As far as I'm concerned, being picked up from the airport after every single trip away from home is one of the top five benefits of being in a relationship. The others would probably include always having a date on Saturday night, having someone to spend New Year's Eve with, having someone to take care of you when you're sick (even if it just means giving you lots of pretend sympathy) and never having to negotiate with a car salesman.
And so it was that Sunday night, Mr. Food Musings was waiting for me at the baggage carousel when I stepped off the plane from San Diego. As we waited for my bag to appear, I asked what was bubbling on the stove at home. (Sarcastic? Who, me???) Mr. FM smiled that cute lazy smile he has when he's feeling sheepish and said he thought we'd just go to Vivande. Now, I love Vivande. Love, love, love. But we've gotten in the habit of going every week and this girl was looking for some variety, it being the spice of life and all.
I suggested we try someplace new, since so many spots are on my list of dying to try. We settled on Zuppa, nabbed ourselves a reservation a mere thirty minutes away, and set off in the Passat.
As far as I'm concerned, the jury is still out. We had some amazing dishes, and some that were lame. I'd definitely want to go again before making up my mind. At 8:30 on a Sunday night the place was far from hopping, but it was pleasantly peopled and I liked the space, a fair compromise between industrial chic and cozy trattoria with a fire-breathing brick oven and a full bar. We took our seats downstairs and proceeded to order glasses of white wine and prosecco while perusing the Southern-Italian menu. After my recent fabulous experience with mortadella I was tempted but since I wasn't super hungry I opted for the wild mushroom pizza. Mr. FM settled on grilled sardines and roast suckling pig.
When the sardines came I turned up my nose until I heard Mr. FM oohing and aahing. A bite confirmed their superiority: meaty, not too salty, perfectly charred. The pickled fennel on the side wasn't my favorite, but whatever. It was a good dish. When the entrées came, I was embarrassed. The suckling pig must have come off the fattest little piggy there ever was -- I mean, it was a huge hunk of flesh. I approved of the Italian butter beans sprinkled simply on top and, after a bite, must confess: this is the best pork I've ever had. (Although something in me seems to recall having professed this before, since I can't remember for sure, I'm going with it. This time I mean it.) The pizza, though, ick. Double ick. It wasn't horrible or inedible. In fact, had I never eaten at A16, Pizzeria Delfina or Little Star it would probably rate a Decent, even quite possibly a Good. But to this newly reformed pizza lover's palette it was crap. Utter crap. (Not that this prevented me from eating five slices, mind you. Melted cheese is melted cheese, folks.) I guess I was really hoping for a crisp paper-thin crust with minimal cheese and exuberant toppings. Instead, I got a medium crust with lots of gooey, bland mozzarella, and as far as those mushrooms being wild, well, don't anybody call Maurice Sendak and tell him to call off the search just yet.
Our waiter was a really cool dude, and he helped cultivate some fondness for the place. When I had finished with my When Harry Met Sally orgasm, he came over to see what all the fuss was about. I told him I loved the pig. Loved, loved, loved. And I also told him it was even better than the suckling pig I'd had in Spain, where it's a specialty. One thing led to another and before you could say "oink" he had the suckling pig from the kitchen on a platter in front of my face. "They've already prepped it, but when they come in with the heads and everything on they're really cute." I believe it, baby. Meanwhile, the trio next to us couldn't stop swiveling their European heads our way. They were puzzled over the order, then when they learned what it was, grossed out. Which, pardon me, makes no sense. Aren't Euros the ones making fun of us for our refusal to appreciate offal? Silly Europeans! They actually skipped dessert and left in a huff (and a puff, lighting up the second they crossed the threshold) because the woman was offended by us eating a wee piglet. (The tables are really close together, so I know what I'm talking about.) When I told the waiter this, he laughed. "They were annoying," he said. "You guys are cool." That's what I'm talking about.
He did, however, err in recommending the apple torte, which was a sad and pitiably dry concoction best used in place of asbestos when insulating your next home. But his oh-so generous pours of limoncello more than made up for it and, as Mr. FM and I walked out into the cold, quiet night, we both had big smiles on our faces. Chalk up another reason it's great to be in love.
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