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so i made it back to mr close for the halloumi sandwich last week. the original plan of course, had been to brown bag it and pair it with a chai frappucino from the starbucks across the way. but it was not quite lunchtime and the cafe area only held a handful of suits in business meetings, so i showed myself to a table in the corner, and breathed the springtime scent of the jonquils before me. in no time at all, a smartly aproned waitress brought water and a menu. lovely.

now. see the charming little clutter of flowers, peppermill and stripy postcards — it no doubt makes for a welcoming tableau at the table, but once the food got to the table, i found the flowers just too much on the nose. why would you not want to smell your freshly toasted sandwich instead?

this one, which came as a piadina served on a board, had a nice crunch which gave way to a great salty mouthful of cheese, capsicum, eggplant and rocket. the generousity with the halloumi may be applauded, yes, but it also reinforced my reservations about halloumi sandwiches in general: the saltiness just overpowers everything else in its vicinity, and in this case the supporting cast was well worthy of their place in the spotlight. fortunately my tastebuds were saved from complete erosion by…

it’s time for your close-up, amazing side salad. it costs $2 more to have your sandwich on the premises, and it does say on the menu that eat-in sandos come with a small side salad. i was expecting nothing more than a little pile of dressed leaves, so this perfect, elegantly disheveled portion of rocket with slices of in-season corella pear, walnuts — toasted, even — and musty little lumps of gorgonzola ended up being the highlight of my lunch. and i don’t even really like blue cheese.

my artfully poured hot chocolate was pleasing too. it had arrived first up, a promising shade of rich brown, and proved itself to be intensely chocolatey without any glugginess or cloy. a much nicer beverage overall, than my bottle of gluco-scan earlier that morning.

yes, the old glucose tolerance test. it would appear that one of the side effects of pregnancy, at least this time round, is gestational diabetes. i suppose i had a lot running against me: sitting way the heck over this side of 30, being chinese and tubby, having a family history (on both sides!) of type 2 diabetes… and well, fine, i expect the preceding years of pancreas-punishing cake consumption can’t have helped.

i’d like to think the salty cheese sandwich might have done some good towards lowering my blood glucose that day.

posted by ragingyoghurt on 16 September 2011 at 8:42 am

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saturday just gone, we suffered a couple of false starts before we got a seat in the cosy little space that is milkwood. the cosiness has its drawbacks you see: sideways crabwalk access only between tables, and that’s if you even manage to get a table. alas, we did not. we waited our turn out on the footpath, got called in prematurely and then sent back out, and then when our promised spot along the front counter finally became available, a tall bald man swooped in from the street and laid his claim. by the time we made it inside and sidled across to the spot, he’d already ordered a coffee. i told him, politely, that we’d been waiting outside ten minutes for the seats and that maybe we could ask the waitress about what was what, but he flounced muttering back out into the cold.

his loss.

my luncheon (40 minutes in the making! i may not complain about CERES again), off the specials board, was a mound of middle eastern poached eggs. do they poach eggs in the middle east? i shall not quibble. the bounty of bitey rocket, drizzled in tahini, with little nubblets of fetta and juicy green olives and a good sprinkling of za’atar, made an exceptional riff on the old poached-eggs-on-buttered-sourdough number. dee-licious.

posted by ragingyoghurt on 12 September 2011 at 10:04 pm

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one saturday after chinese class, i let the kid choose: lunch at milkwood, or CERES. we’d been to the CERES cafe once before, some months ago, and though the food was quite tasty, i remember it being also quite pricey (as befitting its organic pedigree), and it took a long, loooong time getting to the table. what the kid remembered was that the CERES cafe sat next to a playground. not a regular playground, by any means, none of that ubiquitous modern day kidsafe climbing structures with soft plastic bumpers wrapped around metal tubes in primary hues. oh no.

