Scenes From An Italian Restaurant

A bottle of white. A bottle of red. Or how about 100 labels from Veneto winemakers?

In the three days I spent traipsing across Emilia Romagna, the gastronomic heart and soul of Italy, I ate very good - nay, excellent - tortellini, Bolognese sauce, Parmagiana Reggiano, proscuitto, salami, pecorino, extra virgin olive oil, crostoli, osso bucco, ravioli and, yes, bologna. Accompanied by lambrusco, the region's famed fizzy red wine, this cuisine and vino went hand in hand like Gene Kelly and Frank Sinatra hustling together "On The Town". As I was leaving for Venice, the Emilia Romagna locals said, with a tiny bit of pity playing at the corners of their lips, "It is a very beautiful town, but..." But what? "But if you like seafood, then maybe it is OK."

That's a polite way of saying that Venice isn't known for serving particularly memorable cuisine, by Italian standards. It's famous for polenta and squid ink pasta, but nobody goes to Venice to eat, particularly if you've already gotten your fill on the streets of Carnavale.

Who cares. I fell in love with Venice the minute I stepped out of the train station and the Grand Canal yawned and serpentined its way from my feet to forever. That first afternoon, I explored the old Jewish ghetto and the Cannaregio quarter, and forgot where I was, really. Venice is a timeless trap you never want to find your way out of. It's like "Hotel California" written by Vivaldi. I ate a very local Venetian dinner at Antica Adelaide, which has been around since the 1700s, setting me back even farther from the present.

But I didn't forget a tweet from my friend Howard (@hriefs), a fine gentleman who prefers the finer things in life (with the exception of the Cubs). Basically, I got the sense that if I didn't eat at an osteria called Alle Testiere, I was not to leave Italy. I hadn't realized how infamous it was on the gourmand pantheon - you know, the kind of place where if you mention "Venice" and true foodies only need to exchange eye contact to know they are thinking of the same place. Howard mentioned that reservations were direly necessary, so the next late afternoon, as I was (unintentionally) going in circles around San Marco Square, I decided I better go by to secure a spot for dinner.

This is how you get to Alle Testiere. You find your way to Salizzada San Lio, a major thoroughfare, which in Venetian terms means three people can walk, quite easily, side by side and not have one on either end scraping a shoulder on an old brick wall. Then suddenly, you'll find yourself at a ponte at Calle Bande, and get a strange feeling that you're in the wrong direction. So, turn back and go back down San Lio in the other direction before hitting another canale - at this point, you might want to tear your map up. Repeat this a few times, before realizing that one of the unmarked little calles is indeed Mondo Nuovo, where Alle Testiere awaits behind a green door and curtained windows. There is absolutely nothing to highlight that this is a restaurant revered by the New York Times and other important food authorities, so you might want to gingerly push the door open while tripping on the inconspicuous step. But, you'll know that you've arrived because Marcello is there waiting in the middle of just 22 settings on nine tables in one 10-meter-by-six-meter room. He'll inform you that there are only two seatings each evening, but thank goodness! There is a little corner table he can give you for the 7pm.

When you return at the appointed time, having fought off cat calls and wolf whistles from every cookie and tart instigating from the pasticceris, Marcello greets you by name, as does Luca Di Vita, the co-owner and sommelier who can introduce his dishes and cellar in six different languages, should you require it, while the chef and other owner, Bruno Gavaguin, peers out from his little kitchen. The menu, which often changes several times a day, is the result of the morning's foray into the Rialto, the famous Venetian marketplace, where their personal fishmonger recommends the catches of the day - no farm-raised seafood is used. All spices and herbs used are grown on the lagoon islands surrounding Venice, the pasta is handmade by Luca's wife Anna, Bruno's mama bakes the cakes, Bruno takes care of the spoon desserts, and Luca and Anna create the ice creams and semi-freddos. Luca, of course, traverses the Veneto to find the fine wines he proudly pours.

"The most important moment of the day is when we meet at the fish market, around 7.30," says Luca. "Then we stop along the vegetable side of the market and according to the season, we pick what's freshest and most original to combine with the fish of the day." Hence, Alle Testiere is closed on Monday and Tuesday, because "no market, no fish, no work."

