Rice overload, Chicken Run and wearing green - Hazmat green, that is

Early.  Much too early.  My body still swaying to the rhythm of the alpine tractor, I stumbled onto the bus half asleep.  Two hours of driving through vibrant green rice fields later, we emerged, blinking, into the scorching sun.  It was the courtyard of a traditional brick working property - the wings of the building forming a solid square with huge archways out to the fields surrounding it.

A lively couple strode out to meet us.  He, a grandfatherly man whose ready smiles crinkled his dancing brown eyes up into tanned wrinkles.  She, the perfectly groomed 'younger' woman in designer sunglasses, Prada sandals and a caftan that managed to look both cool and elegant.  With effusive greetings, they poured us water and ushered us into one of the side wings to introduce us to the world of artisanal rice production.

It was a fascinating morning.  After years of standard rice production, this company decided to strike out in a new direction and age their carnaroli rice for up to seven years, to provide maximum quality.  Apparently most rice is sold just after it's harvested, and it's not at its best until at least one year.  At the same time, they discovered the germ actually contains the most nutrients, and rather than just detaching it as most producers do, they created technology to reincorporate those nutrients back into the rice.  Arguably, their rice is the best in the world for risotto - just ask the celebrity chefs worldwide who swear by it in their kitchens.

After a long question and answer period, we retired to the dining room for lunch, which strangely didn't feature any of their renowned risotto.  We began with a taste taste - their carnaroli rice, another producer's and parboiled rice.  The contrast in textures was interesting, but I have to admit it was the toasted hazelnut oil drizzled on top that made the experience.

Next up were two servings of rice salad - one made with their rice, the other with basmati.  This was quickly chased with cold rice beer - different, but very refreshing.  Our resident beer expert, Luca, beamed across the table: all was right in his world.  Last we were served two scoops of fior di latte gelato - one with carnaroli and the other with Japanese sticky rice mixed in.  Hmmm.  Lovely gelato, but with rice?  For the record, sticky rice melts more easily in your mouth.  You know, just in case you're staring blankly into your fridge one hot summer's night and need inspiration.


All the while, we had a constant commentary.  And here we have Italian Cultural Observation #2.  Marketing is a strange beast in Italy.  In North America, your product alone is practically perfect in every way, to steal a line from Mary Poppins.  Yet in Italy, apparently if you can't use fully naked women in your advertising (and surprisingly, you can for just about everything), you can just talk about how you prefer the other product in gelato.  Or shrug, and say it's all just a matter of taste.  Which it is, but this approach certainly gives rise to the expression about truth in advertising...

Suitably carb-loaded, we had a sweltering tour of the production facility, the high point literally being able to stand atop three stories of aging rice in their silos.  We also were able to tour the museum where they've recreated the rice workers' dormitories, complete with granny panties.


If we could've left at this point, the impressions of this visit would've been substantially more positive.  Instead, we trooped back into our classroom and spent two more hours hearing again and again all about their marketing strategy and package design.  We were hot, sweaty, dehydrated . . . and dropping asleep like flies.  While they generously sent us on our way with bags full of their product, enthusiasm had seriously waned.  Ladies and gentlemen, I'll let you know if the $15 per half pound coffee tin of rice for sale at Williams-Sonoma is truly risotto-worthy.  At a much later date.


Our next stop was a chicken company.  After a brief history of the company and their practices, we were faced with an alfresco spread of chicken salad, liver bites, liver tarts and wine.  It was while I was contemplating wine that Andy sauntered over and made the money comment that has prefaced these study trip entries: 'C'mon Heidi, drink up.  It's time to super-stage me.'  Well-put.  If gluttony truly is a sin, the average UNISG student is doomed on stage.

No rest for the wicked though.  We were quickly herded back onto the bus to visit one of the chicken farms.  Seeing as the chicks were only five days old, some protection from twenty-five rampaging, snap-happy grad students was in order.  Fortunately, Hazmat suits were ruled out in favour of hazmat boots.  Ah . . . nothing like wrapping feet in plastic in 35° weather.


I think it goes without saying that chicks are cute.  My favourites were the dozen who huddled by the door looking all fluffy and innocent . . . until they made a break for it.  Kate, I swear one of them was cautioning the others to creep in all quiet-like, like a fish...  No matter, their bid for freedom was denied by the farmer's son.

The real adventure started when the bus began making strange wheezing noises as our driver started it back up again for the long trek back to Bra.  After waving random tubes around and swearing creatively, our driver managed to get it working - sans A/C.  Ugh.

Thirty minutes of sweat bath later, it shuddered and died somewhere on the highway, the wrong side of Torino.  We piled out to watch Mr. Driver yet again pull rubber tubes and belts out of the engine . . . and then scratch his head trying to figure out how they fit back in.  Rae started an impromptu Lady Gaga dance party to keep spirits high for the hour we hung out, watching all the cars speed by.

What really helped though, was getting the bus going long enough to deposit us at the nearest Autogrill while we waited for the backup bus.  What do foodies do when the going gets tough?  Apparently, we dive into Pringles and drink cold beer on the road side.  Oh yeah, we're high class.

Another interesting ending to a study trip.  What will Burgundy in September bring?