Pizzeria Posto, Davis Square

Though pizza is a fairly simple combination of bread and toppings, arguments about it can become heated. American pizza is as diverse as our country, and I would argue, a more proper emblematic food than hot dogs or hamburgers, both of which have been stagnant for decades. Pizza, on the other hand, evolves endlessly. We have taken the Neapolitan original and both improved it and adulterated it. But have we succeeded at replicating it? I’m pretty sure I’ve never had an ideal Neapolitan pizza in Boston, so I was intrigued when Pizzeria Posto opened in Davis Square with a Margherita DOC on their menu. DOC, or Denominazione di Origine Controllata, is a term used by the Italian government to protect the authenticity of traditional food products b y setting regulations regarding their manufacture. Though the laws have no jurisdiction in the US, to use the term on a menu implies an attempt at authenticity. (Although now that I look at their online menu, it seems the term has been removed. Perhaps the pressure to live up to the name was too great.)

This would be a really great introduction if I had in fact ordered the Margherita. When confronted with the variety of interesting options, however, we chose a Prosciutto Cotto pizza and a Roast Pork pizza. Of course the first thing I did was check for charring on the underside of the pizza. As you can see, everything looked good, so we began eating with abandon. For one must really eat these pizzas with abandon. The Prosciutto Cotto pizza, with cooked Italian ham, arugula, gorgonzola piccante, and port syrup was pretty special. A slight bitterness from the arugula, the piquancy of the gorgonzola, the sweetness of the port sciroppo, and the salty ham all combined to hit the whole tongue at once .When combined with the homemade chili oil the server brought to the table, it was even more intense. It was a lot of flavor. Keep in mind that prosciutto cotto is different than regular prosciutto, which is uncooked, cured ham. Regular prosciutto can become gamy, leathery, and too salty on pizza, but the prosciutto cotto actually worked really well, perhaps because it is cooked rather than cured.

The roast pork pizza was somewhat of a disappointment in comparison. Though piled with ricotta, lemony rapini, red onion, and a soft egg, it missed transcendence. The ricotta in particular was bland, and it seemed as if the egg may have been unsalted, rendering it one-dimensional as well. The pork was not flavorful enough to add much, so by process of elimination, the rapini was the star of the show. In fact, I was a big fan of the rapini and still enjoyed the pizza in spite of its failings.

The other thing I want to talk about is their wine list. With three red wine options at $5 per glass, I thought it was really well-priced, and the Sangiovese was delicious and surprisingly fruity for an Italian red.

School Lunch: A Disaster of Epic Proportions

I have been angry about school lunches for a while. They are served to millions of children in this country every day, and for many children, lunch may be the only meal of the day. While we could be teaching children the importance of fresh, nutritional meals, we are instead serving them the same processed food they probably eat at home. School lunch is a missed teaching opportunity.

Jamie Oliver’s TED talk on teaching children about food recently got me thinking about this topic again. The video includes a clip of Jamie’s visit to a school in West Virginia where the children cannot identify onions, tomatoes, or beets by sight. How can we be sure children don’t like to eat vegetables if we can’t so much as tell them what they are? School lunch programs are often designed with a set of assumptions about what children do and don’t enjoy eating. Hot dogs, yes; carrot sticks, no; hamburgers, yes; quinoa, no. Why do we set such low standards for children? Why can’t we expect more of them? Surely kids in the nineteenth century ate what was placed in front of them. Processed food is a recent invention, and yet so many Americans are almost wholly dependent upon it for nutrition.

Few items on current school lunch menus would have been recognizable 100 years ago, and yet somehow children survived to adulthood. Surely they must have eaten something else. Something unprocessed, and, dare I say, natural? Food is central to culture, so what we serve children at school says a lot about us. About our desire for efficiency over quality; our willingness to do the bare minimum.

America has the potential to develop a great food culture. With immigrants from every corner of the world, we could be serving our children the most diverse menu on the planet. Instead, you find the same tired, apathetically-prepared items in cafeterias across the country. Instead of teaching children how food can nourish us and bring joy into our lives, we teach them the efficiency of the assembly line.

School lunch policies in America favor big business. While big business may be good at things like drilling oil and setting up cell phone networks, the corporate takeover of every aspect of American life has drained us of sentiment and endangers our culture. Children who cannot identify vegetables have no idea where those vegetables come from. For that matter, no one has any idea where the chickens constituting a nugget may have lived. We are in danger of losing our connection to the land and to other people. How many of us personally know a farmer or a buttermaker? Processed food affects more than our health. Our identity as a people is at stake. When we can no longer experience the joy of sharing a meal of real food with friends or family, when food becomes nothing more than calories scarfed down in front of the television, then we have lost something. The battle to restore American food culture has already begun in farmers markets and in upscale restaurants across the country. But if it is ever to become a mass movement, I think Jamie Oliver is correct in insisting that it starts in the schools.