set amongst the enormous roaming chickens, the vegetable plots, the nursery, the produce market and a yurt display, the CERES playground is organic as its agricultural practice. there’s a treehouse seemingly held together by lengths of thin wire and old bicycle tyres, and there is a massive dinosaur-gourd-shaped thing with spikes and holes that kids can climb on and into, and there is a generous sandpit, and that’s about it.

lunch before playground, i insisted, so we ordered at the counter, and we sat and waited. a short while later, the kid’s iced tea arrived. she lost interest after a couple of sips — it was barely sweetened, certainly nothing like the sugar water you get when buying bottled ice tea — and i gladly inherited it. it was perfectly refreshing, tinged with mint.

and then for the longest time, it was just us and the glass of tea. the cafe is a large, rambling space, with outdoor seating and indoor seating and in-between, undercover seating, but even so, it shouldn’t take this long, should it? upwards of half an hour? just as we began to slump low in our seats, the food came.

i had the tart of the day. it had sounded nice on the blackboard: silverbeet and zucchini tart, and it was just delicious in real life. served warm, it was a golden eggy thing packed with silverbeet (i couldn’t really detect the zucchini), in a light and crusty pastry. the accompanying salad was a textural treat with a variety of toasted seeds scattered through the perfectly dressed leaves.

the kid requested a reprise of the french toast which her dad had had on our first visit, but on her own only managed one of the three enormous slabs of pillowy, syrup-drizzled bread on the plate. just as well i hadn’t sprung for the extra bacon — from memory, close to six dollars for a couple modest slices of happy pig.

and then i sat in the sunny shade for a little bit, digesting, while the kid went off to the playground. the last time we were there, she’d been involved in an altercation with another kid in the big clay dinogourd. the other child — a slightly younger girl — had approached maeve and, unprovoked, started hitting her repeatedly. when maeve eventually retaliated, the other mother, who’d been quietly observing, shot us poison glances and complained, because “well, your daughter didn’t have to hit her back.”

this time, maevis was warned off the treehouse by a boy, who said, “only people who are our friends can come up.” (moments earlier, said boy had been involved in a raucous and ill-humoured to-and-fro with said friends about who got to play with a stick or stone or tyre or something. i forget. clearly his definition of “friends” needs… definition.)

sigh. urban hippies and their free range parenting eh? the kids may eat organic and dress defiantly and ethically second-hand, but gee some of them are turning out to be snotty little turds.

posted by ragingyoghurt on 10 September 2011 at 10:35 pm

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i took myself out to dimsum the other friday. i’d been working my way through a cold all week, and was at that stage where i’d been well enough to leave the house that morning. an hour and a bit later though, i was wilting and drippy, and just past noon, was fortuitously close by the melbourne central outpost of the oriental tea house. there were but a couple of people at a couple of tables, drinking tea, so i was a bit surprised when i asked for a table for one and was shown to a gloomy little corner banquette by a wall crafted in recycled timber. no matter: it is nice when you’re poorly to sit in a dim spot away from the rabble (of which, at this stage, there was none).

past the little corral of outdoor bench seating and the bright retail space at the front of the store, the bit where tea is drunk is large and open, smartly appointed with cafe tables and bentwood chairs in a palette of red, white and “wood”. the young staff wear crisp aprons and friendly smiles, and glide about the polished concrete floor in a most efficient manner. one of them swiftly presented me with a drinks menu, from which i chose the barley ginger tea. it showed up a few minutes later, in a fat glass with an integrated strainer. within it was a cheery melange of oolong tea leaves, dried ginger, barley and a single red date. it brewed pale, but the ginger was bitey! the barley soothed. it was just what the prickle in my throat needed.

i asked the tea delivery waiter if there were serving dimsum yet, and he hesitated. “um,” he said. “not yet.” he looked round the wooden wall into the open kitchen. “but soon!” he added, promisingly.

and really, within five minutes, a waitress came round with a tray of bamboo baskets. (and in ten minutes the volume of people in the dining room swelled like a wave. the tea house had clearly gotten its timing impeccably sorted; i was glad to be tucked away in my cosy corner.)

