Our Sunday night regime is pretty rigid: pizza and film, on the couch. When Bosc di Sot was an option, this regime included also "fireplace, smores". Sadly, the house is in a continual state of progress, which is a state that, though promising, falls flat. There is enough dust and debris clogging the air and hallways of Bosc di Sot these days to shut down even the iron-ist of lungs, and face masks and goggles crimp my pizza eating style. The couch is covered in a tarp, the TV has been moved into storage, the silverware and plates are locked up tight in the cupboard. Thus, we cleaned ourselves up after a hard days remodeling effort, and went out to eat.
The restaurant was called Leon d'Oro, and is nestled back in the center of a town called Gradisca d'Isonzo. Drippy wax candles, wooden booths, deep azzure tiles on the walls...our famished tummies led us in to eat at about 6pm, so we were the youngest couple in the joint by about 40 years. As far as my pizza habits were concerned, I had promised to change my ways: no more pizza margherita (dependable, delicious), no more "radicchio, salsiccia e melanzana" (a strange combination that is surely a craving led by hormones, not sense; FL winces every time I ask or it), no more "capricciosa" (for the girl who just can't make up her mind). FL promised that this place was the right place to break the mold, as it was regarded as one of the finest brick-oven pizzerias in Friuli.
"They haven't cleaned the oven in 80 years," he promised.
From the menu- which boasted such beauties as "tuna, onion and red chili", "buffalo mozzarella, basilico e olio" e "profumi del bosco" (wild mushrooms)- I selected one that sounded just strange enough: asparagi, brie e prosciutto cotto. Immediately after placing my order I was shaken with a wave of buyers remorse.
"Oh, amore!" I cried. "That sounds like the worst pizza ever!"
FL gave me his best "stay calm and remain seated" hand motion (hands held out at a 45 degree angle, fingers spread wide). I fretted and clicked my nails (what I do now instead of biting them, brava!), wanting the fantasia- with smoked ricotta, speck and spinach- instead. I imagined giant stalks of green asparagus, sour and crunchy; hunks of brie, which would fill my stomach and gross me out after three bites; sloppy, floppy bits of prosciutto cotto, which always takes on sort of a weird acidic, processed flavor when baked. My brow began to sweat.
The waiter advanced, two plates held high, steaming, the moment of truth.
When my pizza was set in front of me, I let out a squeal of delight and clasped my hands. The pizza was beautiful, it was harmonized, there were no big chunks of anything! The asparagus- white, not green!- had been shaved, so that it melted into the cheese, sacrificing crunch for surprise hints of fresh, cool flavor. The brie had been so well integrated into the surrounding mozzarella that there was no sign of one ending and another beginning, just a gentle fade from gold to wheat, from milk to cream, from mildness to tang. Prosciutto cotto had been laid out under the surface, hidden from the harsh heat of the oven by the protective layer of cheese, spared that curled, yellowed, astringent fate that is in store for most hams laid atop a pizza. It was still soft, still salty, still pure.
The combination was a knockout. Rich, elegant, gentle...with a chewy, firm crust to cleanse the palate. It was my turn to hold up my hands at a 45 degree angle, fingers spread wide.
FL offered me a slice of his, and I selfishly replied, "No, just a bite. I don't want to have to give you a whole slice of mine." I think he understood.
My love for Italy was reinforced, I remembered, I understood again why I had come, why I had fallen in love in the first place. It is not everywhere in the world that boasts 80-years worth of unwashed pizza ovens, not everywhere that the time is taken to shave locally grown white asparagus over a pizza. It's a joy to see tables full of old people, clearly happy, clearly well off, out to a nice Sunday dinner with friends and family, all enjoying pizza. Not steaks, not various cuts of lamb or hams with pineapple chunks poked in- just pizza. Good enough for everyone, the ultimate comfort food, a destination oven.
I happily ate the last bite, leaned back and loosened my belt. "I think that deserves a sorbetto," I said.
Sorbetto, btw, is the other best thing about Italy; I believe I've mentioned it before. Basically, two of the greatest things in the world- prosecco and gelato- are fused together to create an absolutely sublime digestivo. Lemon is the primary flavor, but others such as baileys, mint and coffee are offered here and there. A good sorbetto is crucial to the end of a big meal, reinforcing a person with just the right amount of pluck to not want to keel over and die from a full stomach or fall asleep at the table.
Leon d'Oro, naturally, makes a mean sorbetto. Too thick to suck up a straw or drink straight from the glass, FL and I daintily spooned the chilled lemon loveliness into our mouths, feeling the tingle of citrus and spumante rush through our veins. We were alive, well fed and prepared to make the frigid, bora-swept walk to the car.
"It's ok that Bosc di Sot isn't finished. We can go ahead and start on the floors, if you want," I told him in absolute truth, with love, patience and compassion as we walked back to the car. "It's better just to get it all done in one go, right? It'll be so beautiful, in the end."
