Pizza, Beer, and Boobs

It was an innocent mistake.
She was only two - she didn't know better.
I won't cry.
There's no crying in the kitchen. 
It's okay.
Think of something to say in response.

The last night we were in Montana, we went to a great restaurant in Bozeman called Blackbird. It was simple Mediterranean fare, with an emphasis on wood-fired pizzas. As we sat at the bar, overlooking the kitchen and its central hearth, we witnessed the prep work, process, and waltz of chefs and servers moving through a galley kitchen, from station to station to assemble pizzas, toss salads, pour beverages, and top cobblers with house made ice cream. While sitting, sipping, and drooling in anticipation of our own dinner to arrive, we added new ideas to our dream gastropub concept, built on the Brewer's beer and the Bee's food. Pizza started playing a larger and more prominent role in the epicurean fantasy.

So this weekend, we did a little menu testing and invited Bill and Meghan along with their adorable daughters over for grill-fired pizza. I made four varieties: a Nicoise, a Margherita, one with smoked Italian sausage, mushrooms and herbed goat cheese, and one with smoked shrimp, jalapenos and mozzarella. Peter's Kolsch was on tap and later in the evening there was a vertical Dogfish Head tasting, starting with a 2008 and ending with a 2012. 

It was a lovely afternoon and evening in our yard, on our porch, and around our new Bavarian table. Beyond the fun though, I learned a thing or two about the kind of prep work, process, and waltzing that could serve us and potentially you well someday.

1. Prep work should start and end before the Brewer flips over the sign to read, 'Open.'

2. Sausage stuffed jalapenos should never be served as an appetizer to the chef responsible for removing the pizza from the oven. The mind numbing spiciness is bound to throw off his timing and  lead to burnt pizza.

3. As functional as the grill is, I want a baking hearth in my yard. And in my restaurant.

4. Dessert will be made in house too and there will be three daily: the cupcake du jour, the cobbler du jour, and the Brewer's float du jour. 

5. And most importantly, there will never be crying in my kitchen. (Only laughing.) Not when the Brewer refuses to listen to timing instructions, not when the Shun misses the tomato and does a clean slice of one's index finger, and not even when a young customer confuses your chest for a baby bump. Okay, the conversation went something like this.

'You're going to have a baby like my Mom.'
'I hope so.'
'I think you have one in there.'
[She reaches up and points to my boobs.]
'Uh ... no.'
'Oh, are those your boobs?'
[There was astonished, shocked, almost scared look in her little eyes.]
'Ummm, yes. And there's not a baby in there.'

Thankfully, I was too embarrassed to cry. And I laughed as a million thoughts started racing through my head. Like, why did I ever ask our 300 pound real estate agent how much she weighed when I was four? This was obviously payback. Where in the world did my bizarre gene mutation come from? Why am I the only person in La Grange without an A cup? And oh lord, if I open a pizzeria some day,  I'm going to turn into Nona Italia or worse, the image of one of those ancient art history Earth mothers with the most exaggerated curves, padded by years of eating too much olive oil brushed crust.

Then I developed tenet #6. We will have a closed kitchen, so customers can focus on the pizza and beer and not on the purveyor's boobs. 

There's more to this story, but I'll save it for another day.

Lo.