On Tuesday my dad invited me to attend a free lecture by "Under the Tuscan Sun" author Frances Mayes at the Atlanta Botanical Gardens. Neither of us have read her books, but Dad seems to think we might be related because of some Mayes in our family tree, so we're practically family. And we like Italy, and it was free, and a good excuse to get out and do something fun together.
Mayes was warm and charming for the mostly over-50 crowd, and does not look like Diane Lane remotely, but maybe looked a little like my dad's side of the family. I kept imagining she was looking at me and thinking we looked related, and it made me feel like a hillbilly trying to make contact with my rich and successful relatives, so we didn't stay after to meet her or anything, although I'm sure she now considers it a missed connection.
Anyway, listening to her inspired me to keep writing, so that maybe someday I, too, could have two houses with large kitchens and hidden frescoes in
Cortona, where I count my money and make homemade wine and people scream "Manga!" at me all the time and feed me Etruscan bistecca (this future awaits most writers, right?). I think Cortona means "beautiful land of steak so bloody, it's practically illegal," at least that's what it means to me. I was lucky enough to go when I was 16. They even have a
steak festival for chrissake. You can cut this steak, which is massive--the size of a small cow--with the side of your fork. It is is so tender, with flesh like butter--beyond rare, not tar-tar red, but a bright pinky crimson surrounded by a perfect deep brown crust. And
salty. I loooooove salt. I will one day do a blog entry on salt alone, with pink salt, smoked salt, maybe some...black truffle salt. Yeah, you heard me. (For the record, my blood pressure is 110/70.
Here is an article about how salt gets a bad rep and why you shouldn't be scared of a little delicious and mineral rich NaCl).
Mayes told many funny stories, one of which about an American woman in her Tuscan town who liked to go to the butcher to order what she thought was Prociutto without preservatives: "Vorrei un Prosciutto senza un preservativo, per favore," she would ask. What she was really saying was "I would like a ham without a condom, please." That got the big laugh of the evening. It also reminds me of the most wonderful graffiti I've ever seen, also in Italy. Spray painted in English across a brick wall at an outdoor train station, behind an 80-year-old nonna waiting for her train, was "Condom is my life!" and a giant cartoon prophylactic.
Anywho, after all that I-talian talk, we decided to hit up a pizza place on Hemphill we've both been reading about,
Antico Pizza Napoletana. People rave about this place and it's the new hotspot to give Varasano's, which I've yet to try, and Fritti (which I love, usually) a run for their money. I was a little worried they would be closed already as it was nearing 9, and Antico doesn't have a set closing hour--they close when they are out of dough. But we were in luck.
Upon entering, you can see refreshingly non-standard seating (well, standard Italian maybe, but not standard American). There is a small room next to the ordering station, with shiny terra cotta tiles and imported Italian products Warhol-esquely lining the walls; in the middle there is a massive wooden slab table with about 10 stools around it. And like,
strangers. Sitting at the same table.
Together. Co-
manga-ing. I was kind of excited and a little nervous and shy all of the sudden, like the first day of school. If you peak around the corner into the kitchen, there are also tables in there, all filled with a mostly college crowd; it's a very different kind of ambiance of a large, open, non-fancy white-walled kitchen, cooling racks all around, flour-covered chefs in neck scarves and t-shirts, the clang of pots and pans, florescent lights, and apparently, and oddly, a small black light, causing a few shirts to glow loudly. While that does sound like a party and a half, we stuck to the more rustic room.
We were greeted with two young women behind an ordering counter saying "Buona sera!" in very American accents, which was equal parts cute and annoying. The menu is pretty limited, especially considering the menu at Fritti, but more traditional, and not disappointing. Traditional Margherita, of course; the Marinera, with oregano and white anchovy; the Bianca, a white four cheese, one of which is the poetic
fior di latte, flower of milk; the Capricciosa, with mushroom, artichoke, and prosciutto, the Diavaola, with sopresseta and pepperonata, along with a few more, and some calzones, including the delicious sounding Gigiotti, which is what I would name a calzone if I named one after myself, topped with broccoli rabe and salsiccia sausage.
