Eight fire crews battle flames today at Manny's Pizza. Photo by Linda Yenney

A firefighter rescues historic memorabilia. Photo by Lucas DeSpain

Home for a visit, I enjoy the Manny's Pizza ritual with my dad and his wife.

Labels: fire, fire at Manny's Pizza, Manny's Pizza, pizza, Savanna Illinois

My chili relleno pizza just pulled from the wood oven.

Presenting my chili relleno pizza to the judges.

Labels: Black Cat Cafe, chili relleno, Chili relleno pizza, Day of the Dead party idea, Mexican pizza contest, pizza, pizza contest, Sacramento pizza

Check out my Yelp review of Hot Italian's pear, gorgonzola, honey pizza. YUM!

Labels: food review, Hot Italian, pizza

I found this tale in the archives of my computer. This was written last Thanksgiving, but never posted. A year later, pizza memories still warm my heart.

The Midwest has a bad rap for bland, meat-heavy cuisine. Unfairly so. After all, Chicago is the hometown of deep dish pizza, and the whole state of Illinois follows suit. A lot has changed in the six years since I moved away to the avocado-covered lanes of California. Now, back for a visit, I experience culinary joys that make me proud to claim my gastronomical Midwestern roots.

On the first day of my short visit, I return to my Alma Mater, University of Illinois, in Urbana-Champaign. That’s also where I met my husband. The two of us, along with my mom and step-dad (also an alum), went back for memory’s sake. Our tour consists of a walk around the campus Quad, noting the ageless beauty of the trees and stately buildings. The crisp fall air and honey-colored leaves look just as they did six years ago. My husband and I are returned to a time when marriage was a phantom notion reserved for the likes of old folks like our parents.

We are thankful for another unchanged landmark from our past, which still stands majestically as we approach: Jupiter, our favorite pub.

The impressive brick structure rises from the pavement with a brotherly air. Its glass storefront blinks whimsically with lights that read “Leinenkugel” and “Sierra Nevada,” calling us into the warmth. The long stretch of wooden bar and high stools beckons, as from days of yore. The step up to the counter, one swift leap, is rhythmic to my body as I order the usual: a large pizza with pesto sauce, ½ smoked salmon, and four pints of cold quenching ale.

The pizzas arrive like discs from heaven, glistening from melted cheese atop silver pans the size of a sidewalk square. That familiar pizza aroma immediately tickles our senses: warmth, home, tomato sauce, sticky, sweet and chewy. I grab a tiny square, and smother it in soft flakes of red heat and shaved, salty parmesan. The warmth meets the tip of my nose as the piece flies from plate to teeth. As my bite sinks into layers of gooey cheese, moist spinach, tangy feta and mouth-watering sun-dried tomatoes, the crust parts sharply and splits—crisp, light, and crusty. The flavors dance around my mouth as I chew, one by one moving across my tongue to reintroduce themselves, delicate and rich at the same time. I crave another. And another. And another.

Nowhere on earth do they make such wonderful pizza. Rich in flavors, filling your senses like a blanket wrapped around your shoulders on a brisk night curled up in bed reading. Nothing is more comforting, beckoning the feelings of love and friendship. Pizza is the food I associate most with good company. Growing up, pizza night meant a special occasion like a birthday, an A on a report card, or friends in town visiting.

As we eat, my husband and I reminisce our courting days eight years earlier, where many a date were spent at Jupiter eating this very pizza.

Then, shockingly, my mom breaks through my memories. “I remember my first pizza. It came from a Chef Boyardee box.”

My mouth stops chewing as my jaw falls open. “What?!” I cannot imagine what sort of mediocre first experience this could possibly have been.

“Oh yeah,” agrees my step dad. “Mine, too. I must have been twelve years old.”

“Yeah, I think that’s about how old I was,” says my mother. “The first time I had pizza in a restaurant would have been in college—Mabe's.” She touts the name of her own Alma Mater pizza joint in Decorah, Iowa.

“Me too,” says my step dad. “We ate Chef Boyardee until I went to college and found it in the bars.”

I pop another piece of pizza in my mouth, reveling in the chewy soft bites. I cannot conceive of the world before this standard dish. To me, that would be like life without beer or socks.

An hour later, our bellies pleasantly stuffed to exploding, we pay our tab and swallow the last drops of our beer (now warm). I breathe in deeply—satisfaction from a meal so comforting. We have walked down the halls of memory lane today. I’m proud to have grown up in a world filled with pizza made exquisitely from fresh ingredients by the local Mom & Pop shop, not a prepared mix. I could have grown up in another era—a time when my favorite dish might only have been a twinkle in a mass-producer’s eye.

