The delicate yet bold taste of our mountains

My Name

Let me introduce myself: I am Rifugio Stella Alpina Spiz Piaz, and I still remember all those creative aromas— born from the imaginative recipes of eight-year-old Vittorio. Then came the daring experiments of his teenage years, stubbornly conducted between one season and the next. "What are you still doing here? Go and play!" his family and friends would tell him, their good-natured scolding ringing through the air. But there was no convincing him: "I’m a chef, and a chef belongs in the kitchen."

These four walls of mine have seen it all—the joy, the struggles, and the warmth of a family that, while a little rough around the edges, is always welcoming and steadfast in adversity. I’ve watched them all grow up, these boys and girls, amidst the edelweiss flowers that gave me my name.

My Chef

Vittorio returned a couple of years ago, bringing with him the same passion he had as a child but now enriched with experience. Culinary school, meals shared with friends, years spent in the kitchen alongside his older brother, and those first curious pairings tested over the open flames of mountain cabins.

Now, my kitchen is his kingdom.

He works tirelessly year-round, preparing, teaching, leading, demonstrating, and explaining. When he gets a moment to breathe, he studies, invents, tastes, blends, and cooks. He roams the length and breadth of Trentino, speaking with farmers, breeders, and specialists in herbs, honey, and flowers. He knows every flavour of his land and has mastered the art of sourcing the finest ingredients to elevate his creations and honour the work behind these precious gems. He does not hesitate to venture into remote villages, like where his friend Arrigo, a traditional farmer, grinds old-fashioned cornmeal.

Or to visit the folks at N’Outa, who revive ancient crops, tend bees, and craft pine and Swiss pine syrups—not to mention their fragrant rosehip jam, as sweet as the flowers themselves. At home, everything is a collective effort. Together, they make pasta, soups, dumplings, sauces, extracts, ice creams, and cakes. There is the strudel, crafted with meticulous care, from the apples to the raisins, pine nuts, and the tender dough made with heritage flour and fresh butter.

Then there are the bold creations, like the lovage (or mountain celery) ice cream, which astonishes anyone lucky enough to try it.

What does the mountain taste like?

“And the polenta?” “

“Don’t worry, the polenta stays! The best there is!” I heard Vittorio say it, pacing up and down the kitchen, pondering aloud: “What does the mountain taste like?” I believe that’s where it all began— the idea of a cuisine that’s both authentic and profound, capable of blending simplicity with innovation rooted in the offerings of the land. Vittorio embarked on a quest, rejecting every shortcut.

He delved into the history of herbs and traditions, ancient grains, and the slow, respectful methods our grandparents taught us. He focused on every detail, every ingredient. For a time, the kitchen was overflowing with books, herbs, and flours of every type and hue. Gradually, the ingredients came together, combined, and burst into life.

One morning, I woke up to find a little garden sprouting up beside one of my walls. “I need fresh mountain herbs and spices close at hand,” Vittorio explained. Now, when I drift off to sleep, I’m lulled by the aromas of savory, coriander, monarda, lovage, mustard, tarragon, and chervil.

To serve the essence of the mountain, you have to know it intimately. The Vajolet Towers and the Catinaccio peaks stand there, suspended in moments of life, eternally waiting for their admirers. The seasons stretch on: Vittorio and his family have chosen to keep me open even in the quieter, calmer times. I enjoy my silences, my space. I have more time to welcome those who come to visit me.