Two weeks after their first baby was born, I flew to New York City to visit friends who were deep in the labor and logistics of new parenthood, sleep-deprived and confined to a cramped apartment. I wanted to do something nice for them, so I offered to cook an unrushed grown-up dinner — something missing from their current routine. I planned a menu of smoked fish pâté and risotto, and for dessert, there was no question: I wanted to make budino.
The budino I had in mind came from Florabella, an upscale Italian restaurant and café just off Brooks Street in Missoula’s Rose Park neighborhood. The space, which was formerly the beloved Caffe Dolce, is airy and flooded with natural light. A floating, sculptural light fixture — pink as twilit cirrus clouds — hangs overhead, giving the effect of sitting in a wine bar on Mount Olympus. In the summer, when they throw open the French doors, and music and chatter spill onto the sun-drenched patio, it is one of the best places in the city to linger over dinner with a few friends and a bit too much wine. The pastas are made in-house, and the pizza, with its blistered, Neapolitan-style crust and high-quality toppings, is delicious. But the thing that keeps Florabella in the regular date-night rotation for my wife and me isn’t the pasta or the pizza. It’s their chocolate budino.
Florabella’s budino is thick and silky-smooth — somewhere between a custard and a ganache. It tastes like eating a high-quality dark chocolate bar with a spoon.
“Budino” in Italian means “pudding,” and that’s basically what it is. But if, like me, you were brought up on powdered Jell-O and pudding cups, prepare to be blown away by your first experience with budino. The first time we ordered it, the toppings for that day were a few drops of olive oil and a sprinkle of lavender blossoms, which made me feel very fancy as I dug into the first bite. Compared with the gloppiness of the pudding I grew up with or the airiness of a mousse, Florabella’s budino is thick and silky-smooth — somewhere between a custard and a ganache. It tastes like eating a high-quality dark chocolate bar with a spoon. Contrasted with the practical, quick fix of a pudding cup, budino is slow, intentional, romantic.
From New York, I called Florabella and explained what I was planning. They were delighted to help, and within a few hours they texted me the recipe. It was strange to discover that the dessert I’d dreamt about for years fit into just a few short sentences. Eggs, chocolate, sugar, heavy cream, milk. The recipe was designed for the restaurant and, as written, made eight quarts. They warned me to scale it down, and I — assuming that more budino is always better — didn’t really pay attention.
In my friends’ kitchen, I dissolved sugar into milk and cream, whisked in the eggs, and then stirred the hot mixture into a bowl of chocolate shards, which melted through the pale custard in dark ribbons until the whole thing coalesced into a rich brown. As I slid it into their fridge to chill, I realized the massive amount I’d made — probably a few weeks’ worth of budino. Oops.
Missoula has no shortage of great dessert options — some of my favorites include the cardamom cone from Big Dipper, the pain du matin from LPO, and the face-sized s’mores cookie from Bigfoot Cookies. But it seems telling that the dessert I chose to recreate for two of my closest friends — these two sleep-deprived parents — was this deceptively simple chocolate pudding.
With the detritus of new parenthood surrounding us, I dolloped thick swirls of budino into everyone’s bowls. Baby Quin wasn’t allowed any, of course, and he had been laid down to sleep in the other room. But the rest of us dipped our spoons into the deep chocolate lusciousness, which I’d topped with lavender and a drizzle of olive oil that added a delicate floral and peppery note. The budino, paired beautifully with a bottle of red wine, was a hit. Tired but happy, we settled into the moment — a stolen pocket of quiet love and support, seasoned with dark chocolate. And, over the course of my visit, we kept finding reasons to pull it back out of the fridge, which proved that the massive amount I’d made was exactly right.