Toscanini's, 3/25/2010

3 Drunk Musketeers, underneath which b3 is buried.

In accordance with longstanding custom, my friend Nora and I went to Toscanini’s again on Thursday. Several interesting flavors were available, including Black Sesame Wasabi Pea. I tried it but was not in the mood for such a savory ice cream, so I settled on Three Drunk Musketeers, a mixture of Kahlua, Bailey’s and 3 Musketeers bars. Since I can never choose just one, the other half of my ice cream cup was filled with b3, which first appeared on their menu perhaps six months ago. B3 is amazing. It is revelatory. It sits in your stomach like a rock. It is a mixture of brown butter, brown sugar, and brownies. In case you haven’t heard, brown butter is one of the most delicious substances known to man. It is butter which has been heated until the milk solids begin to brown. I’m not sure how much they add to the ice cream, but I’m guessing it’s a lot, because an hour later it hits you that you’ve got a brick sitting in your stomach. While it’s possibly the most delicious ice cream I have ever had, I cannot eat it often.

The Three Drunk Musketeers was comparably light. They thankfully took it easy with the candy, so the ice cream was dominated by Kahlua and Bailey’s. It was fun and tasty, but paired with b3, it was but a puddle evaporating in the bright light of its competing star.

Erbaluce: Boston's Most Innovative Italian Restaurant?

I’ve always wanted to explore Bay Village—Boston’s smallest neighborhood, wedged between Chinatown, Back Bay, and the South End—but I’ve never managed to walk through it, despite its central location. In fact, it can seem isolated from the rest of the city, even though it is mere steps from some of the city’s most popular attractions. So when my dad told me he would be visiting for just one night, I decided we should head over to Erbaluce, a relatively new, Northern-Italian restaurant.

Chef Draghi hails from Piemonte, which actually rather surprises me, as the area is known for its exceptionally rich cuisine. The best dishes at Erbaluce, on the other hand, tend to be on the lighter side, full of fresh herbs, fruits, and vegetables.

We started with focaccia, served with white bean puree and some exceptional olive oil. It was addictive and I ate far too much of it, but the appetizers were slow in coming and I needed something to soak up the wine I was drinking. Speaking of the wine, the list was on the intimidating side. I consider myself fairly knowledgeable when it comes to Italian wines, but through a combination of the overwrought font, dim lighting, and a questionable decision to leave the grape varietals off most of the list, I was lost. Thankfully, the staff was obliging and helped me select a reasonable, earthy Morello di Scansano. I was sorely tempted by a Cannonau di Sardegna, as I don’t often see it, but I wasn’t sure if my dad and my friend Katie were in the mood for such a funky wine.

Spaghi with bottarga

And now we arrive at the part of the meal which I regret most. I decided to be adventurous. Sometimes this works out for the best, like the time I tried bone marrow for the first time. After overcoming my initial fear which rose up when I was first confronted with a giant hunk of bone, it turned out to be a revelatory experience. Therefore, when I saw bottarga, a Sardinian dried mullet roe, on the menu, I thought I would be brave and give it a try. I’ve wanted to sample it ever since I saw Anthony Bourdain’s Sardinia episode, wherein he frequently proclaimed its merits. Yet when I was presented with a beautifully-prepared plate of Spaghi dressed with fresh parsley, lobster essence (I think?), and grated bottarga, I was overwhelmed by its odor. It tasted intensely of the ocean. More so than ocean water itself. Clearly, I am not ready for bottarga.

My dad ordered the most successful first course: speck with apples and a few other things. One can never go wrong with cured pork products. Katie ordered celery root soup with smoked mushrooms. I thought the smoke a bit overwhelming; I adore a good, simple celery root soup, and thought this an indelicate treatment.

Braised veal breast

Our second courses were much more successful. I settled on braised veal breast with a complex, light sauce, the ingredients of which I cannot recall. I remember fresh marjoram, a lot of fresh lemon zest, and perfectly-cooked veal. It was perched atop a pile of slightly undercooked large beans and what seemed like cabbage. I love braises, and am accustomed to them incorporating very deep flavors. Though this was very flavorful, it was not as rich as a traditional braise in a way that I really appreciated.

A very blurry plate of roasted potato gnocchi.

My dad ordered a beautiful plate of roasted potato gnocchi with duck egg, butter, and herbs. (Oh how I wish the menu were posted online; it changes daily, however). The gnocchi were impossibly light, and had a pronounced potato flavor. Katie had braised beef with fruit mostarda, which was a bit on the sweet side for me, though the sweet sauce contrasted appropriately against the rich meat.

Braised beef with fruit mostarda.

I had hoped to share a desert with Katie, but I had eaten far too much food. I managed to have a bite of her spice poached pear with a lavender caramel sauce and mascarpone, however, and was very impressed. Poached pears are offered far too rarely on dessert menus; they are such an appropriate way to end the meal. Not that we were completely finished –chef Draghi personally presented us with a plate of homemade chocolates; one was a dark chocolate with balsamico, while the other may not have incorporated chocolate at all, in fact. It was a small sticky ball with sesame and marzipan, among other things I cannot recall, though it was a creative flavor combination.

