pizza

I have eaten pizza seven times over the last six days. Don’t worry, only once did I stoop to eat pizza from a chain (doesn’t that make you less worried about my health now?). I cultivated a sincere admiration for a good pizza ‘round about the same day I walked down the aisle. You know, you get married and then you can eat however much you want. I think that’s a rule or something. Kind of like how gaining 15 pounds your first year of college seems to be an accepted rule (don’t worry, I did not do that).  Anyway, back to my specific love for pizza.

Tonight Ben took me on a date to a new ristorante italiano called Coppa. The lighting was low, wine lined one wall from floor to ceiling, and brick arches towered overhead our little section. Three distinctive smells drifted through the room as soon as we sat down: first truffle oil (start the night off right!), then rosemary, then hints of crisping prosciutto. Lots of fancy people nibbled their dinners quietly around us, but I was pretty taken by the red head at my own table.  Properly romantic. So, of course, I ordered pizza. Mushroom, taleggio, melted leeks, oregano, and mint pizza. And the crust: ahh, perfectly yeasty, soft and chewy Neopolitan style that can only be truly accomplished in a brick oven (even better in a brick oven straight from Italy like they boast at Coppa). 14 inches of pure satisfaction. And I ate every last bite.  I would share a picture with you, but my romantic husband deemed it inappropriate for me to whip out my iPhone and snap one (the flash might ruin someone’s dreamy buzz). I suppose I will just have to go back…soon.