A while back I was at a party in the Italian Consulate in London. But, to be perfectly honest, I was hanging around the buffet table, waiting for the next delicious thing to appear.
I wasn't alone by any means. At most Italian eating festivities, a certain happy frenzy takes over; I felt in my element.
The antipasti – seemingly endless platters of prosciutto, salumi, mozzarella, grilled vegetables, crisp fritters – covered at least half of the huge, white-clothed table. There were three pastas – ricotta ravioli with pesto, a carbonara-ish spaghetti and penne in tomato-y sauce with nuggets of hot, spicy salami enriching it all.
There was a lemon risotto, roast veal with wild mushrooms, olive-oil-slicked broccoli rabe and a salad of leafy bitter greens and fennel shards dressed in olive oil and lemon juice. It would have been difficult to find a better dinner in all of London that night.
To read the res of the story, please go to: The San Francisco Chronicle.
