Last night I ate deliciously. At Colombo’s in Balwyn, which is an enormous noisy place spread over several levels, crammed with tables, busy every night as far as I can tell, (and I do drive by every evening,) reminding me of an old-fashioned cafeteria except for the friendly waiter service and alcohol sold. The sort of place families go to for a fair-priced feed in a relaxed environment which isn’t the same thing as eating in McDonalds and food courts which prosper on the premise that everyone can feel safe and unjudged in ordering exactly the same food to be served in exactly the same dimensions, same ingredients, same taste, every time. And this is where Colombo’s makes a significant digression from the mass-produced fast-dining experience: there’s an extensive pasta and pizza menu, but if you order the same dish on two different nights they won’t necessarily look or taste the same, or have the same ingredients, or even similar ones. Depending on the dish, this anomaly could be due to what’s in the kitchen on the night, or what’s left in the kitchen, or who’s cooking – that’s my guess, anyway. For example, the gourmet veg pizza doesn’t necessarily have on it the veggies advertised in the descriptor, and the minestrone soup can be less chunky, although still flavoursome, later in the evening. Sometimes there’s a very frisky amount of garlic, other times the cook’s completely forgotten it. Occasionally, ordering something I’ve had before and loved I’ll be disappointed, but these experiences don’t stop me returning and even ordering that dish again because I know it can be good. The first place I look at on the menu, though, is the specials list; it’s short, usually one entrée, and a couple of mains. Desserts don’t really count; there’s a fabulously lurid gelati bar and a dessert case, but what everyone comes for is the hearty Italian feed. And surely, especially, the sugo, oh the sugo! It’s lavishly sploshed on the food, it’s a gorgeous red, it’s exactly the right texture and thickness, the right balance of salty and sweet. To be frank, I couldn’t care less for a creamy pasta sauce, or a seafood fry-up, or a chicken breast with whatever accoutrements, or even a pizza base with a smear of tomato sauce; what I want is as much sugo on the plate as I’m entitled to, and something substantial and complementary in the middle of it. Which was why I was tentatively excited, last night, to see stuffed zucchini on the specials list as an entrée and order it. Since the main portions are enormous feeds I usually order an entrée anyway and I didn’t want to wait long; (well, no-one ever waits long, but there’s also no urgency to synchronise plates arriving at a table – it’s not the point here.) While waiting I made small talk with my dining buddy while picturing a legion of baked zucchinis lolling in trays out the back, developing their flavours, becoming more succulent and desirable by the minute, resting up for their big finale in front of me. And then they came, two squat ones of a well-cooked muddy-green colour, up past their axles in a half bowl of soupy sugo. Not waiting more than thirty seconds, which was enough time to relish the look of the zucchinis’ lumpy homeliness garnished with a good-sized sprig of basil, I carved into the juicy skin of zucchini flesh encasing a sausage of finely ground beef seasoned with a delicate, just-there touch of cinnamon. Smothered in sugo, each little bite was even more convincingly satisfying, humble, faultless, amazing than the previous. I dragged out the pleasure as long as I could without letting the meal go cold, and was only sorry I couldn’t lick the bowl. Afterwards, lingering while my dining buddy finally got her mushroom pizza and ate it, I longed to go out the back and see my devoured zucchinis’ innocent companions basking in their trays, and maybe take some home for laters, but it’s wise to remember that too much of a good thing only ends in disillusionment and disgust. Although I wonder if I went back tonight there’d be more of the same batch left; if yes, I wouldn’t order anything else.
No comments:
Post a Comment