"In Napoli where love is kingWhen boy meets girl here's what they say..."When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pieThat's amore..."Dean Martin, 1952 (Harry Warren music, Jack Brooks lyrics)
I was watching the skies above Highlands Ranch yesterday afternoon, realizing that the weather forecast was true. The milky water-white atmosphere usually signals snow. And, not a little bit. That's what I saw. No sun all day long, which is unusual here.
Sure enough, we awoke at 5:45 this morning to about a foot of the sparkly stuff in the back yard. We sit 1000 feet above downtown Denver, and we're in that patch of weather forecasting that always includes a caveat like "probably a lot more south of E-470." That means us.
But, ensconced in my little home office corner of the guest room yesterday afternoon, I could think of only one thing. It happens a lot this time of year. And, it really happens a lot when it seems that snow will keep us inside, even if it's perfectly safe to go out.
Food. Not just any food. Food that I cannot get. Food that can be ordered and delivered. But, not food that can be delivered to my zip code.
Living almost 20 years in the San Francisco Bay Area, it's entirely possible to just name a restaurant -- almost any restaurant -- and recite the aroma, presentation, and ambience of the place from memory.
With snow about to fly, I couldn't remember the names of any of them.
What's an eight-letter word for bliss on Earth?
Tommaso's.We leased a flat in Telegraph Hill just north of Jackson Square, the location of my office at Chiat/Day. The advertising agency was housed in an old ravioli factory without air conditioning. I remember experiencing only two days when I wished for that modern convenience on the fourth floor, where the Apple account team was quartered. My husband was wrapping up his bankruptcy law practice in Kansas and would be joining me in a few weeks. He was facing the California Bar Exam, but Clorox Co. had already hired him as assistant corporate counsel.
So, life was good and getting better all the time. I was already in culinary overload, as my coworkers used whatever lunch breaks we could squeeze out of intense days to introduce yet more, not-to-be-believed food encounters.
On one particular day, we found ourselves with excess time, a very rare moment. I was told we were walking to the edge of Jackson Square that suddenly turns into North Beach, for Italian food. We would be in that small swatch of street just below Broadway, on Kearny.
We walked past tacky neon signs announcing downright dirty stuff in broad daylight. I had been in town long enough to know that great food was always just around the corner; and, that what preceded or followed it on the street was of no real consequence. Still, I could only envision an equally tacky Italian place with greasy pizza and surly service.
As my colleague opened the right of the green double doors, my senses were changed forever by the assault of unexpected aroma. And, heat.
It was the sweet smell of burning oak. I was standing in the very place where the country's oldest, continuously-in-use brick oven was housed. It had been there since 1935. The aroma of homemade pizza dough cooking in that oven was the centerpiece of old, Bohemian ambience.
I stood at the entrance for a moment, juxtaposing what was certain excellence in front of me with the raunchiness on the street behind me.
I slowly walked down the three steps from street level into the world of the Crotti's, who had taken over the restaurant when it was Lupo's. The late Frankie Cantelupo started it when he brought the pizza of Rome from New York to the west coast. To San Francisco.
We were greeted by Carmen Crotti. She was part hostess, part waitress, part expediter, part order barker. She looked like an Italian Ingrid Bergman, with jet black hair and dark brown eyes.
Carmen was also the full-time daughter of Maria Crotti. Maria was born in 1930 and came to America from Tovo, Northern Italy. It seemed that Mama Maria solved all problems and was sought with great deference by bus boys, pizza makers, and Carmen to break ties and mitigate disaster.
Carmen was also the full-time sister of Agostino Crotti, Maria's first-born child. He was large, in charge, and spoke in the softest thick Italian accent I had ever heard.
I ate pizza that day, which required something under two minutes to cook at 800 degrees in the infamous oven. I was told it had been fired up at 11 a.m., just like the start to every operating day at Tommaso's.
I knew that Mark and I were eventually going to spend quality time in this restaurant, even though we had a smorgasbord of places within walking distance from the flat. That didn't include the hundreds of places that were merely a cab ride away.