We both wanted the pizza with white anchovies, but the girl at the register warned us that it didn't have cheese on it, which made it sound kind of weird and lacking. I didn't notice until I looked up the menu at home that it does have romano, just not bufala, and I'm not sure why she warned us, and I kind of wish we just gave it a shot anyway. Alas, we went with the white pizza. I actually asked if we could have anchovies on that but she said no. I sometimes have requests of this nature at restaurants, and it's sometimes seen as Sally-from
-When-Harry-Met-Sally-behavior and really seems to irk some people. I don't really get that. It's not like I asked for a cannoli baked into a calzone and then dipped in liquid nitrogen or something. But whatever. Also, BYOB. We drank some good fizzy water in lieu of a nice red.
We sat down at the table next to a 50-something couple. I went ahead and struck up a conversation with them because that's the whole point of a communal table, and they were nice. I was telling the woman about getting accepted into the Master's program, and she told me her dad, who is 83(!) goes to the same school and is getting his Master's in creative writing. I said I'd love to have a class with an 83-year-old grad student and she said I'd definitely notice him on campus, and I hope I do. How awesome. It was nice to talk to strangers over dinner; a nice reminder that those who break bread together are friends. Doesn't that make you think of the mead-hall in Beowulf? No? One thing Frances Mayes mentioned was that in Italy, when you invite someone over for dinner, you should expect surprise guests to tag along. The idea is that more are always welcome and accommodated, and that you just throw in another handful of pasta and pull up some extra chairs. You welcome everyone and their children into your home with open arms, and you feed them. Speaking of chairs, I noticed when pulling out my stool at Antico, a sticker was across the seat: DO NOT MOVE THIS CHAIR OR YOU WILL BE ASKED TO LEAVE. Sheesh. They feed you well at Antico, but don't go movin' things around.
Our pizza arrived and was definitely big enough for two, unlike at Fritti (which is not a bad thing on Fritti's part, because then you just have to order two pizzas,
oh, damn). The white pizza was comprised of the aforementioned fior di latte, bufala, ricotta, and pecorino. I don't know that I could discern the flower of milk or pecorino, but the ricotta was sweet and the bufala satisfying, although I missed that salty acidity I had been craving, and a strong hit of flavor imparted by olives or ham or little fish. I appreciated the basil on top. On the table are some fun condiments, like hot red peppers in oil, salt, fresh chopped garlic, dried oregano, and a large oil can of olive oil. I topped mine with pretty much all of the above except the salt and olive oil, which I saved until the end to dip my crust into. The pizza crust is very thick, doughy, chewy, yeasty, soft on the inside, and golden on the outside with some prerequisite and delicious char from the wood burning ovens. It was really good, don't get me wrong, but I was expecting pizza a little thinner, like how I remember from Italy, but I was in a different region all together, so what do I know. The owner is noted to be recreating authentic Neapolitan pizza, with the high quality Italian ingredients, preparation, and cooking methods, so I trust that he's doing that. I think I would have loved this pizza more when I was younger, when thick, doughy crust was my favorite part. Now I'm more into a thinner crust, like at Fritti, with less flour and yeast by half the amount or more. I know with most people the crust left over is their favorite part, but I tend to get off more on the inner part of the pie.
When I was left with a huge pile of crust to eat, I grabbed the giant olive oil canister and the salt and went to town. Suddenly I discovered my favorite taste of the evening, the only truly stand-out thing that had me going "mmmmmmmmm...mmmmmmmm...oh my gaaaahd..." like a Tech student with the munchies, high on Hemphill. No, not the crust, per say--it was the olive oil. It was so green and fruity and fragrant, and the sea salt...man, the combo just did me in. The crust was a means to an end, a good means, but more so a necessary conductor for the best olive oil I have ever tasted. We were too stuffed for dessert, and anyway I wanted to savor the amazingness of the salt and oil for awhile. I wish I could tell you the name of the olive oil, but I was too stoned to think of checking.
Antico Pizza Napoletana1093 Hemphill Ave
Atlanta, Georgia 30318
Tel: 404-724-2333
