You can buy an industrial “Christmas” panettone for under ten bucks, something made in a factory last summer that sits on the supermarket shelf waiting for December. (It will taste like sweetened sawdust.) You can try to make your own at home, but it takes 27 hours, start to finish, waiting for the yeast to rise, and rise again. You have to add spendthrift amounts of butter and egg yolks; you have to watch times and temperatures like a hawk, and when it comes out of the oven it’s still so delicate that it will collapse like a soufflé unless you hang it upside down, like a bat, on a skewer. Then, once it cools, it still has to “mature” for about a week so that its aromatic ingredients (the citrus, the rum, the vanilla) can develop their full flavors and fragrances.
It is, as the New York Times pointed out a few years back, the Everest of baking projects.
Panettone dough is wildly sensitive, demanding and occasionally infuriating, following its own unique logic and schedule. Built up in stages, it can’t be rushed or made to wait. It requires an investment of ingredients, a deep understanding of fermentation and attention to pH levels, along with constant attention.
Give it all that, and a panettone can still go wrong. Bakers from Pasadena to Pittsburgh say that’s exactly why they’re so obsessed with the high-maintenance dough: No bread is more difficult, or more rewarding, to get right.
Maria Coassin, the owner of Gelatiamo in downtown Seattle, can produce no more than 100 panettone a day, essentially by hand, with good cheer and artisanal dedication. She finished baking the first batch today, and already has 1,000 loaves pre-ordered. What’s not spoken for in advance goes on sale to the general public this Thursday, Dec. 2nd.
Coassin grew up in a family of bakers in the small town of Maniago, just over 10,000 people, midway between Venice and Trieste in northeastern Italy and known throughout Europe for the local industry: knife-making. The Giulian Alps tower over the flood plains of the Po River. The cows are milked for cheese, and the pigs, fed on the whey, become prosciutto. The mountain streams provide a ready and reliable source of energy to mill grain, stoke forges, and turn lathes.
To manufacture highly sophisticated automobiles, for example, you need a work force familiar with precision tools, and most of Italy’s racing cars (Maserati, Lamborghini, etc.) are built in the region. But those workers need to eat, too, and the Coassin Bakery has prospered for five generations. With loving parents and five older brothers, Maria was well looked-after, but she realized early-on that the family business was limiting. Pastries and gelato, she knew even then, would be her field.
Not yet 20, she married an American airman stationed at the nearby Aviano Air Force Base, moved to California, and took a job with McDonald’s so she could learn English and become versed in American business practices. When her husband retired from the military a few years later, she’d climbed the corporate ladder from mopping floors and washing dishes to assistant manager. She was ready to set out on her own, but didn’t want to stay in California. They flipped a coin: Seattle or Atlanta.
She signed on with an educational supply company in Seattle while she looked for a spot to open her own business. Two brave souls opened gelato shops, by which time Coassin had a name ready to go: a made-up word that’s the Italian equivalent of I Love Sushi: “Gelato Ti Amo,” or Gelatiamo. (To an Italian speaker, it sounds as if you’re saying “Let’s go eat gelato.”)
Her gelato shop (and it’s primarily a gelateria, not a bakery) has now stood on a busy downtown corner for two decades, but it almost didn’t get started. Coassin had almost no financing, so she cashed out her share of the family bakery business; it came to $200,000. Her father pitched in another $50,000 to help her buy equipment. (Reminder: this was serious money 25 years ago.) In fact, he came to visit the first year, in 1996. “What can I do to help?” he would ask. It was a cold winter, not much demand for that sexy but little-known Italian newcomer, gelato. (Lots of customers thought it was cream cheese.) So Coassin’s dad started making panettone.
The name, by the way, is an Italian suffix, “-one” (OH-nay), something bigger, grander. So polpetta, meatball; polpettone, meatloaf. Minestra, soup; minetsrone, fancy soup (lots of vegetables). Pane, bread; panettone, fancy bread for the holidays. More brioche than fruitcake, not dense like a German Stollen, but bread-y, sweet, yeasty, with plenty of run-soaked raisins, and candied orange zest and lemon bits.
