Posted by: lisetta | September 26, 2008

Sisyphean Challenge

In an effort to engage with my community, I heeded the call of a neighborhood listserv and trekked over to Abbraccio to watch the first presidential debate with dozens of my fellow citizens.  I really like the space at Abbraccio: its large rooms and warm lighting, golden walls decorated simply with hand-painted ceramics.  People are friendly there, and the owner is well-loved. The idea of the neighborhood restaurant attracts me. 

Their food, however, does not. Though it reads well, it fails to deliver. Here’s what Jennifer and I ordered, off their summer menu:

Sardinian Summer     12.00  

With saffron marinara, goat cheese, prosciutto, figs and fresh basil.

Here’s what we got:

TONS of cheese. Some people would like that. 

GARLIC marinara. If there was indeed any saffron in that sauce, it was absolutely impercievable, overpowered by the bitter sting of garlic, lingering on my palate hours later despite repeated efforts to remove it. 

PROSCIUTTO, when used in English, = cured ham.  You know, the kind you get sliced paper thin, placed on a warm pizza after cooking. Abbraccio’s version included ham, cooked, sliced the thickness of canadian bacon. 

FIGS = dried sliced figs, whose only contributions were sweet and textural, experienced on half of the slices. 

FRESH BASIL chopped so finely that it disappeared under the weight of the other flavors. Sigh. 

Tell me: is it my reading comprehension? Have my expectations skewed so far away from the norms that I’m left to a life of perpetual dissatisfaction? Listening to McCain’s empty rhetoric riddled with propagandistic inaccuracies was just as torturous. I suppose the perfect politician, like the perfect neighborhood pizza, exists only in our inner fantasy worlds.

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Responses

  1. Garlic and Republicans just don’t mix my smiling Italian friend. Didn’t you learn that in Civics class? And haven’t you seen enough vampire films? People who suck the life out of other people don’t like garlic. Right? Oh, wait. Did I just say Civics class? Did I just date myself? Do they even teach Civics any longer? Watched Channel 6 News this AM. Our favorite female, rock star, cutesy, cutesy, clueless, empty-headed vice president was at The Irish Pub yesterday. According to the dressing attire I saw of the inhabitants of The Irish Pub, it appears that one would have to wear a suit and a tie (one actually still tied tight around one’s neck even though work hours are long over) or a swanky, black or red cocktail dress and a string of pearls (real ones, not fake ones or one’s you purchased at Kohl’s) in order to enter. I’ve never seen a “pub” like that before. I think it’s a fake one. Name only. I can’t remember the last time I wore a tie, so I guess until the next funeral I attend, I won’t be going there. And besides I don’t have that many ties and I might get beer spilled on it or something, so I think I’ll stick to the tea-shirt and old blue jeans type of Irish pub establishments.

  2. To the Editor:

    Kindly please add the word “candidate” after the words “vice president” in sentence number 11. And please forgive the fragmented sentences. I write em like I say em sometimes.

    Thank you.

    The Garlic-lovin’ Photographer

  3. Hey! I hope you’re not implying that I suck the life out of other people! Most who know me claim the opposite. This blog here simply aggregates the unspoken.

    I like men in ties, especially if they sport fine silk ones from Italy. Ties = subtle articulations of a man’s creative spirit. Yummy eye candy.


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