i picked the vegetarian dumplings from that first offering. they looked like glisteny opals with the multicoloured veggies glowing through the translucent skin. a healthy mix of carrots, turnips and shiitake mushrooms, which still retained a bit of crunch. in contrast, the dumpling skin was just the wrong side of mushy.

the king prawn dumplings, filled with coarsely chopped prawnmeat, and each topped with a whole prawn, suffered the same fate: the skin was flabby, and the prawns themselves missed the crystal crunch of the best har gows. in my basket, one dumpling was even missing its crustacean crown. (are fewer mediocre prawns than one is entitled to a blessing or a gyp?)

i took a breather and sipped my tea, and considered the possibility of another basket of dumplings. a waiter sidled by and proffered a trio in a most bewildering shade of mauve. it turned out they were roast duck dumplings. what the hell, i thought, i’m eating for two. as with the others, though the filling was generous and tasted of what was in the name (in this case, chopped duck meat, fragrant with cinnamon anise) the skin was left lacking. as was the presentation. look at how the dumplings have slid slovenly all the way onto one side of the basket. and, they’re purple.

by the time i got through my ninth dumpling, i was ready for a nap. i lingered a while by the tea display at the front of the shop — all open bowls of tea leaves and cubby holes of slick packaging — and asked if the tea balls were sold singly. turns out, no. but the smiling shopgirl was only too pleased to pack me a sample stapled up in a baggy, a most promising little orb of jasmin and lychee. “you had yumcha here today?” she asked. “how did you like it?”

“it was…” i paused. “ok. some of the dumplings were better than others.” i’d like to think i’d be back; the waitstaff are welcoming, the cafe setting an agreeable change from the usual oppressive chinese resto vibe. the one tea i had was quite delicious. but the dumplings… oh the dumplings.

posted by ragingyoghurt on 8 September 2011 at 11:51 am

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so, o em gee, i finally made it to hellenic republic. you know how it is, you move to a suburb and you think that maybe the place on the next big street might be your local, the substitute for the big trip to press club you hadn’t yet managed to wrangle? but then it turns out the next big street is just too many small streets away, and the months go by, and the little glimmer on the corner becomes the taunty glimmer in the corner of your eye as the tram trundles past. well. the boy’s parents were in town the other weekend, and i seized my chance. two weeks ahead, i emailed the restaurant wondering if perchance there was a spot for sunday luncheon open. sometime between noon and 1.30 would be good, i’d said. they wrote back fairly swiftly with an offer: 2.15, and bear in mind the restaurant closes at 4. i gladly accepted.

and so it was that we found ourselves sitting at a handsome wooden table, set so closely to the next that i could’ve reached out and helped myself to their food. i couldn’t tell which was louder: the lunchtime crush or the accompanying soundtrack of superloud eurodisco. i was excited, but the combination of noise, and hard surfaces, and hunger, and the awful knowledge that we would not be able to have one of everything off the menu was making me twitchy.

but then the food arrived. first, a loaf of bread, except about the size of a generous roll. it was delicious, crusty on the outside, soft and warm on the inside. it was $6. the smoked octopus came next, a salad of delicate slices in a tart dressing, with a tangle of caper leaves. it was delicious too, a tiny serve in a dish resembling a small ashtray, and $22. before we had even slurped it all up, we boldly ordered another one.

the food wasn’t all tiny, thankfully. we soon settled into a generous bowl of cypriot grain salad — a textural marvel in freekah, almonds, pinenuts, capers… all kinds of crunchy in one spoon, and then topped with a a dollop of thick yoghurt and a sprinkling of glistening pomegranate seeds. we couldn’t get enough of the wedge of fried cheese draped in syrupy figs, the best kind of sweet-salty combination.

by this stage, the mains had started to arrive. we’d solved the bread situation with a basket of pita, but mother-of-boy saw the golden chips headed for the next table, and had to get ~~the kid~~ us a bowl for ourselves. oh my word, if all chips could be like this:

and so it went. we had lamb off the spit, and baked eggplant, and a seafood casserole which looked like all the bounty of the ocean with a surprise buried treasure of rissoni, yarrs. we ate with gusto, partly because of the later-than-usual lunchtime, but mainly because everything tasted wonderful. nothing was left long enough for a photo to be taken. see the braised seafood? that was but a minute after it hit the table, and already half depleted.

