I’m a firm believer that food always tastes best at the place where it originated. I’m also the kind of crazy/dedicated person who will go to a city just for a slice of pie. After spending an awesome week at Ann Arbor at our annual summer picnic, I jumped on a plane to Chicago to reconnect with my good buddy Krishna from Chennai and PIZZAARGHH. Yes, you read that right, pizza. Good old cheesy Chicago-style deep dish pizza. Also, Krishna lives in Chicago now and creates drugs for a living 😛 It had been nearly two years and it was about time I caught up with both. As soon as I landed, he picked me up from the airport and we decided to put business first and take the Chicagoan bull by the horns. (get that NBA reference?! :)) The fresh pizza of Pequod One of my friends Dennis who…Continue Reading
On a fateful day in 1943, two ABCIs (American born confused Italians aka second/third-gen Italian descendants in Chicago. FYI this is an acronym I made up, I mean if there are ABCDs – American born confused desis, there’s gotta be ABCIs right? :P) opened Pizzeria Uno to create a type of Italian-American fusion pizza, adding a twist to their traditional thin-crust Neapolitan version. The ingredients were prepared in a circular pan, about three inches deep. The base of the pan was drizzled with olive oil, then topped with a thick bed of semolina and white flour, followed by a pound of mozzarella cheese, vegetables, and meat and finally a thin layer of chunky tomato sauce. Notice how they added the cheese first and add the tomato sauce. The UPSIDE DOWN pizza was then baked to prevent cheese from burning. (Genius!) The olive oil and flour blended to give the pizza…Continue Reading
When I shut my eyes sometimes and daydream about my time in Nice, I picture the narrow alleys of the old town dappled in sunlight , the distressed building walls’ drenched in bright cheerful hues and one important detail sticks out. The window shutters. Or volets as the French call them. Mint volets. Blue volets. Volets with laundry hanging in front on their wrought-iron balconies. Volet with flower boxes. Closed volets. Open volets. Partially open volets. The whole nine yards. My first night in Nice, my host bustled into my room, closed the volets stated something in rapid French, motioned to the windows and walked out. I nodded furiously, even though I had no idea what she just said. Turns out that most houses and apartments in the South of France have volets. As the sun goes down every day, so do the volets. People shut them tight after sunset and…Continue Reading