In her two tiny convection ovens, in the bakery below her ice cream shop, Coassin can only bake 16 panettones at a time, but she gets a lot of satisfaction from knowing that her brothers in Italy are doing exactly the same thing at the same hour. FaceTime conversations are not unheard of. And after all that effort, maybe 1,500 one-pound loaves of panettone, priced at $20 apiece. (A special treat, Gelatiamo’s panettone filled with zabaglione-flavored gelato, is sometimes available by the slice.) Add it up, and it might seem barely worth the effort. But it’s a fifth-generation thing in Maniago, and a 25-year Seattle tradition now, and Coassin won’t give it up.
“You have to remember that we are not a full bakery, we are a gelateria and pastry shop,” Coassin said in an email. “We still do things they way my dad taught me 25 years ago adjusting our family recipe to ingredients and equipment here!”
A couple of years ago, she tweaked the blend of flours a bit so the dough would be more elastic and the panettone lighter. More sweet goodies have been added. “Maria’s Panettone” is a triumph. Barely 1,500 loaves, remember. Same price as always, $19.95, and she ships anywhere in the country.
And if she’s sold out by the time you get down to Third & Union, here’s a list, compiled by the Washington Post, of panettone bakers who also ship.
Founded in 1975, the Enological Society of the Pacific Northwest was the oldest volunteer-organized wine appreciation group in town. Rechristened the Seattle Wine Society in 2004, it continued to sponsor monthly wine dinners and an annual wine judging whose excruciating fairness was better suited to the days when Washington and Oregon combined had fewer than 100 wineries (many owned by paranoid individualists barely on speaking terms). But its leaders recruited international wine authorities as judges, and their influence helped put the Pacific Northwest on the map.
Life goes on, conditions change, and many volunteer organizations took advantage of their non-profit tax status to change direction. Not the Enological Society. “Our work here is done,” the Board of Directors decided, and they literally closed up shop. They had $30,000 or so in the bank, but didn’t spend it on fancy trips for their top brass; instead, they gave the money to the educational institutions they’d been funding for years, a lump sum to be distributed (as scholarships) over the coming years. That was in 2013.
The founding board came straight out of Seattle’s Blue Book (Dorothea Checkley, George Taylor, Nancy Davidson Short, Betty Eberharter), with a mission to guide its members “in viticulture, enology, and the appreciation, enjoyment, knowledge and proper usage of wine.” Its mission accomplished, it fell to international business attorney Mel Simburg, serving a term as president, to decommission the Seattle Wine Society.
Under the guidance of an early recruit to the cause, Dr. Gerry Warren (a clinical professor of medicine and bioengineering at the University of Washington), the Society provided its 3,000 members with monthly educational programs, wine dinners featuring wine regions across the globe, and an annual wine festival, all of it run by volunteers. Chapters were added in half a dozen outposts, from the Tri-Cities to Spokane. The annual Festival became a focal point for a growing body of wine enthusiasts, not the least of them the internationally renowned judges. Over the years, they included Paul Pontallier of Chateau Margaux; the Italians Angelo Gaja and Piero Antinori; the American historian Leon Adams; writers Roy Andries de Groot and Gerald Boyd; California wine makers Joe Heitz and Warren Winiarski; UC Davis professors Maynard Amarine, Denny Webb and Ann Noble. Their palates, unfamiliar with the unique wines of the Northwest (especially in the early years) were always impressed by the quality of the top bottles; they were also unafraid to criticize flawed wines.