Bruno and Luca have been friends "from ever" (actually, 25 years), having known each other from time in the army. Luca attributes this to the fact that "Venice is a very small town." Years in the hotel business have groomed Luca into the suavest, most stylish and most gracious host you could desire, while Bruno's restaurant experience makes him passionate about quality with a dash of creativity and an eye on tradition. Between them, they have been always "been surrounded by tourists and we still love them! (joke)".

"I think that his nero di seppia (spaghetti in squid ink) is his best performance, especially with Anna's homemade pasta," Luca muses. "But unfortunately, you don't find often the right cuttlefish to make it at the market."

How could such extraordinary cuisine feel so comfortable? Bruno's presentations were beyond common but it was like dining with friends who found time to be interested in you and what you thought of their latest creation. The servers, in particular, were almost childishly excited about sharing their feelings about the day's offerings as Luca was assuring in suggesting wine pairings. It's quite too bad I only had room that evening for a main course, dessert and a carafe of the 2007 Monteforche cabernet franc - wait, you mean a wine this good was merely just the house red? Mi dios.

A fish, crustacean and mollusk stew. It was delicate, with flavor awaiting your discovery in each nook and cranny of shell, gill and claw. Unbelievable.

All chocolate cakes that are way too rich, sweet and overpoweringly decadent are impostors. This is the real deal that lets the cacao do the talking as the fondant serves as supporting act and the sauce and accoutrements as symphony. Brava, Madama Gavaguin!

So, of all the seafood joints, in all the towns, in all the world, I walk back into Luca and Bruno's the next night. I resisted the pasticceri trappings and Rialto fresh produce all day, so I could have a proper Venetian meal at their table. When I returned for yet another 7pm seating, Marcello greeted me by name. I quickly learned that it only takes one meal at Alle Testiere to give you "old friend" status. They remembered what I ate the night before, so they could make new recommendations. They didn't even ask me what kind of wine I was in the mood for. They just knew what I should have, which of course turned out to be exactly what I wanted. It was a 2008 Ca'emo from La Montecchia, and mercy if my heart wouldn't rather be pumping these tannins than hemoglobins.

Scallops spectacularly grilled and settled in orange and red onion sauce - delightfully sea-trus.

Howard insisted that I must have a pasta dish. So I did - spaghetti with Bearnaise clams, so refined that you forget there's clarified butter and yolk in there under-handedly forming the backbone of the dish. That al dente in the spaghetti never went away, no matter how long I lingered over the noodles, so unwilling was I to finish it off.

Let me apologize for choosing something as boring as tiramisu for dessert, when there were at least eight other choices. I couldn't help but be curious about how Bruno handled a sweet plate as regular as they came. Well, that tiramisu is Venice in a bowl. As you follow the swirl of dark chocolate taking you deeper and deeper into the marscapone, you encounter a variety of surprising cameos - pretty complex and hard to discern what exactly - but then, instead of hitting rock bottom, you discover the liqueur-soaked biscotti. It was like seeking truth in the heart of a dessert, an axis of ecstasy.

So, why do you not know about Alle Testiere, although the weeks-long reservation list and full seatings each night mean that your and my former ignorance doesn't quite matter?

"We feel lucky we never got the star Michelin," says Luca. "So we can work relaxed and no formality, but seriously!"

All a very ideal recipe for a epiphany of epicurean excellence, with the perfect pairing...

"Bruno doesn't drink, that is why he is the perfect partner. Always sharp, clear, and he can drive you anywhere! ha ha ha!"

A presto, e grazie.

Photo courtesy of http://www.osterialletestiere.it/.

Batter's Up

 A regular ole pancake - ya know, the Saturday morning kind.
(You might make your pancakes on Sunday, but that's softball day for me.)

I have always made the following statement with plenty of aplomb: “One day, I am going to write a book about pancakes from all over the world.” Because, think about it. While many similar types of food manifest themselves in various forms all over the world (the Mexican tamale and the Chinese glutinous rice dumpling, the Japanese gyoza and the Polish pierogi, the Latin American empanada and the Malay curry puff), there is only one that is literally present in every continent and almost every country (see my pictures). And that is the pancake.

A chewy pancake from the streets of Beijing, China, dusted with finely pounded peanuts.

