Sauris & Borc da Bria in Milan, review: Friulian cuisine and the ultimate trattoria?
Often, a sign of how little a place is known is the stubborn, persistent banality of the clichés surrounding it. Thus, Trieste is Central Europe; all of Friuli is a borderland and a culture with blurred boundaries, with Slavic and Bohemian influences.
There's something bizarrely medieval about the eccentric spice mix in their magnificent braised beef cheek, enriched with cinnamon and cloves. An ancient touch that, while it may turn up the noses of the standard-bearers of contemporary taste, nevertheless gives this and other Friulian specialties a strong identity. Like the plum gnocchi, of ancient Bohemian origin, or the cjalsons, agnolotti filled with bizarre, pre-modern mixes, like onions, raisins, chard, and sometimes cocoa.
Gnocchi and cjalsons aren't on the menu, along with a handful of other traditional dishes like muset (a pork snout cooked like cotechino). Indeed, the concise and partial menu is the only slightly off-putting aspect of this trattoria, which is otherwise a true gem. Furthermore, the menu changes constantly and reflects the kitchen's creativity and seasonal offerings, so rather than a lack, it's more of an occasion to return.
Of course, frico is a must-try, a soft cheesecake that's the pinnacle of Friulian comfort food. Its essence is, well, a soft cheesecake, as any other ingredient is a variation on the theme, and many are acceptable. Here, it's served with Montasio cheese, potatoes, and onion, in a terracotta bowl that surrounds a luxuriously bronzed crust of crème brûlée. The interior is a frothy, indistinct, and perfectly balanced amalgam, where the onion discreetly enriches the texture and flavor without overpowering it.
Bright white walls, like raw lime, covered with countless relics related to the countryside and rural life, make the place both stark and evocative. Humble and rustic, yet warm and evocative. Like an ancient peasant's home. Through synaesthetic association, it seems—but it's an illusion—to feel the atmosphere permeated by the fumes of a slowly simmering cauldron. It would be the usual cliché of a warm and rustic trattoria, were it not for the fact that here the reference to the original atmosphere is genuine and far removed from any prepackaged aesthetic: Carnia, a region in Friuli where many of the products used in the kitchen originate, is one of the most isolated and rural areas in Italy.
The service is friendly and appropriate, although the expertise on the dishes and especially the wines seems to be exclusively reserved for the head waiter. We chat about the menu, which is brief but—importantly—exclusively representative of the Friuli region. We drank very well, but just to split hairs, I would have thought more attention should be paid to artisanal and natural wines, as Friuli is a region renowned for its excellence and tradition.
The mixed platter is a thoughtful selection of some specialties, including a rather unusual chocolate-flavored mountain cheese (did we mention the odd combinations?) and Formadi Frant, a leftover cheese whose recipe varies from house to house. But what makes this selection special is the pomp and circumstance accompanying it: the bread basket. The whole-wheat loaf, sliced into thick, square slices like melting brownies, while excellent, takes last place in the competition, compared to the ethereal, impossibly crumbly breadsticks, an explosion of tiny shards pulverized in the mouth like fireworks. And the dense, homemade white bread, as sweet as potato bread. Perhaps enriched with cornmeal.
Blecs, a triangular version of maltagliati made with buckwheat and topped with white beef ragù, is another honest and well-crafted addition to the array of traditional dishes. The star of the main course is polenta. Its brown, speckled color suggests taragna polenta with buckwheat, but it could actually be the result of browning it in butter, which releases toasted, intense notes. It pairs perfectly with beef goulash and its rich paprika sauce. Even better is the combination with duck liver escalope in toc' in braide, a dish roughly translated as seasoned polenta, which has countless variations. The bold oxymoron of the coarseness of the polenta and the sophistication of the foie gras contrasts with the seamless monochromaticism of the two components, from blush to faint hazelnut, which gives the whole a beauty that's almost superfluous for a trattoria dish, and therefore all the more disconcerting. It's just a shame the liver wasn't deveined, but we're not in a grand Parisian hotel, and that's a venial sin.
Gubana, a leavened pastry rolled into a spiral and filled with dried fruit, is a typical dessert of Friulian holidays and a guardian of after-dinner reflections. Regardless of the cuisine, it probably doesn't take much to create the ultimate trattoria, which finds its essence in a characteristic and sincere atmosphere, in rustic, weighty cuisine, yet solid in technique and quality ingredients. And in prices that are appropriate, that is, typical of a trattoria. Why is it so rare to find one in Milan?
Opinion
Like every Italian city, Milan is brimming with trattorias. It's therefore paradoxical that it's anything but easy to find, among the many, those most faithful to the few but certain principles that should be cornerstones of the trattoria concept. Sincere and unpretentious cuisine, capable of instilling a passion for the local traditions it represents; a cheerful and characteristic atmosphere without being overly camp; and trattoria-like prices. This is one of the few winning examples.