Today, the number of wineries in Oregon, Washington and Idaho has grown from fewer than 100 to well over 1,000 in Washington alone. The Wine Society’s casual, chatty summer wine fair has morphed into the tony Auction of Northwest Wines, one of the nation’s biggest charity auctions. The Washington Wine Commission (which didn’t even exist when the Society started) runs a two-day Wine & Food Festival; there’s also a privately run Seattle Food & Wine Experience. There are smaller festivals in every valley and hillside of the wine country, and wine-maker dinners at restaurants across the region. And no shortage of independent, benchmark judgings, either, from the Platinum Wine Awards run by journalists Andy Perdue and Eric Degerman of Wine Press Northwest, to the high-profile Seattle Wine Awards (and its companion, the Oregon Wine Awards) run by sommelier Christopher Chan, who brings in a panel of top-name judges.
John Bell, an engineer who spent his career working at Boeing while he made wine in his Everett garage, is among those who regard the Wine Society’s work with fond nostalgia. Until this summer, Bell owned a successful boutique winery, Willis Hall; he’s also a longtime Society board member who appreciates what the Society has done as a catalyst for wine education and appreciation, “to the point where that mission has now been taken up by a plethora of individuals and groups.”
For the first time in over a decade, three dozen of the “old crowd” gathered recently to reconnect over a luncheon of chicken with papardelle at the elegant Women’s University Club. Many of the founding board members were on hand, chatting about early memories. like the shoebox in which membership records were kept on 3 x 5 cards. When the Society was launched, wineries weren’t allowed to have tasting rooms, assuming you could even find the vineyards or the production facilities. It took an act of the state legislature to legalize the pouring of samples. Today, of course, Washington grows more wine grapes than any state but California, and the industry generates hundreds upon hundreds of millions of dollars in revenue. The folks at today’s event (average age perhaps 80) savored treasured bottles they’d brought from the own cellars, as befits the Society’s “volunteer” ethos.
Warren noted that the Society was based on three principles: an almost academic approach to the then-novel subject of wine appreciation; the importance of promoting a local wine industry; and to have a good time while pursuing the first two goals. Having achieved that, it was time to plan for a “soft landing” and close up shop.
“We are proud of our accomplishments,” Bell said. “It’s the end of an era, but it was truly a bright era, wasn’t it?”
Nina Mikhailenko, the prodigiously gifted Russian-born artist, will host an open house tomorrow (Saturday, Oct. 23rd) to showcase her latest work.
If you’ve enjoyed a drink or a meal at any of Seattle’s El Gaucho locations, you’re already familiar with Nina’s paintings. Her style has its roots in a late-19th century Russian movement called Peredvishniki, a loose group of itinerant artists who rebelled against the formal restrictions of the tsarist academy. Instead they painted populist themes: peasants, religious celebrations, landscapes. Her most successful works are commissions: murals of life on Pampas, bullfights, chefs, cigar smokers, jazz musicians, tango dancers, well-fed urbanites, rare wine bottles.
Details on her Facebook page, which includes a video. The open house runs from 1 to 7 PM at 9315 56th Avenue S. Excellent vodka and Russian treats; watch this YouTube to find out all the details. Or go to artistnina.com for a preview of her latest work.
It was the first live opera performance in Seattle in 18 months! So it was a good thing that the music and plot of Puccini’s La Bohème were familiar. It was a little like going to Disneyland with your friends from summer camp. You practically want to hum “It’s a Sad World After All.”
So the challenge, in Seattle Opera’s production, is to offset the on-stage misery. The young bohemians (poets, painters, composers, philosophers) may be starving and freezing, but they’re determined to get through yet another discontented winter. Spoiler alert: the sweet-natured seamstress Mimi–sung by soprano Karen Vuong–doesn’t make it to April, despite her friends’ frantic, last-minute efforts. Colline (Cairo-born bass-baritone Ashraf Sewailam) even sells his beloved overcoat to buy medicine, to no avail.