As a rule of thumb, I love anything that comes from batter. Make with buckwheat (a type of radish, not grain) and swirl it thin over a griddle and call it a Brittany crepe. Inject azuki between two halves of little round batter patties and call it Japanese dorayaki. Top it with queso blanco and jamon with sides of salsa and slaw to taste and call it Guatemalan pupusa. Drizzle sweet shredded coconut and smear coconut oil onto round, palm-sized crispy flats and call it Thai kanom krok. Or come over on a Saturday morning and I’ll make you a stack the length of Julia Child’s head – would you like that with blueberries, banana caramel, or bacon chocolate chip?

A dorayaki from Tokyo, Japan - filled with sweet azuki (red bean paste) and shaped in all sorts of cute critters and Japanese landmarks.

I know a lot about pancakes and I have eaten a lot of pancakes on travels, but I will never be writing a book about pancakes from all over the world. That’s because Ken Albala, a professor of history at the University of the Pacific has beaten me to the brunch... I mean, punch. He has written Pancake: A Global History and you know what? It’s OK that he’s done it first, because he’s done a finer job than I could ever hope to. It’s like every pancake elder in the world came together and issued a compendium of wisdom and philosophies associated with their fine craft. If a pancake could speak, I’d imagine it would read like this book. And be as witty and entertaining as it is – not flat at all, by any means.

A flatbread-like pancake on the Himalayas of Nepal - delicious with honey freshly harvested from the hive.

Beyond the satisfying throve of much-kneaded knowledge – did you know that spaetzles, gnocchi and British ancestral puddings belong to the pancake? Gosh, what a story to tell at the bar! – Albala has created many pancake philosophies that he expounds on. Consider the following – it’s like the writer asks, “A silver dollar for your thoughts?”

Pancakes from a local tribal village near Inle Lake, Myanmar. I wish I could tell you more, but everyone there spoke only Burmese.

“It is not what goes into the bowl that defines the pancake, but what comes out of the pan.”

“Thus a pan does not the pancake make.”

“Waffles, despite their eminent popularity, are not pancakes.”

“And some ‘pancakes’ are so overburdened with egg that they are more like omelets tousled with flour for effect. Here we mince words, if not ingredients.”

“Pancakes taste best consumed in periods of sloth or protracted weekend mornings. They must be sacred without hurry or premeditation, ideally in dressing gown and slippers. At the kitchen table or maybe even in bed, and preferably in excess, just to the brink of nausea.”

“Is the pancake truly a cake?”

A crisp, very thin pancake called kanom krok popular as a street snack in Bangkok, Thailand, dabbed with coconut cream and filled with sweet coconut shreds.

It is as if Voltaire considered crepes in all their complexity. And you know the guy is sincere about his pancakes – he even tests out medieval recipes to experience what the initial incarnations might have tasted like. That’s dedication to the dough and of an English version from 1660, Albala writes, “It is the epitome of a baroque pancake, if such a thing can be imagined, hurtling through the clouds held aloft by cherubs.”

Potato pancakes at the annual Taste of Polonia festival in Chicago, part of the savory family. 

Like a pancake itself, Albala’s book is substantially packed with important knowledge, fluffy with the humor, perfectly griddled and well-rounded. It makes you happy, brings a smile to your face – the only difference is, there’s probably not much you can top it with. It would fit very nicely and snug into your stack of favoritest books ever. You will sure be batter off after perusing this flippin’ eloquent and articulate masterpiece.

Perhaps where it all started - France. Michelin and Gault-Millau be damned, I could survive on mere crepes alone in Paris.

A thin griddle version filled with tuna and mayonnaise on the streets of Penang, Malaysia.

Guatemalan pupusas from a dive joint in Chicago, another savory selection eaten with hot salsa and sour slaw.

I Know It's Late, We Can Make It If We Run

In some remote parts of Cambodia, villagers have to walk six kilometers a day to fetch water for drinking and other uses. In many other parts of the world, people drive a kilometer to buy a bag of Doritos that they would then park themselves in front of a TV and eat through.

That's perspective. Live Earth's Run For Water took place last Sunday, with more than 180 cities around the world participating, and I'm proud that Singapore (and Chicago) were on the slate. I love 5Ks (this was my first 6K race) - they are very accessible for so many people. You could have been out drinking and drafting your fantasy baseball team till 3am and still make it past finish. (Guilty.) You could have only started running a month before and make it. You could have completed a 20-miler long run the day before and pull through. You could have prepared with 1,200m x 5 interval drills. You could be such an accomplished runner that you eat 5Ks for breakfast drenched with maple syrup under a pile of caramelized bananas.