back in december, we stumbled into a pastryshop in the small town of kastraki, in greece. i’d bought a tub of ekmek, essentially a trifley little thing topped with half a maraschino cherry — honey-soaked kataifi down below, whipped cream up above, and some custard in the middle. i’d bought it for me, but then once everyone had had a taste back in our room at the foot of the mountains, i found myself sharing three ways. months later, the kid — shameless masterchef groupie that she is — had been excited to learn that we’d be going to george’s restaurant, but she was most deliriously looking forward to ekmek.

amazingly, 20 minutes to closing, there was still room for dessert. the ekmek was brought to the table, and it was just beautiful. the pastry was crisp and fresh, constructed in a fat tube with a vein of smooth white custard. there were tart syrupy cherries and a fat scoop of mastic ice cream. it was a veritable wonderland of flavours and textures, and therein lay the cruel, tragic irony: it proved to be too fancy and refined an ekmek for the kid. the pastry was too shattery, and the custard too custardy (the kid does not like custard), and the ice cream had a weird tinge… of course i was more than happy to eat her share.

i still had to fight her for the cherries though.

posted by ragingyoghurt on 18 August 2011 at 11:33 pm

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but of course, i did eat that day. after the inkpad and gloves (ok, and crocheted necklace and teatowel), and the vintage letterheads and comics, i found myself in need of sustenance. i’d been reading about the cafe, mister close, for a little while, but couldn’t really figure out where in the city it was. turns out, it’s in a shopping arcade i walk through sometimes, my shortcut to chinatown. my chinatown dash usually happens around dinnertime though, and after hours, a clever sliding wall device makes quite a vanishing act of the mysterious mister close.

but here i was, right at the tail end of the what appeared to be a busy lunch crush — the eat-in area was still packed. behind the expansive front counter, the staff in sharp aprons were bustling. within the glass display, the salads and casseroles, somewhat depleted in large bowls, looked a little tired. however, the wall of readymade sandwiches was still going strong, offering such cheek-tingling combinations as grilled pumpkin – salsa agresto – buffalo mozerella – oven roasted tomato, and haloumi – roasted capsicum – eggplant – rocket – dukkah. i felt lucky to snaffle the last thyme buttered mushroom – zucchini – goats cheese.

after some minutes in the sandwich press, it was presented to me in a brown paper bag stamped with the cafe’s dapper logo. now, what to do? where in the city could i sit quietly to eat my toasted sandwich? would i find an empty bench in front of the library? could i wait the walk to the train station? would i be so unglamourous as to eat it on the train?

in the end, i took my sandwich just a few steps across the corridor to starbucks, ordered a green tea frappucino (i had seen them oh so small and innocent on the internet a few days before and had not been able to get them out of my mind) and sat at a quiet table round the back. it was a delicious frappuccino, sweet and mildly green with a lovely cloud of whipped cream on top, and i wondered why i had not had one in at least a couple of years.

the secret smuggled sandwich was delicious too — from the grilled buttery crunch of the seedy, nutty bread, to the succulent marinated mushrooms mingling saucily with the musty goats cheese, to the bitter green foil of salad leaves. mmm… salty, slippery goodness.

i thought my beverage choice made the perfect accompaniment to my perfect sandwich, however a reading of mister close’s blog revealed (with unnecessary glee, i thought) that the starbucks would be moving out. when — i do not know. clearly, an incentive for me to return sooner rather than later for the haloumi sandwich, which i’m sure it will pair just beautifully with the delicate spices of a chai frappuccino.

