Foodie day trip to Mantova — A Day of Shade, Sbrisolona, and Salame
- Made al Dente
- Jul 6
- 4 min read
Updated: Jul 9
A summer’s day in Mantova, softened by shaded porticoes, colorful pastas, traditional torta, and a dinner of local treasures brought home.
It was early July, and the sun had already staked its claim over the Po Valley. Normally, this would be the season to retreat from cities—to seek refuge in the hills or near the sea. But Mantova is a city that makes a quiet case for summer. It has something that most others don’t: shade.
Mantova’s portici—arched colonnades that stretch across much of the historic centre—feel like they were built for this very purpose. As we stepped out of the car and into the centre, the heat softened beneath their shelter. Light filtered through columns, bounced off cool
stone, and made even the most sun-bleached piazza feel bearable. We weren’t alone; Mantovani strolled in measured steps, never rushed, as though the pace of the Renaissance still lingered in their bones.
And perhaps it does.
Mantova wears its history not just in its architecture, but in its atmosphere. Once ruled by the powerful Gonzaga dynasty for nearly four centuries, this city became one of the great cultural centres of the Italian Renaissance. Here, Mantegna painted, Monteverdi composed, Giulio Romano imagined impossible palaces. The city’s very stones seem to remember. The rhythm is old, but it hums quietly on.
We wandered past the sprawling façade of Palazzo Ducale, the former seat of the Gonzaga family—a patchwork of frescoed halls and courtyards stretching across 34,000 square metres. Its cool shadows invited a moment of pause before we turned down a quieter street, drawn toward one of the city’s most beloved food destinations: Scaravelli.
The moment we stepped into Pasticceria Scaravelli, we were enveloped in a perfume of butter, almonds, sugar, and flour—the scent of tradition. Behind the glass counters were tall displays of the region’s most iconic cakes, each stacked high as if they had grown there.
There was Torta Sbrisolona, perhaps Mantova’s most famous sweet, its name coming from sbriciolare, meaning "to crumble." It’s not cut but broken into chunks by hand. Made originally by peasants using cornmeal, lard, and hazelnuts, it was once the humble counterpart to courtly desserts. Over time, it was adopted by noble kitchens and enriched with almonds and butter, becoming the crunchy, golden treat we know today.
Next to it, the Torta di Rose, coiled and blooming, its spirals rising like a basket of sugared petals. Created in the court of Isabella d’Este in the 15th century, it was originally baked to honour her wedding. The cake is rich in butter and sugar, the dough rolled and twisted into roses before being baked into a golden cluster. Each bite holds both delicacy and decadence.
There was also Torta Elvezia, a nod to Mantova’s once-thriving community of Swiss pastry chefs, who brought refined techniques and layers of almond meringue, custard, and buttercream to local tradition. Torta Greca—despite its name—has nothing to do with Greece, but is a beloved local cake of almond filling encased in crisp pastry. And lastly, the Anello del Monaco, a ring-shaped cake infused with spices and citrus, its origins shrouded in monastic secrecy.
Behind the counter, a woman in a white apron stood with practiced grace, her fingers moving over tortellini dough. Each motion was fluid, assured, and silent. She folded and shaped with the kind of knowledge that lives in the fingertips. We watched her for a long moment—awed by the skill, the simplicity, the silence of craftsmanship.
We stayed for coffee and shared two monoporzioni: one of Torta di Rose, still slightly warm and sticky at the edges, and one of Torta Greca, its flaky exterior giving way to sweet almond richness. We ate slowly, the cakes disappearing in forkfuls between sips of espresso and soft conversation. The air was thick with memory—even for things we hadn’t lived.
From Scaravelli, the day continued with delicious momentum. We walked under the porticoes again, drawn by scent and instinct to Panificio Pavesi. The windows were slightly fogged from heat and baking. Inside, rows of Pane Mantovano—that signature bread with its bulbous knot and burnished crust—were cooling on trays. This is a bread shaped by history too: designed to be torn easily into halves, made for sharing. The crust was thick, the crumb elastic and fragrant with natural fermentation. We bought four.
Our final gourmet stop was Il Salumaio, a place of quiet reverence and cool air, thick with the scent of cured pork and cracked pepper. We chose a coil of Salame Mantovano, coarse
and rustic, seasoned with garlic and red wine, made using timeworn methods passed down quietly in local families.
Later, just before leaving town, we made a detour to La Tur dal Sucar—a name that had come up too often to ignore. The shop, run by the same man for more than 60 years, is a time capsule of sweetness. There, we bought a stack of Torte Sbrisolona to take home for friends and family—crackly and golden, wrapped in paper like precious things.
By mid-afternoon, the sun was bold again. We found shade in Piazza Pallone, a garden square tucked behind the grandeur. The trees rustled lightly overhead. We sat on a bench, sipping water, letting the day settle around us. The day trip to Mantova had offered us its finest—without spectacle, without rush.
That evening, at home, we laid out a simple table: Salame Mantovano, torn pieces of Pane Mantovano, and the aubergine salad I had prepared the day before—grilled slices marinated in vinegar and mint. The kind of dinner that doesn’t need cooking. Just remembering.
Every bite carried the day with it: the shade of the porticoes, the layered scent of the pasticceria, the feel of old stone underfoot.
Mantova doesn’t demand attention. It invites intimacy. It’s a city of quiet pleasures—cakes with stories, hands that remember, and streets designed for slow walks and slower eating.
And in the hush of a summer day, it gave us all of that—and more.