There is no better reason or way to get up early on a Sunday morning (unless it's softball), take a leisurely bike ride down to the race as warm-up, rip up the tarmac, then grab a cold beer. That was my plan anyway - I did all of the above, except that I putzed around a little too much at home and ended up having to hightail it all the way to the F1 pitstop building, literally throw my backpack into gear check and wind my way into corral A (36:00 and under) with two minutes to spare. If you're interested in the technical details of how my race went, which I finished in 31:11 and came in 23rd in the Female Open category and 30th out of 1,165 women, go here: http://www.dailymile.com/people/Broocie13/entries/1514703.

Otherwise, I'll continue. Another reason why I love 5K+ is because when I first started running, it took me 45 minutes to complete that distance. I put a completely unprofessional and probably technically unsound running program together for myself and in three months, managed to clock a 30-minute 5K run. (Around the same time, a doctor informed me that I'd never be able to run more than 10K on account of my banged-up left knee from softball. Well, doctors make mistakes and my own second opinion was all I needed.) It's a pretty boring story between this moment and the one when I clocked my best 5K just under 23 minutes at the Bucktown race, but somewhere in between, my good friend Andrea Sanchez said, "I can't believe you run a 5K in that time but can't run fast to first base for shit." I guess that was when I began to secretly entertain the thought that maybe, just maybe, I could go the 26.2 distance if I tried. (Although I also quickly dismissed that thought immediately.)

What I'm trying to say is that I believe the 5K is a turning point for so many people. When you stand at the finish line and watch the runners come in, you can tell that some might never have thought they would ever run that distance in their lives. That some set a goal to hit that distance with a friend or a loved one or a family member and would stride into finish all holding hands and shouting in joy. That some had something to prove. That some just plain and blissfully love the hell out of running, and beamed a trail after them on the course. I wouldn't know about those who made pancakes out of 5Ks, because they obviously finished miles ahead of me.

All I know is that if I had never tried to run 5K in 2002, I would never be setting my sights on my fourth marathon in 2010.

Love the spirit! I am the biggest fan of high-fives at the finish. Next to beers at the finish.

These are the guys who keep me going - handicapped runners who go through a lot more than we can ever imagine to put one foot in front of the other. They are the true heroes out there!

A fantastic way to highlight Run For Water - some runners volunteered to go the distance with a five-gallon jerry can filled with water.

Running is for everyone!

Thanks to the 3,300+ runners who raced on Sunday - if you ever need another reason to run, a great cause is it!

By the way, Sunday, April 18 was my dad's 61st birthday. As one of the most unselfish people I know, with the biggest heart who shares everything he has, I dedicated my run to him. Happy birthday, Dad!

Deep Thoughts

It appears that Chicago cannot lay sole claim to deep dish pizza, as I found out on a little calle in Venice's Rialto quarter.

Deep in a trance.

This shapely slab of supremely salacious pie had a crust that was almost as light and flaky as phyllo - of course, it was still substantial and gut-busting, an effect that any responsible and dutiful pizza should produce, in order to be worth the salt of the premium salami spread on top. But don't let the thick schtick fool you - unlike one of the monolithic tablets from D'Agostino's or Pizzeria Uno that I'm only able to absorb once a year, this one goes down easily with, say, a Nastro Azurro or McFarland red (Italian birra being generally quite bad, one must often turn to an Irish selection for the kicker).

And unlike its Chicagoan brethren, where each bite is crusted with grease like croissants are layered with beurre, this one was nurtured to life with the drizzle of extra virgin olive oil. With fresh mozzarella and a slather of sliced porcini mushrooms, the salami was a delightful find each time your bite found its way into its territory. The tomato sauce was minimal, so it didn't drown out the taste of the ingredients - rather, it enhanced the being of the pizza.

I would never give up the annual Chicago deep dish extravagance that leaves me down for the count on the couch and swearing I'd never eat it again for the rest of my life. But for the 182 other days of the year that I'm not eating Neapolitan-style pizza, this big-time Venetian street urchin will fill in and up very well indeed.

Alley Oop

There's an iron-grilled bridge (ponte, if you must) to my left and a brick one to my right. Somewhere upstairs in a crooked apartment, someone is playing the violin. Down the calle, a gondolieri reads and whistles. Over there, an alley. And there, another. And there. Also there. There are more alleys and nooks and crannies, for you to get lost and a-mazed in, all at once. Blind alleys. Blind sides.

