Food nostalgia 1: Pesto pizza
February 12th, 2011 § Leave a Comment
I think the first time I tasted a pesto pizza was in Sicily, in Taormina, a town perched on a cliff overlooking the Ionian Sea, and behind, the shadow of Mt. Etna loomed in the distance. The city was romantically old, ancient and medieval, with the remains of a Greek theater and stone arches connecting the buildings on either side of the street. Narrow alleys branched off and twisted down the cliff, mazes of restaurants and shops and more alleys branched off further. You could wander for days.
I was hiking up and down one of these allies when I decided I was bone-tired of tromping around in my sweaty Tivas. I needed food, wine and relief from the late-summer sun.
I settled on a place with yellow table cloths and white umbrellas and a handful of people outside already finishing their lunches. I ordered a half-liter of house red and a pesto pizza from a young waiter who had big summer-sky blue eyes that popped against his deeply tanned skin. Sun-kissed gold highlights streaked his dark hair.
The notebook I had been scribbling in (fawning over the town, its charm, that I was drinking wine at 1:00 in the afternoon on a weekday) got shoved aside once I tasted the pizza. I probably moaned aloud when the warm pesto hit my tongue.
Pesto pistache 2 by bloggyboulga via flickr creative commons
The dream came on a big white plate, eight or ten inches. The crust thin, crisp and golden. The pizza itself, dripping with olive oil, basil and Parmesan cheese. I cut quickly, messily with my knife and fork, irregular sized pieces I folded into my mouth.
I rubbed the crust in the little pools of oil around the plate, then gave up eating that part to ensure I had enough space in my filling and happy tummy for the most important parts: those smothered in basil, olive oil, and Parmesan, the holy trinity of ingredients.
I don’t know why or how, but I love them, those ingredients. It could be their versatility, how they enliven so many dishes, their smells that make me think of bright green spring gardens and wild flowers, or how they call up warm memories of a cute waiter with sexily accented English, who asked you to come with him on his vespa down to the beach that night.
