Life: Idiotropic

Today was an event.  Not only was I going to have lunch with Elise and Enrique, but I was going to the infamous Trattoria Da Carlo where everything is amazing.  I have heard Carlo's praises sung several times now as Enrique and Elisa tell how they never order off the menu.  "We just ask Carlo what we should eat, and it's always good."  Now, I can join the choir.  It is that good.

The downside?  Parking and poor planning.  First, getting there is really quite easy once you survive the first three roundabouts, but then parking is not available at lunch time, so it's preferable to leave 15 minutes earlier than planned to allow for driving in circles and a potentially long walk.  Second, if you go and you're a foodie, don't do what I did and bring a great camera equipped only with a macro lens.  That is not a good food lens.  (Hence the lack of photos 'cause who needs macro tempura?)

Carlo's son came to take our drink orders.  A few months ago, I would have ordered coffee.  I love coffee.  But now, I'm learning.

     "Vino Blanco, por favor." Enrique's smile and nod of approval let me know that I made the right choice.  Finally, this American girl has figured out that you don't drink coffee with lunch!

    "Would you mind if we shared a bottle?"  he asked.  Is there more than one answer to that?  I think not.  So the tall, dark, and quite handsome son of Carlo brought the wine, poured a bit for me to try, then served everyone as I mmmmed to the light fruity white that was neither dry nor sweet.  Just perfect.

Carlo himself isn't as tall, nor as handsome, but he makes up for it in personality.  Medium height, heavy build, this is the stereotypical Italian restaurant owner who shows the greatness of the restaurant by his girth for who can trust a skinny foodie?  He is happy to see my friends for they are regulars enough to be his friends and he is very friendly to me using the one or two English words that he knows.  He goes through the list of suggestions.  Enrique translates.   Spain has more words for seafood than I ever thought imaginable.  We say "clams."  They say, "What which ones?  We have 30." 
    
There are big almost chartreuse colored olives on the table.  Soft and smooth, they are mildly flavored, but meaty and delicious.  I wanted to eat them all, but knew more food was coming, so followed the lead of my friends and stopped at a couple.

Some sort of clam arrived for Enrique.
     "You know they're fresh when they move," he smiles as he squeezes a lemon wedge over one and watches it recoil.
     "Would you like to try one?  Come on!"  I think he enjoys watching my reaction.  No, thank you.  I prefer my food dead.  Really.   Live food just isn't for me, though it is fascinating to watch them wince at each drop of lemon juice.  Entertainment, yes, nutrition, not so much.

     Carlo comes to the table with his "ensalada de bikini" smiling and joking with Elisa.
     "Ahhh.  Here comes my salad."  Elisa is smiling at the oblong plate Carlo carries.  She offers me some.
     "No, thank you.  It's your salad."  Smiles.
     "I knew she'd think that," Enrique laughs.
     "No, no, it's to share," says Elisa, "I just call it mine because I order it all of the time." 

I want to order it all the time too.  I'd like to be there now eating that and only that.  It's enough and it's absolutely fabulous.  On one third of the plate sits the ensalada de pulpo, a neat pile of finely cubed celery, herbs, and beautiful purple rounds of octopus.  It's cold and refreshing.  In the center sits three dark leaves of some sort of sea plant.  Crisp and juicy like a lettuce, but more substantial, it has a hint of saltiness from the sea.  The last third has a simple line of some sort of fish.  Simple, delicious.  Also cold, but very good.  Perfect... but that was just round one.

Round two.  An assortment of things each arriving in a neat set of three so that each of us could try a little.  Tempura vegetables, a small round sea plant deep fried in batter, a delicious mix of sauteed artichokes  and some small creature that looks like a miniature octopus.  The entire creature is there - hood, legs, and all, inky black in the middle and just 1" long.  This would normally terrify me, but I'm with friends and this is Carlo's place, so I eat them and wow, they really are good.   Enrique puts the last one on my plate and I don't complain.  The last third of this plate displays a happy trio of perfect pink scampi poised like they are ready to jump.  My friends give me a lesson.  Enrique with that boyish smile and eyes that squint when he's happy.  He looks like he's always up to something.

     "We Spanish believe that the best part of the scampi is the head."  I'm picking it up gently and looking at it.  Then I look at my fork and knife.
     "Don't be polite.  The best way is to suck it."  I'm taking a lesson now watching both of my friends snap the heads off of the prawn, crack it with their teeth, then put their lips to it and suck out the juices.
     "I think the Italians and the Spanish both eat them this way.  It isn't rude here."  Eww.  Ok.  So, I did it, but may be I did it wrong.  I think the pulpo is better... and certainly easier to eat.

A small plate of water arrived just in time with three white marshmallows.  They looked, at least, exactly like marshmallows, but when you put them into the water, they expand into nice moist cloths for cleaning scampi juice off of fingers and faces.

In between each course a young girl comes to sweep off the table and collect the crumbs on a long silver spatula.  We get new plates.  The white linen looks beautiful.

Our last course:  pasta.  Elisa and Enrique share a plate of vegetable stuffed giant ravioli.  Yum.  Really, really good.  I had fettucine alfredo which is like no other, intensely flavored, but with flavor, not fat.  It didn't coat your mouth of make you feel heavy like many do.   It was just really, really, good.

The wine had been finished and a bottle of Cava had already arrived.  I looked at my watch calculating the time I had to leave and when I should stop drinking cava.

     "Dessert?"
     "Oh, but I'm stuffed."
     "But you only live once..."

Dining here is like running a marathon.  I'm already mentally preparing for that one last plate.  A deep breath.  Exhale slowly.  Visualize the finish line.  Ready.... GO!

One plate, nine pieces.  Three desserts to share.  A pastry with apple that I didn't try because it was my way of "being good" after eating so, so much.  A small cinnamon flavored donut topped with nutella that was good, but not fabulous, and a beautiful cannoli that is as good as the ones my Sicilian friends make - and that's saying A LOT.

A shot of hot espresso, a little sugar, and a glass with two large ice cubes.  Swirl.  It's an Italian-style iced coffee and just the thing to get myself out of my chair and on the road.

Fabulous friends who talk and laugh and joke - great people who don't take life too seriously.  An amazing meal.   I'd like to come here enough for that octopus salad to be "my salad" too.

Kirk and I were supposed to go out on a date tonight... it's 5pm as we're finishing lunch.  May be tomorrow...