Gondola with the wind.

Not really, actually, if you look carefully. In a voyeuristic way, as you navigate the drive-you-batshit complex of lanes and cobblestoned streaks that make up Venice, you're probably getting lost because you're not looking forward. You're stealing glances and peeks into the cul-de-sacs that emanate on your left and right because as you well know, on any road trip the best scenery comes from the side-view mirrors, not the boring straight lane ahead. See what I mean:

Rear window.

Airing some (dirty) laundry.

So, finding your way around should be rather apparent now - who cares if it's the left, right or wrong turn. By the way, it wasn't a violin playing from an upstairs apartment. It was an accordion wheezing from across the bridge. I just hadn't crossed it yet.

Soul Train

Somewhere in Emilia Romagna, Italy - I am, by my own human nature, a social animal. I love people, love being around people, talk too much, can't get enough of it all, and will do it all over again. Many people, so I've heard, say they connect better to people on Twitter than people they know in person. I have met great kindred souls on there myself, but instead of being a replacement for the friends and family who make mine one of the best lives ever, they are an addition. Ya know, the reason why I handmade and sent 220 holiday cards last year instead of my usual 200.

I was both excited and apprehensive about spending six days traveling alone in Italy before my actual reason for being in the Boot - work. Excited to figure out how I'd hold up, to not have to negotiate priorities and agendas, time to catch up on reading, a brand new advenure. Apprehensive to figure out how I'd hold up, being in one of the world's greatest culinary countries and having to eat and drink everything on my own, lack of conversation, witty repartee exisiting only in my head and the ink of this green pen (this blawg post was originally written in green ink on the pages of my Moleskine notebook - so there, Intertubewebs). But thanks to Twitter and Facebook, I still get to hear and trade enough comments and snark from you fools, and get recommendations while I travel. So apart from some post-race comedown sadness, in which I felt lonely that I had absolutely no one to recap my run with and no one to fan my immensely huge athletic ego by telling me how well I raced with a sprained ankle, I've been fine. Really. I'm not in self-denial. I wish I spoke Italian so I can chat up strangers like I enjoy doing (note to you: don't sit next to me at the ballpark if you dislike random strangers talking to you about the Cubs and baseball). But I'm fine.

Fine because of moments like right now, in addition to the one you've already read about a sunny Saturday on Piazza Maggiore in Bologna, when I'm eating an orange on a TrenItalia train hurtling towards Venice and Chet Baker is blowing "These Foolish Things" on the iPod. Chet, of course, is an iconic hero in Italy, a haven for rogue artists, it seems. The Tarocca orange is blood red, sweet with a tinge of sour, and has the highest vitamin C content of any orange in the world. The train carriage is hot and probably gross if I thought about the black spots and dusty crevices. Me, I'm feeling warm, and I'm sure it's more than just because the spring sun is streaming in my face. I'm in a happy place.

A fruitful train ride.

Gotta go. Marvin Gaye is on and singing "Let's Get It On." This one requires some major closed-eye concentration, slow head-boppin' in comprehension of soul satisfaction and perhaps some finger tapping on the train window ledge to get a beat on things.

Popped in, souled out.

Saturday In The Park

Bologna, Italy - Saturday morning with jazz in the air, pigeons in the local square and happy kids everywhere.

Jazz on Piazza Maggiore, Bologna's main square.

It's a beautiful day, there's a trio of bohemian boys playing some amazing guitar licks and in the Basilica de San Domenico behind me, the fifth largest in the world, there is an angel sculpted by Michelangelo and an organ once played by Mozart. And everyone is spending the morning just like any other Saturday - stopping for fresh produce in the Quadrilatero market, taking pictures of their kids frolicking, drinking coffee at the caffe, running into friends and taking time to chat and catch up, basking in the spring sun. In Italy, to be touched by such history, to be surrounded by such architecture, to be endowed by such art, is so normal, so everyday. It's not taken for granted, but it is what it is.

Basilica de San Domenico - a grande dame of grandeur.

How nice, then, to never have to take a vacation from the everyday.

The Quadrilatero, Bologna's cobblestoned grid of streets with fresh produce stands, has plenty of colorful characters.