Labels: Chef Boyardee, deep dish pizza, Illinois, Jupiter Pizza, Leinenkugel, Mabe's Pizza, Midwest, pizza, Sierra Nevada, University of Illinois

I hate eating out. When I travel, dining out is always a gamble. Often, I end up settling for artery-clogging fare that I would never considering cooking for myself at home. Such indulgences are fine as a rare treat enjoyed sporadically throughout the year. But when I travel, and good food is hard to find, I end up feeling like I’ve gathered rocks in my gut by the end of the week.

Not so in Seattle! Good food is always easy to find here.

Portage Bay Café
“Grains”—there is an entire section of the menu dedicated to this king-of-the-food-pyramid. Even though the USDA recommends we consume tons of grains in our daily diets, they are often hard to find on breakfast menus, save for the bland, goopy oatmeal served at typical diners. (In fact, I have often had to settle for this. Once, I even paid a whopping $7 for a bowl of the cold, paper-machete-like stuff.)

You can imagine my delight upon discovering multiple varieties of porridge at the Portage Bay Café: chai spiced, fruit-studded, and nut-filled. My stomach growled with anticipation!

Other menu items included hearty grain flap jacks in every variety—including one for vegans. These all came with access to their topping bar, complete with fresh berries and fruits.

The first-rate menu also contained smoked salmon omelets, breakfast scrambles served up with veggies, and oodles of other enticing dishes. White bread was nowhere to be found—only wheat toast prevailed. And every table came adorned not with tiny packets of fruit and corn syrup wrapped in plastic. Instead, we enjoyed heaping containers of homemade preserves with chunks of fruit.

Our party of six waited over an hour to be seated, but some things are well worth the wait. Portage Bay Café is one of them.

Piroshky Piroshky
Speaking of waiting… don’t expect good food to come easy in Seattle. Piroshky Piroshky is no exception. You can smell the fresh flavors around the block as they lure you closer and closer to their source. There’s an air of sweet, spice, and haunting that plays tricks with your nose. But when you find the shop, there’s no denying you’ve come upon something special.

The street-side display case reveals dozens of pillowy pastries, each filled with a different treat. From potato to cardamom, you’ll have a hard time selecting just one. I’ve tried my share over a series of trips to Seattle, and I loved each one in its own special way.

The potato and onion warms the belly and satisfies all needs for pure comfort and savory bliss. The cinnamon, cardamom and raisin twist causes you to lick, lick, lick until every last bit of spice and sweet are removed from your fingers. The rhubarb surprises your mouth with its array of experiences—from the tart of the fruit, to the sweet of the custard-like filling, to the crunch of the sugar topping. And all are surrounded by a golden melting, wispy, buttery dough.

Hale’s Ales
Come hungry!—and thirsty. After an eight-hour hike, I was ready for some serious food. As I ordered a red ale, nachos popped off the menu. Minutes later, a plate of gooey, cheesy tortilla chips piled high with olives and jalapenos appeared along with our beers. The amber ale was smooth and rich with flavor while quenching my thirst. The nachos were pure salt, crunch, and chewy cheese—just like I like them. Slathered in hot sauce, chased by the freshest of ales, this was the perfect post-hike snack.

The most difficult part of the night was not my eight-hour hike. Indeed, it was selecting from the fulfilling menu. Eggplant lasagna, enchiladas, portabella mushroom burgers, classic three-cheese grilled cheese sandwiches, and pizzas studded the menu. This was bar food at its best, yet with the welcome twist of multiple options for vegetarians, including veggie chili.

Always in search of the best pie, I ordered their veggie pesto pizza. It arrived piled high with roasted bell peppers, olives, onion, and tomato atop a gooey cheese and salty, rich pesto sauce. The crust was cracker-crisp—my favorite! Every bite was the perfect combination of chewy cheese, crunchy crust, and tangy vegetables. We left, bellies full (but not sickeningly bursting), and taste buds deeply satisfied.

Labels: beer, breakfast, diners, Hale's Ales, oatmeal, Piroshky Piroshky, pizza, Portage Bay Cafe, restaurant reviews, Seattle

Labels: basil, blue cheese, eggplant, fennel, garden, peperoncini, pizza, roasted garlic, sun dried tomatoes, veggies, zucchini