Zero Otto Nove

Ahhhh, my first foray back home in the Bronx. My brother has an apartment on Hughes Street, and we agreed to meet for dinner on one of my favorite streets in all of NYC, Arthur Ave. This, THIS, ladies and gentlemen, is the real Little Italy. The one with the crazy grandmothers and their evil eye. The place where bread disappears before it can even be placed on a shelf. A place where English speaking minorities gather with consternation, gazing in shop windows with dead, skinned animals hanging by their hooves. Yes, this is the Bronx, my Bronx, and this is where, according to renowned food critics, the best pizza in New York City currently finds a home. So of course, as a foodie myself, I had to try it, right? Right.

When I think of pizza, I think of simplicity. Good sauce, quality mozzarella, fresh basil, and soft but sturdy dough, made with NYC water. I think of Grimaldi's in Brooklyn and coal ovens. I think of Friday nights as a child, coming home from basketball practice to a warm, thin, white cardboard box that held pizza. A great word for a child, two z's put back to back. Fun to write, fun to eat.

I was NOT disappointed. Ok, well, I was slightly disappointed, but then everything was redeemed. We decided to order mussels as an appetizer. The sauce was watery and overly fishy, and a lot of of mussels were invisible. Shell upon shell turned up empty. My brother and I were pretty darn hungry, so we dipped our Tuscan (no salt) bread into the fishy-runny substance anyway, soaking up the garlic and tomatoes and "help-I'm-drowning-in-this-ocean-puddle-that's-been-in-the-sun-for-too-long" taste. The $8 glass of Chianti helped wash it down and was actually spectacular. One of the best restaurant wine-by-the-glass experiences I have ever had, actually. But then, THEN, the pizza came.

Pizza. Say it with me. It's fun :-D

My brother ordered Caprese. Simplicity, like I said, was valued in our household. Fresh mozzarella circles, perfect cherry tomatoes that transport you back to rolling Italian hills, spicy arugula, and soft, chewy, oven-roasted-to-perfection dough with just enough of that burned oven taste.

Now, I have to be different. So as I scoured the menu, I came across something so unheard of in my food repertoire, that of course I had to give it a whirl. It's the very last pizza on the menu, and a specialty of the house. It's called La Cirilo and, at first glance, does not sound like pizza at all. Knowing that I could have a slice of my brother's more traditional order, I decided to go for it. Ok, it's true, my arm didn't need much twisting...

The dough of the gods stays the same. The tomato sauce is substituted a butternut squash puree with cream of truffle. Mushrooms are added for good measure, and dollops of fresh mozzarella top it all off. The pizza is sweet and wonderful. The mozzarella is just salty enough to combat the almost dessert-like aspect of the butternut squash puree. And the mushrooms? Well, I don't really like mushrooms to be honest (not that it stops me from ordering something that otherwise sounds other-earthly...). Rich, sweet, salty, and a little kick from the black pepper. I was quite full, so I had to take it to go, and let's just say I haven't looked forward to leftovers this much in a long time. And, I was disappointed I couldn't finish it right then and there, because, while every physical instinct was telling me to stop, that I was full, that if I have another bite I might explode like Oprah did when she created that balloon effigy filled with potato chips and pretzels and made it explode on television after she had lost all that weight, every mental instinct, every ounce of dopamine in my body, every thought in my mind was telling me to continue. It was that good. (To be honest, I'm munching on it right now... still glowing!)

So why zero otto nove? That translates to 089, which is the area code for Salerno, a seaside town in Italy (and home to my grandfather's family!). This is where the chef, Roberto Paciullo, emigrated from. And thank goodness he did!

**(He also owns Roberto, one of my favorite restaurants in Little Italy, and a crowd favorite as well, which makes getting a seat rather difficult. More traditional Italian is found here, and it's scrumptious if you're willing to deal with the usually long wait. But you can easily have a glass of delectable wine (or a trendy cocktail, whichever you prefer) while you're conversing with good friends, so in my book, it's all good, and definitely worthwhile.)

Sammie's Downtown: Rosie's Sidekick. Hold the Margarine

For anyone who has been to Bronxville, NY, you know that Rosie's is an old-Italian standby. Good food, naked-lady art, old people abound... but pleasant, predictable, and quite yummy. Not too long ago, Rosie's decided to open a sister restaurant named Sammie's. Also located in Bronxville, NY. Now, the only Sammie I know is Sammie the elephant at the Bronx Zoo. I used to visit Sammie with my grandfather every Wednesday after he was born. Why Wednesdays? Two reasons. 1) I went to Catholic school, so we got to leave at 1:00 every Wednesday so the "heathens" could come and get their CCD education. Ahh, alas, heathen doesn't mean what it used to, thanks to the new councilman in Bayside, Queens. Thank you Dan Halloran, for giving America yet another well-deserved vocabulary lesson!

But moving along... the second reason we went on Wednesdays is because the Bronx Zoo is free on Wednesdays, and my grandfather can't pass up anything that's free. Whether it be toothpaste, toilet paper, ice cream (we all walked around with our own pint this summer just to try and clear up some freezer space), or shampoo bottles from the Taj in Atlantic City... He basically runs a grocery store out of his basement. Which was very convenient when I was in college; I can't lie.

Anyway, so back to the restaurant Sammie's... So, I'm guessing in the daylight it looks like a Parisian coffee shop, but at nighttime it just looks like a haunted house gone bad. Red lights in the corners scream REDRUM REDRUM! and the rest of the lighting is non-existent. My seventh grade teacher taught me that people eat less when the lighting is dim, and this was no exception. Yet, I must explain that it wasn't because of the quality of the food. I ordered the Octopus Portuguese which was absolutely lovely. It was served with a salad and fried onions, more for display than anything else. The octopus was fresh, soft, and scrumptious. A simple dish. For an entree I ordered the salmon with steamed asparagus and both were delicious. Now, I'm not running off to marry this chef, but it was quite good. The French Bordeaux (red) got better as it opened up, but wasn't spectacular. The chocolate ganache truffle cake with Tahitian ice cream sounded better in description than in actuality. The cappuccino was typical restaurant cappuccino quality. I wasn't transported back to my days living in Italy, sipping cappuccino watching the world stroll by, but it did the trick.