And so, three hours later, we walked out of the small dining room, through the intimate bar in front, and back out into the city, mere yards from the monstrous Smith and Wollensky. If only I had not dared to try bottarga, the evening would have been an unqualified success. I can be very hard on Italian food, because I often feel that I have tried it all before. At Erbaluce, however, I was not bored. I was excited to try new things and new flavor combinations, and I’m glad that I had the chance .

Springtime Outdoor Dining at Stella

Saturday was a rare thing: a beautiful New England March day. At 70 degrees, it was warm enough to dine outside. We usually have to wait until May for such pleasures, but for whatever reason, fortune smiled upon us and shed a brilliant March-tremulous light over the city. It seemed that all the world was outside on Newbury Street, where I went for gelato with a friend of mine. We stopped in at Piattini and had two kinds: Thai coconut milk and rosemary-honey. Piattini gets its gelato from Capogiro, and they were both lovely. I’d have photographed them, but they were white and boring in appearance. In taste, however, they were a different story altogether. With just a hint of sweetness and a very light texture, they rivaled the gelati of Italy, and I appreciated that they offered these interesting flavors in addition to a few old favorites like chocolate-hazelnut.

Afterwards, it was time to get away from the spring-delirious hordes on Newbury Street, so we headed over to the South End in search of quiet and a restaurant patio. Unfortunately, this turned out to be more difficult than we expected, but at long last, we landed a table at Stella, an Italian restaurant on Washington Street. While the menu was generally unexciting, I was pleased with my linguine with asparagus cream, poached egg, truffle, and thyme. When the plate arrived I was dubious, as the noodles were sitting in a pool of sauce, but after tossing it together and slicing up the egg, it turned out to be quite good. The linguine was clearly homemade, the egg well-poached. It was loaded with fresh parsley, which offered a welcome respite from the richness of the asparagus cream sauce. However, I did not taste much thyme or truffle, not that I’m complaining. I have never been a fan of truffle oil, which is what I assume they used. My friend Lauren ordered orecchiete with tomato sauce and meatballs, which was swimming in sauce. She did not seem to be a huge fan of it. I don’t feel like I tried a wide enough array of dishes to offer a definitive opinion on Stella, but I can certainly say that the linguine and the atmosphere were worth it.

Regardless of the amount of sauce on anyone’s pasta, I appreciated the patio and the fact that every chair on it included a blanket. Let’s face it; it’s not that warm out yet, particularly once the sun begins its inexorable descent into the horizon, so the blankets were a nice touch. I also really liked the minimal yet comfortable décor inside the restaurant. I may head there again before the patio at Toro opens up and I have a wider array of outdoor dining options available.

Toscanini's, 3/19/2010

Chocolate hydrox cookie ice cream.

Boston is blessed with a vibrant ice cream culture, one that I think has been woefully under-documented. Supposedly, Bostonians consume more ice cream per capita than any city in the country. I have a number of theories on this, but my favorite is that winter here is so long and dull, than when summer finally arrives we begin to consume ice cream in prodigious, celebratory quantities.

My other theory is that we just have a whole lot of good ice cream, and that the supply generated this city’s insatiable demand for frozen dairy products. My favorite shop is Toscanini’s, which serves the best ice cream in the world (it’s true, the  New York Times said so). They’re always creating interesting new flavors like pancake and burnt honey. I also really appreciate the purity of flavor and often near-melted consistency.

Bourbon ice cream on the left; macadamia-nut blondie on the right.

 On a recent trip, I tried a number of flavors, but settled on an old favorite, bourbon, paired with a new offering, macadamia nut blondie. Pure flavors without a bunch of added ‘stuff’ mixed in tend to be Toscanini’s specialties, and indeed, the bourbon ice cream was flawless and had a perfect, soft consistency. The macadamia nut blondie was absolutely packed with nuts and blondie chunks, but the texture was more traditional.

I plan on visiting Toscanini’s weekly over the summer, and will try to post about new flavors as often as possible. I’m hoping they rise to the challenge and provide something new and delicious every time.

Zeppole are here; winter is over

I’m a big fan of any holiday that involves a food tradition, so when I heard about zeppole, an Italian doughnut made to celebrate the feast of St. Joseph, I was pretty excited. I meant to grab one last year, but somehow never made it to an Italian bakery in time. This year, however, I was more prepared. I heard through the grapevine that most shops started carrying them in February, far in advance of the March 19 holiday. This gave me plenty of time to plan my angle of attack.

And so, one morning, when my alarm failed to go off and I was running super-late to work, I decided to stop by Maria’s in the North End on my way and pick up a few specimens. Maria’s is generally my favorite spot for Italian pastries in Boston; their cannoli and sfogliatelle are noticeably better than those at Mike’s and Modern.

But honestly, I was a bit disappointed by these zeppole. I sampled both the ricotta and the more traditional yellow pastry-cream version. Though I preferred the ricotta zeppola, I was disappointed by the rather wan doughnut in both cases. It was very light and airy, and reminded me a bit of a dry French cruller from Dunkin’ Donuts. That might sound harsh, but I can appreciate zeppole anyway, though next year I may sample them from a different shop. If nothing else, they herald the end of winter, and highlight the connection between food and culture, which in case you haven’t noticed, I’m really interested in.