We would walk a half block up (and, I do mean UP) Vallejo and turn left at Montgomery, to a postcard-style view of the San Francisco business district at night, shining like a jewel box. We would slip down (and, I do mean DOWN) Montgomery, cross the street at Broadway, and turn right. We'd chuckle about the scenery there and move quickly on to Kearny. One left turn, first store front on the left, and there we were.
Over time, we developed a standing order. After trying a few things, we settled on the Chilled String Beans and a small sliced meatball and pepperoni pizza for the appetizer. I would have been happy with just the meatball, which Mama made by hand in the little prep kitchen behind the brick oven. But, I ate the pepperoni for love. It was the little kind. Scarcely more than an inch in diameter before it hit the heat, emerging with a crispy casing that you just can't get outside of 800 degrees. It was made by Molinari Delicatessan on Columbus Avenue, between Grant and Vallejo.
For the entree, Mark and I would split the lasagna. It's $15.50 today, but it was only about $6.00 when we first started eating at Tommaso's. It was a large serving, about 4 x 8" in more than a dozen layers. I asked for the recipe and was politely refused.
Over the years, we learned just about everything we ever wanted to know about Tommaso's and the family. And, the lasagna. I couldn't have the lasagna recipe because Mama made it by hand. I mean, she made each order by hand. They did give me the "recipe," which was more like a procedure. It was completely unachievable by any other living soul outside of that facility.
Maria would layer
her fresh pasta sheets with
her creamy meat filling, a thinner version of the red sauce used on
her pizzas, and
her cheese concoction of silky mascarpone and fresh ricotta mixed with fresh herbs. Then, the single-serving au gratin dish would go into
her 800 degree oven until the edges began to scorch. Just a few seconds. The finished, oven-hot entree was always ceremoniously delivered to the table by Agostino, right hand and arm wrapped in two enormous white cloth napkins, like the treasure it was.
Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness. Together, all in the same dish.
Long after we moved to the East Bay suburb of Alameda in anticipation of children, we'd still find time and reasons to drop into Tommaso's. Even after I took a job in the suburbs, too, we would deliberately drive into the City just for Tommaso's.
We were always greeted like members of the Crotti family. When I had almost nine straight months of sickness with my first pregnancy, Maria's lasagna always seemed to settle just right.
After Shannon was born in 1987, Tommaso's was the first place in the City that she visited, smiling in her little baby basket as all the Crotti's cooed over her and stroked her curly, red hair.
About five years later, Shannon was a precocious five-year-old, and she had a sister in a baby basket. Tommaso's was Meredith's first restaurant experience in the City. She never liked the noise and bustle, but she couldn't stay awake with the warmth of that oven in the background.
I will never forget the time we arrived with the two small girls, and the place was packed. It was a Saturday night, and -- believe it or not -- we had driven into San Francisco for some purpose unrelated to food. But, we looked at each other on our way out of town and realized we couldn't waste the opportunity and expect to live with ourselves later.
Finding a place to park was less of a challenge than getting off the street with the girls and inside Tommaso's. The wait was something like 90 minutes.
But, Agostino Crotti spotted us and started to wave us forward. He said we could have the "family booth."
The family booth at Tommaso's wasn't reserved for families coming into the restaurant. It was reserved for the Crotti Family. The only other people who sat at that table comprised the small team of Italian employees afforded special privilege. Taking meals or short breaks, wrapped in plain white aprons, faces dusted with flour from spinning fresh dough, beaded with sweat from pulling another pizza from the hell fire of the brick oven.
I didn't know whether to cry, kiss Agostino, or hide from the glare of the waiting masses.
I did know one thing. I couldn't wait until he brought the plate of Chilled String Beans.
Maria Crotti - At rest in San Francisco, California, April 22, 2008. "She was the matriarch of Tommaso's restaurant in North Beach and was loved throughout the community. We will miss her with all our hearts." San Francisco
Chronicle, 4/26/08
http://www.tommasosnorthbeach.com/http://www.northbeachshop.com/pages/molinari.html
"Stupid is as stupid does." 