The story of these passionate scamps isn’t all about heartbreak, though. Paris in the 1890s was plenty raucous, full of bright colors and brazen sexuality, captured in director David Gately’s staging. The courtesan Musetta, especially–soprano Ginger Costa-Jackson–revels in being surrounded by a “scent of desire” in her delightful aria, By now Ginger Costa-Jackson has become a staple of Seattle Opera casting. Her waltz-time aria,“Quando m’en vo,” is often portrayed as the song of an innocent adventurer in a slinky silk gown, but Costa-Jackson plays her as a scheming hussy (with a heart of gold, of course; she sells her earrings in a last-ditch attempt to save Mimi).
A good thing that the audience knows what’s coming. This Bohème doesn’t slow down to showcase the opera’s big numbers; instead, it showers the audience with musical exclamation points and dramatic sparkles from beginning to end. The set may have been shipped over from Milano for Seattle Opera’s 1965 production, and the costumes (by Martin Pakledinaz) have seen three decades of use, but it all fits the “comfort mode” of nursery school familiarity. No complaints.
Enza Sorrentino, a traditional Sicilian chef whose deft touch with Italian pasta seduced a generation of Seattle diners away from canned spaghetti & meatballs and bogus fettuccine alfredo, passed away two years ago today; she was 76 years old.
She was born in Sicily in 1943 and grew up in Palermo, among the small farms, vineyards and fishing villages of the Mediterranean coast. She moved to Seattle after the birth of her first grandchild and joined three of her children here; for the next 15 years she would cook in much-loved neighborhood restaurants like La Vita è Bella and Mondello, serving as a culinary ambassador and bringing the spirit, flavors and hospitality of Sicily to Seattle.
“Mamma Enza,” as she was sometimes known, was the matriarch of an extended restaurant family. She arrived in Seattle from her native Sicily, in 2003, to help her oldest son, Corino Bonjrada and his business partner, Giuseppe Forte, run a popular sidewalk café in Belltown, La Vita è Bella.
“There is so much more in Italy than spaghetti, risotto and pizza,” was Mamma Enza’s motto. It was the opening salvo in her mission to broaden Seattle’s appreciation for Italian cooking.
Howard Schultz was an early customer in Belltown; Martin Selig and Gordon Bowker were among her fans. Italian opera stars arrived at her restaurants in Queen Anne and Magnolia. Jeff Bezos made a reservation.
Enza Sorrentino was born in the lean, post-Mussolini years, in Marsala, a small town on the west coast of Sicily. Her father was a teacher, her mother an office worker, but her grandfather had owned a restaurant. Enza grew up in the impoverished landscape of postwar Italy and jumped at the chance to escape; she married and moved to the French-speaking Morroccan capital of Casablanca for a decade. Returning to Sicily, she took a job as a bookeeper for the region’s biggest union, the CGL; thanks to her language skills she assumed a prominent role in the union’s international relations. But it was a political position, hence quite perilous. As the legend goes, after witnessing more than one Mafia hit, she walked away. Still, with five children to look after, she needed work. So she took a job as a dishwasher in a restaurant.Here’s where it gets interesting. One day, the cook didn’t show up, and Enza stepped in to prepare the restaurant’s lasagna. “Who made this??” the dumbfounded customers asked. So Enza was promoted.
Not that she wasn’t already an accomplished home cook. For years she’d been feeding her own family of five and their friends. But this was different. Now she had to cook for dozens of customers every night. Now, it seems to me that there are only a few jobs that require everyday, 24-hour attention. Not digging ditches; you knock off at sundown. One is a single mom raising a family of five. The other is running a restaurant. But Enza was anything if not resilient. And anything but lazy. She made pasta by hand; she once cut up an entire lamb with a blunt dinner knife. She was the least fussy of cooks, but demanding for all that. In Palermo, she ran a popular nightclub, standing up to regular shakedowns from both underworld dons and agents of the law. In Seattle, no such problems, so she never returned to Palermo except for brief family visits. Here, once she bought something from a vendor, she used it, used it all, no waste. She would turn up at the restaurant at 6 AM to bake two dozen loaves of bread; she would roll 200 meatballs by hand before lunchtime; she made her own sausage, her own pasta, her own pizza dough, her own sauces. Whenever she was physically able, she turned up at the Saturday market in Magnolia to sell her wares; she knew everybody.
