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.