posted by ragingyoghurt on 13 August 2011 at 5:57 am

permalink | filed under around town, lunch

look what i ate during the just-gone school holidays: a small harvest of potatoes, fried up two ways. i blame the kid. we’d ambled up to the local takeaway on the main street of a little town in a northeastern corner of victoria — it’s the sort of place where under the counter there are lollies in jars to be had for 5c a piece, and behind the counter there is a handwritten board boasting such delicacies as hamburgers with the lot, pineapple fritters, banana fritters, and fish and chips and salad (which we’d ordered the last time we were in town; the salad was composed of a couple slices of tomato, some shredded carrot, a couple more raw onion rings than necessary, and half a dozen slices of tinned beetroot). this time, though, we were just after the chips… until the kid sang out, “and potato cakes. two each.”

i’m sorry to say that they were still mostly uncooked on the inside, crunchy, rather than just short of al dente. but you can tell, can’t you: compared to the golden brown chips below, the batter on the rounds of spud looks pale and flabby (much like one might look after subsisting on a winter diet of fried potatoes). not to worry. there was such a bounty of chips that even divvied up three ways (the wafting aroma of hot fat and vinegar was enough to lure the boy out from retiling the bathroom of his country estate), they proved unconquerable.

another day, i orchestrated a detour to the resurrected myrtleford butter factory, housed in a handsome brick building dating back to 1930. just look at the lovely lettering! here they churn out batons of cultured butter, salted and un-, wrapped in printed foil in a most fetching olde time design.

they had sold out of butter that day (and i can’t seem to track it down in melbourne — the perils of artisanal production, i suppose) but fortunately, mid-afternoon, the kitchen was still open for lunch.

i was having trouble picking one thing off the menu — garlic prawns? blue cheese tart in a buttermilk pastry? — when the waitress came over with a litany of specials. after she spoke the words “corned” and “silverside”, i only pretended to dally for the smallest moment before picking that.

beneath the rather aggressive balsamic glaze — to me it bordered on caustic — the meat was tender and comforting, and all sorts of salty-sweet-smoky. i was most won over, though, by the generous tumble of winter vegetables on the side. behold happiness: carrots, beans, tiny beets, brussel sprouts, cauliflower, a roasted onion and two waxy little potatoes. once my tongue had been beaten into submission (or perhaps the sauce actually did mellow over the course of the meal), the balsamic glaze served as a most agreeable accompaniment to the vegetables as well.

i was too full for a sit-down dessert after that, but from the counter display, i picked a a wedge of chocolate truffle tart to come away with me. it was thoughtfully boxed with a small tub of thick cream and berry compote. i dipped into the rich sludgy slice at random moments over the rest of the day — just a spoonful at a time was enough for an intense chocolatey burst. right before bedtime, i gave in and finished it off, inordinately pleased.

posted by ragingyoghurt on 19 July 2011 at 12:42 pm

permalink | filed under cake, chocolate, lunch, trip

you wander down to the cafe right by the very last stop on the 96 tramline. there is only one table left, on the footpath, separated from the saturday arvo hoonsters by nothing more than a flap of plastic sheeting. the table may be almost disastrously wobbly, and that guy with the hotted up engine snarling up nicholson street threatens to send the salt and pepper shakers vibrating onto the floor… and then the tea service arrives, and it’s all good.

here at milkwood, the pot of house-blended chai comes with all the trimmings: a strainer to catch the tea leaves and spices, and a little pot of pale runny honey. there is enough tea in the pot for three large gold-rimmed cupfuls. which gives you something to fill your mouth with as you wait (and wait) for your food to show up. but when it does…

well! i was quite unprepared for the mountain of mushrooms on my plate. they were plump and succulent, blushing with the faintest kiss of lemon thyme. the crunchy toast was buttered and then generously slathered in ricotta. it all made for a big plate of rude good health.

the kid, having embraced the wonder of googie eggs, ordered poached eggs on toast with a side of avocado, which came drizzled in lemon oil and whole peppercorns its own little dish. niiice! the eggs were pretty much perfect — pristine white globules that we broke open to release their molten golden yolks. the kid was polite enough to share.

