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Night 11: Olazzo
The rain won't break. It's springtime now, but the skies
sulk and get dark way early. I am a third of the way
through my marathon month and I have a growing collection
of guest umbrellas on the backseat of my car. I also
have a growing suspicion that there's more of me than
there was two weeks ago. I have denied myself nothing,
and am shamelessly feasting on all the things I'll never
make at home — lobster, scallops, crabmeat and
duck, soufflé and mousse and delectable confections.
Driving up to Olazzo, despite the rain, my mood lifts.
It must be the anticipation of pasta and, oh, I don't
have to park my car!
If there is anything better than valet parking on a
rainy night, it's a place like Olazzo — warm, jammed,
and putting out plates of carbohydrates without apology.
There is the whole range of Sunday dinners at mama's
house: lasagna, linguini, ziti, veal, chicken and lots
of warm elastic cheese. The tables are placed close
together, so I can't help hearing the foursome next
door. They discuss the GNP of the EU, another one of
those inside-the-Beltway alphabet songs. They are informed,
they are concerned and they are vegetarians. Boy, are
they ever vegetarians! When their orders come, two of
the four are convinced that their meatless lasagna is
meatful. His mouth has distinctly detected a small piece
of meat. She is irate. Is the waiter sure they have
been served the vegetarian dish? Yes, because the meat
lasagna has the meat scattered over the top, not within
the layers. Will they take the plate back to the kitchen
so it can be checked? The offending lasagna is promptly
removed and returned with polite assurance that it is,
indeed, a meatless meal. The morsel of dead animal must
have inadvertently popped onto the top from another
dish. That is not good enough; a new serving of lasagna
is required. After a wait of about 15 minutes, the waiter
delivers a virgin portion. "Are you sure this is
the vegetarian?" What are these people afraid
of — meat, or plutonium??!
It is my firm belief that all humans, especially those
who patronize restaurants, should first be required
to serve. They might then appreciate the intricacies
of a professional kitchen where, despite the best intentions
of the chef, the physics of combining and heating molecules
of food can be complicated and even — yes — messy. At
a place like Olazzo, whose kitchen is cramped, a stray
curd of ground meat might indeed fly from one plate
to the next without inflicting loss of life.
Roberto Pietrobono, the restaurant's young co-owner,
takes all this in stride. His younger brother, Ricardo
is in the kitchen, armed, as I dreamed, with their family's
recipes, one of which is my favorite thing, Italian
Wedding Soup. He wraps up a complimentary bowl for me
to go and throws in a smile. No normal person will leave
Olazzo unhappy. Back to restaurant list
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