Hog Heaven: Cutting the Lardo di Colonnata by Amy Cortese and Robert McCanless

oes prudence ever prevail when, after landing on Italian soil, you promise yourself not to go wild eating? After a five-day run of sumptuous gluttony in central Tuscany, culminating in a 15-course lunch at chef Gaetano Trovato's three-star Arnolfo Ristorante, restraint should have set in. Instead, there we were, driving on the autostrada towards the Tyrrhenian Sea. While crossing over a mountain pass, a light drizzle turned quickly into a dangerous cocktail of pelting rain and pea-soup fog. Visibility was a scant few feet. Finally, we neared Massa, a bit shaken but content that nearby, up in the fog-shrouded mountains to its west, was our goal: the legendary lardo di Colonnata.

Yes, pig fat.

Some people might recoil at the idea, but there are few things as sublime as thin ribbons of pearly white lardo piled high on top of warm crostini. Though buttery in texture, it packs a complex flavor of herbs and spices borne on a subtle tide of brine. Years back, we'd sampled a northern Italian version of lardo, and marveled over the way, as it gently melted on the tongue, soft notes of rosemary and sage played on our taste buds. We discovered that every region in Italy makes its own particular lardo and that Colonnata's was the most prized. Naturally, we had to find out why.

Lardarium Never mind that much of Italy was closed for All Saints' Day, that it was pouring rain, and that we were far off the beaten track. We gluttonous sinners were determined. Thankfully, we had a guide. Aurelio Cima, whose family owns the Cima winery and restaurant not far from Colonnata, had kindly offered to accompany us on our mission. Up and up we drove, along Colonnata's sole access road. The only visible sights were statuary stands and hulking blocks of unpolished marble. Suddenly the fog lifted. Before us, a distance away, loomed mountains crosshatched with ski slopes. A mile closer, we realized the snow was actually runs of pure-white marble scree, spilled down from numerous open quarries above. After a few more miles of dizzyingly tight switchbacks, Colonnata's charming buildings came into full view above the treetops.

Colonnata — from the Latin word for "column" — is wedged tightly into a high mountainside perch, among the famous marble quarries of Carrara, in the Alpe Apuane. Marble has indelibly shaped the region's history and culture. It has been the primary business here since before Roman times, and its imprint can be seen, and tasted, everywhere. For example, Cima's wines, whether its delicious Vermentino or the singular Massaretta, are distinguished by the unique chalky, mineral quality they acquire from the region's alpine soil. In Colonnata, this rocky soil and mountainous terrain weren't much good for farming or pasturing animals, but pigs thrived on the abundant acorns and chestnuts in the surrounding forests. To stretch their meager food supply, Colonnatesi learned to cure pig fat by rubbing it with salt and herbs and letting it age in marble basins. Dozens of generations of poor stonecutters owed their stamina to a simple meal of thin slices of lardo between hunks of crusty peasant bread.

Arriving in Colonnata's gleaming piazza, we were greeted with a typical Italian scene of informal groups of men chatting, earnest small dogs misbehaving, and startlingly beautiful scenery. Made of polished marble in two shades of gray, the piazza is a byproduct of the local marble trade, but also testament to the prosperity that lardo has brought to the town. Since the 1970s, when a road was built connecting Carrara to Colonnata, word of Colonnata's lardo began to spread. Today the town is accustomed to receiving visitors who come to taste its lardo, but it hasn't given up its small-town soul. Not much English is spoken here, and many Italians would be stumped by the local dialect.

Aurelio led us up little stone alleyways, from house to house, calling out to their occupants. Everyone seemed to be out celebrating the holiday, but after several tries we found an aproned signora who, with a broad smile, ushered us into a cellar where her family makes lardo. Arranged casually about the floor were eight chiseled basins of varying sizes called conca. She slid aside a conca's heavy marble lid, releasing a heady aroma of garlic, herbs, and brine. It was the sort of deeply gratifying smell that causes instant hunger. But wait we must, because to appreciate lardo di Colonnata's essence, we had to first learn of its past and its present production.

Years ago, explained the signora, lardo was produced from local pigs that fed on forest nuts. Now, to meet demand, producers regularly buy pigs from the prosciutto consortiums of Parma and San Daniele. Regulations stipulate Lardo that each pig must weigh a minimum of 350 pounds and be at least nine months old. Lardo is fatback. Each strip of fat must be at least one and a quarter inches thick before it can be cut into rectangular blocks, weighing between one to 11 pounds each. Starting in September, concas are cleansed and treated with vinegar in preparation for lardo production, which starts in the fall and stretches through January. First, each conca's interior is rubbed with garlic. A layer of sea salt, blended with an herb-spice mixture, is then spread thickly across the conca's bottom. Every one of Colonnata's 14 or so lardo-producing families uses their own proprietary spice blend. Ingredients traditionally include a base of rosemary, peppercorns, and garlic and, depending on preference, smaller measures of anise seed, thyme, oregano, sage, nutmeg, and cloves. Slabs of fatback are then laid atop and covered by more sea salt and herb-spice mixturein alternative layers until the conca is nearly topped. After a week's rest, a strong brine is poured over each conca's contents and marble covers are fitted into place. From this point on, the concas are left undisturbed for a minimum of six months, save for an occasional peek by the lardo maker.

This traditional process was preserved only after a hard-won battle with European Union (EU) health officials. A decade ago, EU inspectors were horrified to discover what they believed were primitive, unsanitary conditions at Colonnata's dirt-floored cellars where lardo was made and stored. They wanted lardo makers to adopt modern techniques, including using preservatives and plastic tubs, or halt production. Their spot judgment of lardo's potential bacteriological contamination, unsupported by any scientific study, brought about a middle-of-the-night raid on a number of lardariums.The EU's crass action sparked the first rallying cry for Italy's nascent Slow Food movement and its regional governments to take proactive measures to protect local artisanal traditions. Presented with unequivocal proof that Colonnata's methods ensured a product free of any harmful bacteria, EU officials were forced to relent, only requiring lardo makers to tile their storage cellars and install bathrooms.

Having heard the signora's account, it was at last time to taste the lardo. We accompanied the signora into her small store, just a short walk from her family's cellar. If air was ever edible, it was here. She cut thin slivers of lardo and draped them on slices of peasant bread. The lardo had a beautiful, soft texture, but it was its powerful depth of intricate flavors that made clear why Colonnata's lardo was so acclaimed. Like all great food experiences, each bite had a story to tell. We bought three slabs for 12.5 euro per kilogram and chatted — or, more accurately, gestured — with a few villagers gathered in the store. One feisty woman, who looked youthful for her 90-some years, claimed she owed her longevity to years of drinking wine, smoking cigarettes, and eating lardo. Who knows, maybe pleasurable things are the best preservatives?

Indeed, in a similar vein to the EU inspectors' hasty judgment, we had once assumed lardo represented a formidable menace to our arteries. Yet such grim notions proved false: paradoxically, lardo has less fat than butter and is loaded with nutrition. While its name may seem a perfect moniker for a person of girth, lardo should always be enjoyed guilt-free. And, as we said our final ciaos, that's exactly what we intended to do.