Before the First Bite
Following Taste, Finding More
Hiša Franko | Slovenia
I have come to accept that it is very likely I may never, ever, have a breakfast like the one I had at Hiša Franko in Slovenia.
I remember waking to the smell of baking bread. It might have even been the aroma of the quiche’s flaky crust browning to a golden, buttery perfection. It’s entirely possible, too, that I was taking in wondrous wafts of those cookies, [those cookies!] expanding in the oven. Whatever it was, this fragrant concerto had mercilessly captivated my sense of smell since I woke up that October morning and aroused every corner of my now wide-awake imagination.
As soon as my eyes had popped open, and my body could register where I was and what that meant about what I’d soon be devouring, I was halfway through my shower. I don’t know if I’ve leapt out of bed and moved like that since I last believed a man in a big red suit had taken his annual plunge down our family’s chimney.
I always knew staying at the Hiša Franko House after doing their tasting menu would be a once-in-a-lifetime gift to my tastebuds. I grossly underestimated, however, how much my four other senses would appreciate this brush with the divine.
The property, which includes the House and the Restaurant, is nestled in between the Julian Alps on one side and an idyllic, infinite stretch of farms and pastures on the other.
I have never seen such beauty with my own eyes.
It is why now every heavenly adjective in my vocabulary rushes forth in pandering supplication only to fall miserably short in their realizations, their half-hearted translations of what this part of the world really looks, sounds, feels and of course smells and tastes like.
Breakfast at Hiša Franko, under the direction of its three-Michelin-star owner and head chef Ana Roš, is no different. It is a sacrosanct work of art. An indisputable masterpiece.
Despite being served in the same room where lunch had been served the day before, breakfast here, thanks to Ana Roš’ vision and Mother Nature’s wonder, feels miraculously and mysteriously – different. It is a spiritual affair.
Under the light of a new day, the property’s dining room transforms as the rays of the morning sun bathe it in a radiant, ethereal glow. The bouquets, scents and smells that first greet each guest tease the unpretentious and unforgettable tastes to come. As they regretfully but inevitably wear off, all that is left is the sweetest kind of anticipation, hanging just so over meticulously set tables.
The room is alive, but quiet, yet not unnervingly so. It is scored instead, it seems, softly and reverently to show deference to the dayspring awe that the room’s floor-to-ceiling windows frame and capture: dewy fields, perking flowers and regal and sturdy backlit trees.
The moment one sits down at their table, affable waiters take coffee and tea orders, put finishing touches on breakfast charcuterie boards and deposit fresh-out-of-the-oven quiches, cookies and baked goods in between bowls of homemade yogurt, fresh-picked berries, persimmons and pears, and jars of still-warm granola.
As I unfold my napkin and place it on my lap, I realize I’ve already feasted on it all before ever taking a bite.
