A friend of Liz Gilbert's in her bestseller Eat, Pray, Love, remarked that her trip to Italy was Gilbert's own personal "No Carb Left Behind" tour. Whatever carbs may have been left behind, fear not: we found them at Motorino and consumed them. And those that we didn't, well, we took those babies home. No carb should be left unattended. That's, like, a life-principle. Since one of us finished the NYC Triathlon that very morning, we all had to carbo-load. (As one participant remarked, she considered this dinner the third leg of her own triathlon: mani, pedi, pizza.) Armed with that flawless logic, we braved the storm/beautiful weather/storm/hail/humidity/lightning in the name of grub. One more, in the name of grub. Okay, I'll stop now.
This was the biggest Fressenvagen field trip yet. Numerically, we were approaching 20. Geographically, people had come from as far afield as South Africa, Mexico, Philadelphia, New Jersey and Westchester to join the merry band (poetic license, people!!!). All who were hungry came and ate. And ate.
Our group arrived so hungry -- whether due to athletic accomplishments, timing or deliberately having starved themselves -- that some contemplated eating the small, strange plants on the table (see left foreground of picture). They refrained. Joe, who helped me arrange the menu and the reservation, was nothing short of heroic.
Quickly, the food arrived in a veritable deluge. We had a chef-selected prix fixe menu, and one of the first things out of the gate was the bread.
Oh, the amazing bread! In my opinion, the crust is what really made the pizza here transcendent, and the bread was basically that crust in all its heaven-sent glory. Spongy goodness. I felt like bringing out the bread first was sort of like a guy pulling up to a first date in a brand-spanking new Ferrari: it's a little much, but hell, show it off if you got it, baby!
I'm really not the best person to be writing this part as I did not sample from the charcuterie or whatever you call a plate of magazine-photograph-worthy pink and rose veined meats. The salads were good, not over the moon good, but good.
Let's skip ahead to the pizzas, shall we? Ahead ahead, as in to this morning, the day after this event, when I consumed my personal box of pizza pleasure for breakfast and lunch. Delicious cold, I might add, as well as hot. And even now, as I sit, I fantasize about that crust. The naan analogy which other writers have made fails: this is in a class by itself. It's charcoaly without it being too much, it's pillow-like without being Pillsbury, it's thin and thick eerily exactly where it should be.The closest simile I can draw to the crust is getting back to the first date analogy. I am thinking about this crust the way you think about an amazing first kiss. You think, "Wow, that was fantastic." You try to reimagine it and its attendant sensations. And then you think, "I'd like some more, please." Sigh.
At one point, which I'll call The Tipping Point, the numbers of pizzas approaching our table made the jump from Plenty to Parody. I felt a little like Lucy, except rather than a conveyor belt line with chocolates, it was a conveyor belt of endless amazing pizzas. The analogy also fails because I was not required to wear a poufy hat. How anyone else in the place got served besides us is utterly beyond me.
There was so much food that it was almost too overwhelming, if such a thing is possible. See, here's the thing: when you consume such an insane amount of food, at a certain point, your vision actually becomes blurred. You wonder: will I actually have a heart attack here? Who will drive my friends home?
After all the leftover pizzas were boxed for ease of transport, it became apparent that it was not over: yes, there was still dessert coming! Phew, what a relief THAT was. As the desserts were placed before us on the table, they were greeted by groans, sighs and expressions of fleeting horror. Fortunately, no one in this group had any shame, and most had worn expandable items of clothing.
The desserts are really way better than they need to be at a place where only the most obscenely non-self-conscious patrons (see above photograph) would indulge after a meal. Most agreed that the tiramisu, in particular, was awesome.
"I would swim in that strawberry soup if I could, it was so refreshing and delicious!," one eater remarked in a post-game e-mail. I totally agree...and have to admit that, in light of just how much food we were plied with, I'm a little taken aback that that wasn't an option. But perhaps it is just as well. As said eater continued to note, "all the dough I consumed last night would likely weigh me down and I would drown. At least I'd go down happy and content!" she concluded.
Maybe we could get those guys who were playing the violins on the Titanic when it went down...no, wait, they are probably not available. Why do people always play violins when the sh*t starts to hit the fan, by the way? Without even trying too hard, the following examples immediately leap to mind: 1. The Titanic. 2. Rome burning, Nero fiddling. 3. Shriek-y violins in Psycho. Yet the sound of schmaltzy violins generally accompanies being overcome by love, kisses or passionate emotion...which I'm loath to equate with disaster. Whoa, tangent.
If there were a soundtrack for this meal, what would be on it? Suggestions actively solicited.