He lifted my hand, kissed it. "You just want to eat at Leon d'Oro every Sunday, don't you? Furba, tu."
The restaurant was called Leon d'Oro, and is nestled back in the center of a town called Gradisca d'Isonzo. Drippy wax candles, wooden booths, deep azzure tiles on the walls...our famished tummies led us in to eat at about 6pm, so we were the youngest couple in the joint by about 40 years. As far as my pizza habits were concerned, I had promised to change my ways: no more pizza margherita (dependable, delicious), no more "radicchio, salsiccia e melanzana" (a strange combination that is surely a craving led by hormones, not sense; FL winces every time I ask or it), no more "capricciosa" (for the girl who just can't make up her mind). FL promised that this place was the right place to break the mold, as it was regarded as one of the finest brick-oven pizzerias in Friuli.
"They haven't cleaned the oven in 80 years," he promised.
From the menu- which boasted such beauties as "tuna, onion and red chili", "buffalo mozzarella, basilico e olio" e "profumi del bosco" (wild mushrooms)- I selected one that sounded just strange enough: asparagi, brie e prosciutto cotto. Immediately after placing my order I was shaken with a wave of buyers remorse.
"Oh, amore!" I cried. "That sounds like the worst pizza ever!"
FL gave me his best "stay calm and remain seated" hand motion (hands held out at a 45 degree angle, fingers spread wide). I fretted and clicked my nails (what I do now instead of biting them, brava!), wanting the fantasia- with smoked ricotta, speck and spinach- instead. I imagined giant stalks of green asparagus, sour and crunchy; hunks of brie, which would fill my stomach and gross me out after three bites; sloppy, floppy bits of prosciutto cotto, which always takes on sort of a weird acidic, processed flavor when baked. My brow began to sweat.
The waiter advanced, two plates held high, steaming, the moment of truth.
When my pizza was set in front of me, I let out a squeal of delight and clasped my hands. The pizza was beautiful, it was harmonized, there were no big chunks of anything! The asparagus- white, not green!- had been shaved, so that it melted into the cheese, sacrificing crunch for surprise hints of fresh, cool flavor. The brie had been so well integrated into the surrounding mozzarella that there was no sign of one ending and another beginning, just a gentle fade from gold to wheat, from milk to cream, from mildness to tang. Prosciutto cotto had been laid out under the surface, hidden from the harsh heat of the oven by the protective layer of cheese, spared that curled, yellowed, astringent fate that is in store for most hams laid atop a pizza. It was still soft, still salty, still pure.
The combination was a knockout. Rich, elegant, gentle...with a chewy, firm crust to cleanse the palate. It was my turn to hold up my hands at a 45 degree angle, fingers spread wide.
FL offered me a slice of his, and I selfishly replied, "No, just a bite. I don't want to have to give you a whole slice of mine." I think he understood.
My love for Italy was reinforced, I remembered, I understood again why I had come, why I had fallen in love in the first place. It is not everywhere in the world that boasts 80-years worth of unwashed pizza ovens, not everywhere that the time is taken to shave locally grown white asparagus over a pizza. It's a joy to see tables full of old people, clearly happy, clearly well off, out to a nice Sunday dinner with friends and family, all enjoying pizza. Not steaks, not various cuts of lamb or hams with pineapple chunks poked in- just pizza. Good enough for everyone, the ultimate comfort food, a destination oven.
I happily ate the last bite, leaned back and loosened my belt. "I think that deserves a sorbetto," I said.
Sorbetto, btw, is the other best thing about Italy; I believe I've mentioned it before. Basically, two of the greatest things in the world- prosecco and gelato- are fused together to create an absolutely sublime digestivo. Lemon is the primary flavor, but others such as baileys, mint and coffee are offered here and there. A good sorbetto is crucial to the end of a big meal, reinforcing a person with just the right amount of pluck to not want to keel over and die from a full stomach or fall asleep at the table.
Leon d'Oro, naturally, makes a mean sorbetto. Too thick to suck up a straw or drink straight from the glass, FL and I daintily spooned the chilled lemon loveliness into our mouths, feeling the tingle of citrus and spumante rush through our veins. We were alive, well fed and prepared to make the frigid, bora-swept walk to the car.
"It's ok that Bosc di Sot isn't finished. We can go ahead and start on the floors, if you want," I told him in absolute truth, with love, patience and compassion as we walked back to the car. "It's better just to get it all done in one go, right? It'll be so beautiful, in the end."
He lifted my hand, kissed it. "You just want to eat at Leon d'Oro every Sunday, don't you? Furba, tu."
4 comments:
Ha Ha Girl i love you!
Oh, I can't wait for my visit!! Make a list of all the great places we're going to eat! And all the festivals going on in September. . . I want to do it ALL!
xxoo
After reading your blog, I am dying for a pizza. Even if it is from a german-italian pizza cook, who of course has cleaned his oven daily and therefore will be less original, I want one now....
Marion
YUM! I want to eat there every Sunday night, too!!
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