mmm…

we sat and watched the trams roll in and out; we would not be moving for a while. but when we did finally make it to the counter to pay, i discovered a display cabinet filled with house-made treats. lamingtons, for example, covered in big chips of coconut… fat rounds of wholesome cakes, cut into generous slices… a tidy pile of very homely monte carlos, quite unlike the uniform incarnations out of an arnott’s packet. there was no room in my belly, but i bought one anyway.

later in the afternoon, i tossed it to the kid and her dad, and let them fight it out amongst themselves. (i did get a large enough crumb to let you know that the biscuits were cakey, and the jam seedy and tart. if i’d had a cup of tea handy, i might have kept the cookie for myself.)

i don’t know why it’s taken us this long to get to milkwood. ok, well, i do know: we’ve been past every saturday in the last couple of months, but we’re always coming from chinese class and jumping on the tram to the city, or the beach, or the museum or wherever. now we know better. there is no reason why we should not linger, and the lamington behind glass (the tea and mushrooms, the eggs, the love heart cinnamon toast, the grilled ham off the bone…) is clearly reason why we should.

posted by ragingyoghurt on 21 June 2011 at 11:32 am

permalink | filed under around town, breakfast, lunch

speaking of porchetta…

it is with regret that i admit i was in rome over christmastime last year, and not a sliver of porchetta, which originated in that region a century ago, was eaten. that enormous log of rolled meat up there is not porchetta. it is a mortadella as big (bigger than, in this case) as a child. none of this was eaten either. look. in rome, i concentrated on gelato, ok?

what we did eat, in rome, once, and in other parts of italy, was pizza. in retrospect, not even enough pizza. but while we’re all thinking about pizza — well, i am anyway: delicious sausage and broccoli puree pizza — i thought it was about time i dug up those holiday snaps from last year.

when we were planning where to go in italy, i was really very interested in naples, for the reasons of pizza and industry. the reality turned out to be a chaotic melange of all-day-and-night police sirens (norrrrrr-ni-nor-ni-norrrrrr-ni-nor-ni-norrrrrrrr) and garbage piled high on every street corner, sometimes for the length of the entire block. also: possibly the worst pizza ever, which was adorned in spirited swirls of some kind of cheese product: a claggy, cloying, unholy amalgamation of three kinds of cheese, squeezed out of a tube, shudder. fortunately, though we never came across the best pizza ever, naples did deliver some tasty specimens.

I.
just off the overnight ferry from sicily (after waiting a couple of hours on board to disembark, an epic journey on foot from the port to our hotel, an hour or so of whooping in wonder at our hotel, and a long-awaited bath for the kid), we wandered somewhat aimlessly (aimless for some, apparently; i thought we were on a mission for lunch) along the narrow grubby streets until i was faint and grumpy enough to steer proceedings in the direction indicated by the arrow on a dubious-looking sign for pizza. we ended up at the counter of a steamy, spartan little room, with two women assembling pizza and a wizened man at the end of the line stirring a cauldron.

there were only a couple of options on the blackboard menu, though the counterwomen seemed open to customisation. you picked from a handful of ingredients, and they were placed on a small disc of dough, and then — here’s the thing — another circle of dough was placed on top, the whole thing sealed and handed to the man, who dropped it into his pot of boiling oil. it swelled up like a blimp, turned blistered and golden brown, was fished out and placed on a bit of butcher’s paper, and then handed over the counter. pizza fritta!

i had inadvertantly lucked into a curbside luncheon of famous neapolitan street food. my salsiccia and broccoli rabe pizza — marked with a little squiggle of an S — was utterly delicious: crunchy crust gave way to chewy bread, the steaming tangle of green on the inside just perfect for a cold grey day. the boy was somewhat less enamoured of his mozzerella and salami pizza, although the kid was quite happy to finish it off the gooey innards.

II.
i went the more traditional route another lunchtime, with a pizza marinara. the kid was flummoxed by the lack of cheese, but the light, classic topping of tomato passata, garlic, oregano and a drizzle of fruity olive oil meant there was plenty of room for gelato after.