She loved to go out. She particularly loved going to the opera to hear the great Italian composers. She had a love-hate relationship with restaurants; she would complain about high prices, tasteless entrees, and indifferent service. But when she found a place she liked, she was loyal to a fault. The chicken-liver mousse at Le Pichet. The fish & chips at Steelhead Diner. The tuna sushi at Shiro’s in Belltown and Sam’s in Ballard. Shiro, we should mention, was a longtime friend and next-door tenant at La Vita è Bella.
Over time, her five children provided her with seven grandchildren, who could, of course, do no wrong. And on whose behalf she would spare no expense. Her own shopping was limited to the bargain counter at Macy’s, Ross Dress for Less, and her favorite, the Goodwill. Still, like all Italians, she knew the value of the prestigious brands: Gucci, Prada, Rolex, Dior, Chanel.
She is still remembered by a generation of diners spread across Seattle (granted, many in Magnolia) who admired her lasagna, worshiped her gnocchi and ravioli, relished her linguine with clams. She was always touched by expressions of support, but she didn’t tolerate fools; many a vendor escaped her wrath only because, even after almost two decades in Seattle, she had failed to master the English-language intricacies of an Italian insult.
As it happened, some of the cooks at Mondello neither read nor speak English, so Enza would look over the tickets in English and call out the orders in rapid fire Italian. The Spanish-speaking cooks always knew just what to do. Her own English remained halting. She was not, like some of Seattle’s Italian restaurateurs, a front-of-house person. Though she was grateful for their compliments, she did not seek the attention of her customers by spending a lot of time in the dining room; her place, she knew, was the kitchen.
“Mangia,” she would say to her guests. You must eat! “Mangia!”
A grocery store’s two or three facings of pre-sliced, shrink-wrapped pepperoni or Swiss doesn’t make it a deli. You’ve got to have a back room where people actually smoke the meats or grind their own sausage.
And now that the retail outlet of Bavarian Meats, in the Pike Place Market, has folded its tent and slunk off into the night, it’s harder and harder to find a true Yurpeen deli in SeaTown. (A bit more about Bavarian here.) And yet there’s George’s Deli, not German but Polish, unassuming, family-run, close to the big hospitals. A steady clientele of folks in scrubs and three-piece suits; a phalanx of cheerful women taking orders and packing up sandwiches.
The reuben has an insider’s-secret reputation as the best in town, the potato salad has a secret ingredient, the shelves are stocked with jars of condiments straight from the Old Country. But my weakness is the beef tongue, sliced thin, on rye bread with “everything” (lettuce, tomato, mayo, mustard, pickles, Havarti). And what seems like half a pound of thinly sliced smoked tongue.
Gross? What, because it comes out of a cow’s mouth? Go suck an egg.
Usually a springtime promotion, but we were still in lockdown back then. So it’s Negroni Week right now. Sponsored by Campari (obviously) and Imbibe (a trade mag), it’s also a fundraiser (each participating bar used to pick its own charity, now there’s a list of some two dozen major categories.
Here’s the official recipe. The version I had last night at Gold Bar in South Lake Union was made with rum, an adjustment that might take some getting used to. No matter, it was a good-looking beverage.
I’ve written thousands of words about the Negroni, which is an aperitivo made with equal parts gin, sweet vermouth and Campari. Eight years ago I found myself on a wine tour in Italy and took advantage of a stop in Florence to check out the Caffè Cassoni, where (according to lore) Count Negroni first convinced the barman to add gin to his favorite aperitif of Campari and vermouth. There were five of us, so five Negronis.
Reported earlier today that the Italian bakery Princi will close its freestanding location in the Denny Triangle. I’ve been showing up at Princi ever since they opened, and I’m glad that the stores inside Starbucks Roastery (on Cap Hill) and Starbucks corporate-support center (in Sodo) will keep going, and Tutta Bella, where this picture was taken, is still going strong..
