AT HOME IN THE ZOLDO VALLEY

ICE CREAM SHOPS IN GERMANY ARE TRADITIONALLY RUN BY ITALIANS. THE SHOPS ARE ABANDONED IN WINTER AND OPENED AGAIN IN EARLY APRIL. BUT WHERE DO THE ICE CREAM MAKERS SPEND THE WINTER MONTHS?

The Zoldo Valley slowly empties out. It is the end of February, and some have already loaded their suitcases and boxes into their cars bearing German license plates and driven down the narrow road that runs alongside the raging mountain river Maè to Longarone, then on to the Autobahn, heading for Brenner. Their destination: countless German cities, from Aachen to Zittau. The last wait until March; then they too close up their houses and set out in a northerly direction to reopen their ice cream shops throughout Germany after the winter break. The only ones who remain in the narrow valley nestled into the Do lomite mountains are the elderly and the children of the ice cream makers.

PARENTS IN GERMANY, CHILDREN IN ITALY
Fausto Bortolot, 68, sits on the terrace of his house in Zoppé and lights his pipe while surveying the sun-kissed summit of Monte Civetta. On the other side of the Zoldo Valley, the Dolomite foothills tower over 3,200 meters. There’s no need for Bortolot to explain why he loves this small corner of the world so dearly, or why, after 53 years in Cochem an der Mosel, he still calls this place home. In the living room of his large house five children are sitting around a chessboard. They are the Bortolot’s grandchildren whose parents left the valley just a few days ago — for a long eight months. The daughter-in-law is still here, but will be leaving the day after tomorrow: “The separation is worse for me as a mother than for the children,” she says.

ROOTS GO DEEP IN THE ZOLDO VALLEY
In the small village school in Zoppé, four of five pupils quickly raise their hands in answer to the question whose parents work in Germany as ice cream makers. They happily wave their hands in the air and don’t seem at all sad that they will only hear their fathers’ and mothers’ voices on the phone or via Skype during the next months. It’s a way of life that they’re used to. Most of the sons and daughters of ice cream makers who work in Germany only attend kindergarten there. As soon as they start school, the serious side of life begins — as does the long separation from their parents. “We all have deep roots in this valley,” explains Bortolot. “And we want to pass them on to our children.” The children shouldn’t forget where they come from and where they will return to when they are old. Of the approximately 5,000 ice cream shops in Germany, a little over half are run by the Zoldani: Lazzarin, Fontanella, Soravia, Zanolli, Panciera, to name a few of the families. It was a case of pure hardship that drove the first of them to the capital city of the Austro-Hungarian Empire at the end of the 19th century. Until that time, the inhabitants lived from the inhospitable land, as raftsmen or producing charcoal from the trees covering the mountains; some had small mines from which they were able to extract a bit of iron. Time and again, however, avalanches and devastating floods completely destroyed their work. In 1882, the Maè carried away almost all of the workshops and mills, forcing the valley residents to seek their fortune beyond the mountains. Initially, the Zoldani, as they call themselves, sold cookies, candied pears and roasted chestnuts from their wooden carts, until a few of them discovered mobile ice cream. The mass made from milk, eggs and sugar was chilled in small manually-operated machines in which ice and salt were mixed to a temperature of – 17° Celsius.

Things continued along this way for the Zoldani, who perfected their ice cream making skills in Germany, Poland and Austria well into the 1930s. The Second World War only briefly interrupted the unstoppable rise of “gelato italiano.” Post-war reconstruction ushered in the best of times: In every German city, the ice cream shop became a gathering place for teenagers and families.

HANDMADE IS HOMEMADE!
Just below Zoppé, in the small village of Bragarezza, Dario Olivier loads his suitcases into his silver-grey Mercedes. Today he’s returning to Witten an der Ruhr, where, in 1930, his grandfather opened one of the first ice cream parlors in the Ruhr region. Dario Olivier is also vice president of “Uniteis,” an association of Italian ice cream producers in Germany. He knows that many families are currently going through tough times: “Selling ice cream is not as attractive as it used to be. Many children are aware of the other opportunities out there and no longer want to follow in their parents’ footsteps.” Even more than the future generation’s freedom of choice, however, Dario Olivier fears the competition of the soulless ice cream industry with their finished products, as well as the many newcomers who open an ice cream shop and have neither experience nor passion for what they do. “When someone has sold screws their entire life, they can’t just simply switch over to ice cream,” says the Zoldani with conviction. Legally, though, they can: The production of ice cream is not subject to established training regulations—something that Dario Olivier and the other members of Uniteis want to change. Recently, they received a license from the Rhein-Main Chamber of Commerce for a two-year training program as a state-approved ice cream producer. “For us, it’s all about protecting the quality of handmade ice cream.” And it’s also about hygiene and reliable products — and guarding against undesired competition.

A COLORFUL MIX OF GERMAN DIALECTS
Dario speaks with the accent common to the German spoken in the Ruhr area; in fact, just about everyone in Zoldo speaks with the accent from the area in which they sell their ice cream. In the “Brustolon” bar, where the ice cream retirees meet for a daily round of cards, the various accents are most noticeable in greeting and in parting.

As the sun sets in the Zoldo Valley, the last rays turn the peak of Monte Pelmo red. And for a few minutes, the rocks take on the color of raspberry ice cream.

Text: Philipp Mausshardt, Photos: Rainer Kwiotek, Frank Schultze
Bilfinger Berger Magazine 1/2010