III.
the day we went to pompeii, the road up to the volcano was closed due to bad weather, so we spent all our hours roaming the excavated ruins of the ancient town. this is the kind of thing that will make you increasingly hungry and slumpy. just short of “resentful”, the boy led us to a very modern cafeteria he had found at the end of a cobblestoned street. here the pizza is no better (though no worse) than the kind you find sitting behind glass at those takeaway places in kings cross: congealed cheese, assorted salted meats, but the bonus is the counter staff slice it to fit perfectly in the wedge-shaped trays.

IV.
another day we caught the funicular up vomero. we were looking for a particular fritteria, but instead stumbled upon what we thought was a political riot, and which turned out to be… i dunno… high school kids let out for lunch, or something. so we made a detour towards civilisation, which turned out to be the lunch bar on the corner.

from the very desirable array of prepared foods, i picked an almost-pizza. a bready pie filled with, yes, of course, sausage and broccoli (rabe). i tell you, i will never be sick of this magical combination. the countergirl cut a wedge as large as i wanted and then placed it on the counter, from whence it fell to the ground, seconds later, with a damp splat. i was very pleased that she cut me another slice.

now if you will excuse me, i must go assemble a meatball sandwich for lunch.

posted by ragingyoghurt on 15 June 2011 at 1:50 pm

permalink | filed under lunch, trip

there was talk of a mamak roti breakfast, but by the time we got round to it, it was lunch with another kind of flatbread: pizza at D.O.C.! i’d been wanting to come here for aaages — a couple of months, anyway — and beloved interstate friends with errands in carlton and a penchant for pizza were the perfect excuse. arriving at the tail end of conventional lunchtime, we were lucky to get the end of the long table by the big window, and i was lucky to have the winter sun streaming through said window, warming my back.

a compact, handsome italian man presented us with menus, typed up in a 90s typewriter font: it felt like coming home. we saw the antipasti at the next table, and smelt the truffle oil wafting from passing pizze. we took too long to decide; we wanted one of everything. what we ended up with was a fat plait of mozzarella with a small salad of shaved fennel and sweet, meaty mouthfuls of whole white anchovies…

a pizza of salsicce and pureed broccoli — which caused me to gasp in amazement when it was placed in front of us. it was like a platter of spring meadow, with the delicate green crema di broccoli and the rosy blossoms of sausage meat. i believe i may have clapped, and then when i actually did bite into it, the applause rang loud in my head. i find myself thinking about it a day later, and plotting my return.

and the pizza abruzzese — topped with paper thin slices of porchetta, mustard fruit and radicchio. how festive! if it is the intriguing premise of mustard fruit that compels you to order this pizza, be warned that an uneven distribution of the tiny cubes of candied fruit means that your slice might only be pork belly fatty crunchy. even though it will be delicious, you may be disappointed. fortunately, my slice had two bits of mustard fruit on it, and i can tell you that it made my experience a little bit like christmas. the combination of pork belly fatty crunchy and candy sweet fruity softness made my brain wobble with glee. (of course, the stern radicchio kept deliriousness in check.)

we also had a salad of rocket and pear dressed in pecorino and the tiniest hint of honey, and then we sat, sated, and considered the dessert menu: a tiramisu made with sweet goat cheese; a nutella calzoncino, before taking ourselves, after a detour at the spice shop round the corner, across the road to brunetti.

here is how you cap off a meal of gold standard pizza: behold the piemontese with its jaunty golden hazelnut crown, a crunchy profiterole filled with an almost unnecessarily tall column of hazelnut cream — that’s cream, flecked with ground-up hazelnuts — all the better to hide its central artery of sweet-savoury hazelnut praline. there will be waddling after, waddling to the corner to bid your farewells, and then waddling the three blocks to the homeward-bound tram… but absolutely no regrets.

posted by ragingyoghurt on 13 June 2011 at 11:06 pm

permalink | filed under around town, cake, lunch

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