rich, fatty pig sausage), chicken and roast beef.
Some of the meats, perhaps more daring than appealing, sent a question rippling down the table—which of them can you handle?
The ritual was simple: choose your cuts and accompany them with some of the traditional condiments available—salsa verde (a blend of parsley, garlic, anchovies, extra virgin olive oil, and breadcrumbs), horseradish, mostarda (candied fruits encased in a spicy syrup made with mustard extract) or pearà (a mixture of bread crumbs, beef broth, bone marrow, butter and black pepper). Some used the meat as a vehicle for salsa verde, others clung to the warmth of pearà, and then there were those who came for everything, diving into the most audacious cuts.
At one point, my partner nudged me, pointing to a piece on his plate, “I can’t eat this one," he said. "Would you mind eating it for me?” I looked down at the offending piece—the tip of the cow tongue, a cut that shattered the boundary between food and animal. It was a moment reminiscent of my brother, who used to slip his vegetables (the so-called “green things”) under the table for me to eat. The tip of the cow tongue is a piece of pure muscle and undeniably my least favorite part of the tongue, but without hesitation, I took the piece from my partner’s plate and ate it as if accepting some unspoken challenge.
Despite its unassuming appearance, most cuts presented a contrast of textures and richness that belied the dish’s humble origins. The chicken and roast beef, with their undeniably homey flavors, pronounced by hours of simmering among bones and marrow, gave way to comfort. The rich cotechino made half of us all but lose our composure, and the testina, albeit chewy, offered a luscious depth of flavor. Even the tongue was savored—especially the cuts toward the back of the tongue, where slow-cooked ligaments melted into pockets of supple tenderness.
After we finished, I reflected on the reason why we hadn’t been invited to dinner, but why we had been invited to eat bolliti. It was more than just a meal; it was an event, a commitment of both will and appetite, a ritual of humble abundance.
While I won’t miss winter exactly, I’ll eagerly await its return, ready to reaffirm my Italian-ness with another feast of bolliti.
