What’s your pizza style? Thin crust, thick crust, deep-dish, stuffed crust… *shudder* Frozen? Before I go any further, if you aren’t able to tell the difference between a frozen pizza and delivery, then we can’t be friends. Straight up, the amount of anxiety and frustration that I have to deal with every time that stupid commercial comes on tv pisses me off. Pizza is one of the most perfect foods, unless you’re some jerk, pizza is always something everyone can agree on; you pick what you want on it, and someone BRINGS IT TO YOUR HOUSE! What more can you want? There are the purists out there who will chastise any pizza that isn’t a plain fresh tomato sauce with Bufala mozzarella, sprinkled with freshly chiffonaded basil. I knew this one guy who wouldn’t eat a pizza unless it was proscuitto with arugula and drizzled with olive oil – his reason was, that’s the only “true pizza” and that’s how it’s done in Italy. Yes, pizza like that is tasty and appreciated when made with the freshest ingredients, but I didn’t know how he was able to do it, I mean to be able to eat and enjoy a pizza with a stick so far up his ass, is beyond me.
So what’s your pasta style? Are you a straight up tomato sauce kind of person? Meat sauce? Alfredo? Salad? Or are you like me and like your pasta in a red sauce, but the next day in a sandwich with cold cuts? Strange right? But try it, and you can thank me later! I ask because recently I almost forgot what it was like to eat good pasta. Wait stop, I mean, GOOD pasta – the type of pasta where when you eat it, you’re convinced that the restaurant or chef has some sort of secret supply of pasta. You believe that it’s next to impossible to get pasta like that at home unless you flour up the kitchen, make a mess and make your own; and even then enough of it will stick to everything and your whole process won’t yield more than a biteful… Don’t ask me how I know.
You know that feeling when your nonna gives you a great big hug, then slobbers a smackeroonie on each cheek, her moustache pokes and tickles your face, then she tells you to go get something to eat in the kitchen? No? Not Italian? Neither am I, but I can imagine it. However, the closest thing I can get to this warm fuzzy feeling it is hitting up one of my favourite spots on the edge of Littally (Little Itally – get it? I’m so funny) called Tre Marie.
You know when you spend too much time with someone, that you start mimicking each other’s mannerisms and tendencies? Example: if you live in a country where locals have an accent long enough, you’ll come back home sounding like an idiot? Like how Madonna spent a summer in England and started speaking with a British accent that led to her and the Queen having synchronized menzies? That being said, I found myself in the east end the other day, HONGRY, and decided to pay a visit to a joint I haven’t been to in a while – one of the very few places would I ever pronounce the silent “g” in sandwich.