Happy Hour as we know it (discounted food and drink) is hardly a new concept. It’s an outgrowth of Italy’s aperitivo culture: the civilized notion that urban dwellers need a period to transition between work-day tensions and dinnertime relaxation. It’s part of daily life, a routine in towns big and small, but especially in Torino and Milano: you enter the premises (sometimes ornate, sometimes not), you might pay a cashier up front and take your receipt to the bar; you might just place your order with the counterman. A sweet vermouth, a Campari-Soda, an infused bitter like Averna or Salers or Fernet, your call. There might be a saucer of potato chips or a few pieces of salami, or even a buffet of appetizers. It’s not dinner, that comes later. And you can always return to the Averna for your after-dinner digestivo. Or you can head to Bothell, where there’s a restaurant actually named Amaro, same owner as IL Bistro in the Pike Place Market, which has a pretty good amaro list of its own.
One of the country’s palaces of amaro is right here in Seattle. That would be Barnacle on Ballard Avenue, where amaro enthusiast David Little has assembled one of the country’s deepest collections. If you’ve never been, go soon.
The front of the rehabbed Kolstrand building is home to Ethan Stowell’s Staple & Fancy and his soon-to-become event space, Marine Hardware. The back is where the sophisticated action happens: Renee Erickson’s Walrus & Carpenter and its offshoot, Barnacle, a delightful 12-seat cocktail counter, which houses Seattle’s most ambitious collection of Italian bitters.
Collectively, amari are one of the world’s great taste experiences, woven deeply into the fabric of Italian life, from big-city bars to rural caffès. Names like Fernet-Branca, favorite of off-duty barkeeps world-over; Campari, basis for the Negroni and the Campari-Soda; Averna, Zucca, Ramazzotti, Meletti, Braulio, Montenegro, Cappelletti, Amaro Nonino, Unico, the list goes on and on. Barnacle’s back bar shelters well over 150 labels, and the newly-designed menu features over a dozen tasting flights, $15 for three one-ounce pours, from the simplest (Montenegro, Vecchio del Capo, Ciociaro) to the increasingly exotic (Santa Maria at Monte, Sibilia, Casoni Ciclista). For newcomers to this closely-guarded treasure chest, a shot of amaro might well taste like cough syrup. Pertussin, for example. And you wouldn’t be too far off: for generations, pharmacists have been concocting elixirs from plants and herbs.
And there’s food, too, at Barnacle. Sardines, olives, on-the-bone Spanish ham sliced by hand from a jamonero, a stainless steel stand like a medieval torture device that holds the leg in place. (You can buy one for your own family! It’s under $600 at Costco, 15 lbs. of bone-in meat, the holder, and a carving knife.)
Wait, Italian? Does Starbucks know about this amaro thing? You bet. Especially at the Princi shops in South Lake Union, at the Corporate Support Center in SoDo, and at the Roastery on Capitol Hill, they’re into the whole aperitivo ritual. Rocco Princi, the superstar baker from Milano whose first American operation is right here, created a handful of signature aperitivi for Starbucks. I started out easy, with a rhubarb-based amaro called Zucco, then moved up. The Princi barista/bartender combined Campari, bourbon and sweet vermouth (so far, the ingredients of a perfectly respectable Boulevardier), added a touch of vanilla syrup, and poured it over freshly ground Starbucks Reserve coffee. Cold brew, right? Into a glass with a single ice cube and topped with a couple drops of lavender bitters.
Starbucks describes it thus: “Earth, oak, coffee, and cocktail come together through the exchange of techniques across the realms of bartender and barista. There is a delicious moment as the ruby red cocktail is poured over fragrant coffee grounds in a hypnotic circular motion. The coffee-kissed liquid trickled into a carafe and collects, excitement mounting, until it is poured over a sphere of ice, ready to be sipped and savored.”
