There are pauses. One brings a green, zingy soup of barattiere, a Puglian melon harvested unripe so it’s extra refreshing and mouth-puckering. Later comes a cleanser in the form of sgroppino: Venetian lemon sorbet with prosecco and vodka. And we’re taken elsewhere in Italy, to Torino, for a folded focaccia-like pizza sandwich filled with slices of veal — breast, not loin, so more tender — and a heady tuna sauce amped up with anchovies. It’s umami-maxxing stuff, bagna cauda on a memory foam mattress.
To provide well-rounded coverage and a breadth of insight across various events, we rely on contributions from several staff writers, each bringing their own area of expertise to our publication.
