The urge was more than a desire; It was a demonic possession. When I awoke yesterday morning the realization came upon me that nothing would satisfy my craving except a meticulously crafted Pizza – or better still - two Pizzas.
After a simple seven course breakfast, my task was cut out for me. Following the strict dictates of Neapolitan law, I began to mix the ingredients – flour, water, yeast and Kosher salt. In Naples, nothing else would be permitted, lest one face fines or possibly imprisonment.
For this effort, I chose to eschew machinery which serves admirably for many of my other baking efforts. It was the bowl, the metal spoon and my bulging biceps that would do the initial combining. When the proper texture was achieved, the mass was turned out onto a lightly floured surface, kneaded for a while and then left to hydrate before some final muscular manipulation.
What wine would be ideal to accompany the impending masterpiece? Down to the catacombs of my extensive cellar with only a few threads of possibilities floating about my cranium. Walking past case after case of La Feet, Pet Russians, and La Task, I knew that something special was called for to fill the bill. Was it some Bar Rollo? My 93's just might be ready, but the 96's and 97's were definitely not. Perhaps some of the Key Yentis could suffice, but which ones?
Progressing further and further down into the catacombs, one bottle caught my eye. At this level, with only my flickering candle to guide me, it was becoming difficult to read the labels. Years of accumulated dust and cobwebs did not help matters. The first letter was definitely an “M.” Of that I was certain. Carefully balancing the candle and the bottle in my left hand, I began to brush away the cobwebs. The second letter was an “O.” Aha, my computerized brain calculated. Here must be the bottle of Mouton that has eluded me for so many years.
But, as I blew away more dust and cobwebs, the next letter was not a “U” but rather a “G!” My heart sank as I continued my belated housekeeping. Following the “G” were “E” “N” “space” “D” “A” “V” and an “I” with the final piece of the label crumbled off. This had been a house gift from a well intentioned friend who found out that I was a confirmed wino. I had thanked him and then put the bottle in the most remote place that I could think of.
After the initial shock had worn off, I found myself returning to the daylight with a bottle of 2006 Panarroz Jumilla. This had been one of my favorite Pizza wines in the past and this time was no exception. I have yet to figure out why the Spanish names for bread and rice were combined to form the name or even why there is an association with the picture of a Bird of Paradise flower on the label. No matter. The Monastrell grape practically leaped out of the bottle and captivated my nostrils. Light body notwithstanding, it was a flavor that made one roll one's tongue about to extract every drop of the grapey and slightly brambly essence. No feline urine or dropped graphite pencils into the fermentation tank here, nor were they missed.
The pizzas? Modesty forbids me to describe what came out of my 550F oven after exactly five minutes and thirty seconds each. The first pizza featured a crushed tomato sauce plus six small chunks of Irish Dubliner cheese. It was a bit of a gamble, substituting that cheese for the classic Mozzarella, but this time it paid off with an added layer of complexity. The second pizza remained on the stone for exactly the same time but had twelve slices of cooked Italian sausage in place of the cheese.
Craving satisfied, now I return to fish heads and rice or beans or --
Godzilla