Somewhere on this very evening, as I tap at the keyboard on my laptop, someone in Lafayette, Louisiana is calling a pizza chain ordering a meat lovers, stuffed crust pizza with that garlic dipping sauce they seem to be so fond of. And then they will wait 30 minutes for it. That makes me sad.
On a summer Saturday night, my lovely wife - C. Marie - and I walk into the small Bread & Circus Provisions nestled in a corner strip mall consisting of three storefronts, one of which is a newly shut-down head shop. This is not my first visit here. I've had lunch with a colleague before, where my porchetta sandwich left me somewhat dissatisfied as its spirals of herbs and seasonings seemed to be over-shadowed by the sparsely flavored meat that encased it. Nonetheless, I have a great amount of respect for Manny Augello and did not allow this lunch encounter to waiver me from revisiting the establishment.
We've come for pizza. Not just any pizza. Enchanting pizza capable of conjuring up memories of our travels to Naples, to Pizzeria Starita, Gino Sorbillo and Di Matteo. Our visits to Grimaldi's and Lombardi's in New York and weekend excursions to Ancora and Pizza Domenica in New Orleans.
The restaurant is small, quaint. It's stark white walls adorned with jars of pickled this and stewed that. Some will be sold, some will be used as ingredients on the menu. As we're lead to our table, I think of how this scene is like a laboratory whose mad scientist encourages you to inspect his lobotomized treasures just before you sink your teeth into them.
A cozy dining room and a small, rustic wooden table reminds us of Europe. How one finds it easier sometimes to move the table to sit, rather than your chair. Our server arrives and attempts to sell us on the evening's special - a redfish something or other - but we've come for pizza. "We're here for pizza. And wine." Consequently, it's been some time since C. Marie and I have been out and we plan to consume an embarrassing amount of food for two people. We prepare our server with this information to which she laughs heartily.
Moments after the vino arrives, time enough for a toast and a swallow, a table of six is sat within elbows reach of us. They are somewhat intriguing, visually; but soon altogether obnoxious. There is one gentleman in particular who is over-analyzing the menu and is compelled to educate everyone at the table about what they should and should not consume. It's an entire table of hipster foodies. Goddamn foodsters. Shouldn't we be afforded the right to choose, much like we did when smoking was allowed, between Foodster or Non-Foodster seating? Shouldn't this be something required to declare to the hostess. "Good evening. I'll need a table for six. BTW, we're all snobby critics who've never worked in the hospitality industry or a commercial kitchen an hour of our life, but we'll definitely be discussing the food you serve like we know more about it than you do." C. Marie and I persevere, taking comfort in our bottle of Cab.
A plate of burrata gently doused with Balsamic reduction arrives on a board with Guanciale made in house. The burrata bursts under the tender pressure of my knife and the creamy curd is spread across a slice of rustic bread, speckled with an irregular crumb to hug each molecule of the cheese that's applied to it.
A delightfully salty dish of chickpea Panelle arrives next, dotted with ricotta, lemon and parsley. A foodster cranes her neck and asks what we're having. I respond simply by asking if she's tried the new Cronut place in Freetown yet. She leans into her table and six people feverishly google: cronuts lafayette freetown. Our second bottle of wine arrives, and soon after, the Margherita.
There is one slice left. It was everything we had hoped for. A galaxy of blistered crust, with a soggy mess of pressed San Marzano tomato and fresh mozzarella at its center, kissed with basil leaves and splashed with olive oil. It was simple and beautiful and wonderfully executed. The over-analysis of garlic knots to my right becomes a static background against the constellation of pizza remnants displayed before us, thankfully. But we're not done.
We cannot help but overhear one of those little bastards ask the server emphatically about how they're aging the veal in the Angry Meatballs. "Dry or wet aged?" Like he could taste the difference. "Dry aged for 60 days" he declares, excited that they've asked, but apprehensive and anxious in his response. He knows that they'll be quick to test his knowledge against their own like sport. C. Marie has that spark in her eyes; that look telling me she's had too much wine and not nearly enough meat.
Our server politely asks if she can box up what's left: a half-eaten slice of pizza and one of four Angry Meatballs. "Only if you bring back a dessert menu and coffee" I respond. Her eyes widen, as though she may look under the table to see who else we're feeding at our little corner of the world over here.
A dessert flight of tiramisu, cannoli and frappe is set before us, along with two peculiar house mugs of coffee. As we lift ourselves up to retire from this lovely meal, a pizza is being served to that table of assholes and before it's even set before them someone calls out, "you know, in Naples they serve the pizza whole, unsliced". Another passive insinuation dealt to the server and I contemplate walking calmly up to that foodster, grabbing him by his carefully managed mane, made to look disheveled, and smashing his face straight through four slices of the Palermo that was presented before them; meant to be enjoyed by people that can appreciate not only the food they eat and the wine they drink, but the company they keep.
More about Bread & Circus Provisions
- E.Margot