So since it was nothing spectacular, why did I choose to write about it? Because of the beurre! Yes. I wrote this whole thing so I could end with a description of the butter they provide when they bring their bread offering to your table. Again, like the band KISS proclaims: Keep it simple, stupid! This whipped butter arrives looking like a melon ball. "Oh, I don't want to ruin my dinner!" you protest. But then you're waiting, and you're chatting, and you're waiting, and they bring you your wine. And what goes better with wine than bread? Every good Catholic knows that! So you sigh and resign yourself to choosing a slice of bread. So of course, since there's no olive oil on the table, you choose the butter. Now, my aunt, with whom I was dining, had to spread the butter on my bread for me since I still am having trouble moving my left arm... Damn you iv! and she spread a generous helping. So I take a bite and now I'm slightly transported to a happier time. What is this? Why does it taste so different? Do I like it? I need another bite. And another, and another, and another... So what is this miraculous butter? Rosie's, the original restaurant doesn't serve butter, they serve ricotta. But this, this is not ricotta. It's not unsalted... It's not like anything I've had in a restaurant before. Turns out, it's honey! Butter and honey whipped together, scooped up like a melon ball, and placed on your table, probably to sit there untouched by the ignorant until it finds its home in the trash later that night. Ladies and gentlemen, do not, I repeat, do not let this butter meet its usual fate! Cherish this butter, spread it generously over the soft, warm bread, and smile. Butter makes everything better!

Egidio and the Breakfast of Champions

Most people believe that breakfast should involve cereal, oatmeal, eggs, french toast, pancakes... things easily available at IHOP (Vanilla Ice's establishment of choice--long story), Perkins, Sunday morning at Mom's, or Lawrence hospital. Most of us working stiffs settle for a granola bar, a pop tart, or a yogurt... something fast, portable, and usually unsatisfying. I for one, am the type to consume cold cake, cold pizza, or cold pasta in the morning. Leftovers from dinner entice me more than any item produced from a cardboard box. Tony the Tiger, Snap, Crackle, and Pop, Lucky and his charms... they never inspired me. Oh, my parents tried. Believe me. they bought every variety pack, forced every type of cereal ever created down my throat. They put it in bowls with milk, in plastic bags dry, and, when it was cool, they even made the little bowl out of the variety pack box. I always felt that eating a soggy mess of mushy wheat out of a cardboard box was a little, well, disgusting. So alas, I troubled my parents with my breakfast conundrum, for every parent knows that breakfast is the most important meal of the day. And I always refused it.

I had an issue with fainting as a child. My parents always blamed it on my inability to eat breakfast. I passed out in first grade while sitting at my desk during math class. I passed out in second grade standing in line waiting for an announcement. I had put my hand up, but the teacher shushed me because at the time, whatever our principal was blubbering about was more important. I think she felt pretty guilty when I collapsed on poor Sheila standing behind me. I skipped third and fourth grade, and passed out again when I was ten during church. I lost my Mickey Mouse ked in the process and demanded that my uber embarrassed father go back inside and retrieve it. Then, I thought I was cured. But alas, I passed out again in high school, on the subway, which resulted in an ambulance and my father later screaming at a nurse, "MY DAUGHTER IS NOT PREGNANT!" Good times. I suppose breakfast is important, but for those of you who enjoy food, and not just packaged, sodium-laced "treats," I have a real treat for you. I introduce to you Egidio's Pastry Shop, located in the real little Italy in New York City. (The little Italy around Mott Street is a tourist joke. While there may be one or two decent restaurants, real New Yorkers know that if you crave some old-fashioned gravy and little Italian grandmothers who give you the Malocchio on Christmas because there's only one loaf of bread left and you, by God, are not going to be the one walking out with it, then you need to schlep yourself up to the Bronx!) My brother knows, when his sister is in the hospital, he doesn't need to show up with flowers or balloons, he simply needs to bring a cannoli or two, and his sister will be grinning from ear to ear.

Egidio's is a wonderful little corner pastry shop, serving a variety of cookies, pastries, and coffee. They raise money on occasion for disasters in Italy, and they're really friendly, if not insanely busy. You can find a seat on occasion (if you play hooky from work and show up at a strange hour), but it's usually packed with people placing holiday orders and birthday orders and such. Plus, once people find a table, they work it Italian style, meaning they'll sit there with their empty plates for hours, just socializing. There's definitely something to be said for the Italian lifestyle.

Anyway, what I recommend at Egidio's is the cannoli. And above and beyond that, if you have a sweet tooth, then I highly recommend the chocolate covered cannoli. Pure bliss. But there is a rule... If you choose to order the cannoli, and you should, ask them to make you a fresh one. Most people simply eat the ones on display, which are delicious and usually pretty fresh, because like I mentioned, Egidio's is a popping joint, but there's a whole new level of amazingness when you consume a freshly pumped cannoli. The cream hasn't made the shell soggy in any way, so you still get that lovely crunch of the fried-dough shell paired with the luxuriously smooth ricotta cheese filling. The chocolate cannoli is hand-dipped in thick, rich chocolate and contains clandestine chocolate chips within the sweet cream filling. Powdered sugar is then graciously sprinkled on top, and voila! the perfect cannoli. Pair it with a nice latte, and you have a real breakfast of champions!