—Where Do The Children Play?
Going to Osteria Mozza, for me, is like going to church. The high ceilings, the marble countertops and the scrupulous display of wine make me feel like I should put on my Sunday best and curtsy my way to the table. Last Tuesday, we put on our nicer clothes and went in prepared to wait for the coveted two-top I had reserved weeks in advance.
Napkins on laps and forks in hand, we ordered figs wrapped in pancetta and velvety burrata with caviar and egg. The chef was gracious enough to send us grilled octopus with potatoes and an order of (heavenly) ricotta gnudi to go with our corzetti stampati.
The pasta at Mozza is transcendent. Every glistening piece is handmade by a small team of early morning cooks; so consistently you would think it comes out of a secret Mario Batali vending machine in the back. Eating Mozza pasta is like being able to take a bite out of the Mona Lisa: it’s elegant, familiar and layered in mystery and myth.
Considering the thought, care and craft that go into every dish plated in that restaurant makes me want to reconsider my entire existence. Really. If Mozza can take a simple thing like pasta and turn it into what it is, then I have some serious reevaluating to do. Existential pasta eating aside, it’s always inspiring to be around quality craftsmanship in any form.
Wow. I’m officially Jealous. I need to be more like Pippa at Sous Style.
Things I love: used books, the 5pm cappuccino, getting into clean sheets after a hot shower and the last minute dinner date at Son Of A Gun.
Can’t get enough of this.