Gianduja as Salve

Lisa Minucci

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2 min read

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Aug 9, 2023

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Gawd, it was a couple of shite Italy days, quite specific to the country, where absolutely nothing clicks; doors closed, offices shut, kiosks not working, visa stamps unavailable, and unbelievably poor decisions made by supposed professionals who are anything but, reveal themselves as work performed by yahoos. The vistas, food, people, and culture check all my boxes, but oy vey, my mouth is often agape at paternalistic behavior from the unknowing.
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Days not long ago would’ve seen me licking my wounds with a Canadian whisky in the tub, but sleep has become more critical than booze to this horribly menopausal chick. I’m comforted by older council that I’ll eventually be able to, once again, band-aid with a boozy salve, but for now, it’s gianduja.
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This chocolate spread is mixed with at least thirty-percent hazelnut paste. Grown widely throughout Piemonte, hazelnuts are worked into tarts and cakes, stuffed into birds, and scattered on morning yogurt, but it’s gianduja for which I jones. The scent of toasting hazelnuts perfumes late autumn air, cracked shells littering the orchards from the delighted cinghiale, the wild pigs who manage to elude (or endure) electric fences for nightly feasts.
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In frugal, use-whatcha-got Piemonte, gianduja was concocted in Turin in response to a shortage of cacao. In 1806, Napoleon’s Continental System (a twisted Brexit precursor) prohibited British goods from entering European ports under French control. Turinese confectioners cut the precious, hard-to-score chocolate with local hazelnut paste, judiciously, deliciously extending supply.
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Families here make their own gianduja, some adding more hazelnut paste or using dark chocolate instead of traditional milk. I eat it on cookies, a biscuit, or schmeared on a banana. Sometimes, I don’t even use a knife.