I can’t recommend this highly enough. You don’t taste the coffee, just its smokey, slightly bitter chocolate character. It’s the creation of bartender Julia Momose, born in Japan, currently working in Chicago, recognized as one of America’s top young mixologists, furiously talented.
Princi offers a couple of salumi options to accompany its cocktail hour concoctions, but if you’re not sharing with a drinking buddy and the prospect of shelling out $22 for your very own plate of prosciutto seems daunting, you can shuffle over to the bakery counter and point to a slice of the Quattro Staggione pizza; a cheerful, white-capped commessa will heat it up and deliver it to you for $6.
More research. Artusi, on Capitol Hill, serves up an amaro called Lago Maggiore that starts out as a Nebbiolo-based, amarone-style wine and gets its kick from the herbs growing around northern Italy’s Alpine lakes. At Intermezzo in Pioneer Square, I was pleased to find another rhubarb-based amaro, Sfumato Rabarbaro, and a $10 assortment of cold cuts and cheeses. And at Ristorante Picolinos in Sunset Hill, I enjoyed an amaro from California’s St. George distillery called Bruto Americano; it made for a satisfying nightcap.
Onward. At Cicchetti on Eastlake, now in the capable hands of Christian Chandler after the death of founder Susan Kaufman, the amaro flight was a modest $14: Nardini’s fruity amaro, Tagliatella; a bright Ebo Lebo from Ottoz; and another Sfumato Rabarbaro. Could have stayed here and tried another flight and added some nibbles (cicchetti literally means “bar snacks”) but I was ready to wrap things up.
So up to Broadway for a final flight of amari, labeled Caveat Emptor (“Buyer Beware”), $20, at Herb & Bitter. This is the stuff of PhD orals: the toughest tasting exam you can imagine. Cloudy green Amaro Alta Verde (brim-full of Alpine herbs and a taste of absinthe); bright yellow Jeppson’s Malört (the Swedish word for wormwood and long a staple of two-fisted Chicago taverns); and, finally, the black-as-night bitter, bitter end: Elisir Novasalus. Dark, woody, acrid. Can you imagine the smell of the mastic used to glue linoleum to the floor or the countertop? Moist tree sap (if you’re in the habit of licking trees) would have at least some redeeming sweetness; Novasalus has none of that. They had to go to the Sicilian underbrush to find trees with sufficiently bitter sap, to which they then added flowers and herbs from Alpine meadows before marinating everything for six months in Marsala wine. It was only a one-ounce pour, but I was unable to finish it. Adding a splash of water was no help, an ice cube only made things worse, like a dirty bomb. Do you remember Black Jack chewing gum? That’s black-licorice flavor. Hated it when I was a kid, just thinking about it makes me shudder.
Still, defeat was not an option, so I declared victory and called it a night. I walked a block south along Broadway and ducked into Boca, where I chased the wretched taste of the Novasalus with a long, cold draught of Fremont IPA. Neither the barkeep at Cicchetti nor at Herb & Bitter had bothered to ask if I wanted anything to eat, but the owner of Boca, Marco Casas-Breaux, brought me an order of Argentina’s truck-stop mainstay, a boneless beef cutlet, breaded and deep-fried, topped with a pair of fried eggs. In genteel Viennese society this is known as a Schnitzel à la Holstein; in Berlin it’s a Strammer Max. At Boca, it’s called a Milanese, and it probably saved my life.
Princi announced today, in a note taped to the door, that it will close its free-standing Seattle store early next month. Two other locations, inside the Starbucks Roastery on Cap Hill and inside the corporate support center in SoDo, will remain open. Rats!
The “downtown” store, at the corner of the Urban Triangle Park on Westlake, where the Denny Triangle approaches SLU, is a combination a bakery, coffee shop & bar. Princi is part of Starbucks, though you’d never know it. A community gathering spot, with regulars at the outside tables and locals dropping by to pick up pizza slices or pastries for dinner. Princi’s very European influence among the towers of Amazonia will be missed.
More on Eater.com out of Chicago, here.