Posts Tagged “boston”

Everybody’s the best at something, if you define the category right, but that should take nothing away from the excellence of this sandwich from DePasquale’s Homemade Pasta Shoppe in, or perhaps below, Boston’s North End.

Since it is really a pasta shop(pe), it’s not that surprising that DePasquale’s has only two sandwiches on the menu (unlike Dave’s Fresh Pasta where sandwiches have taken center stage) and that menu is actually a small chalkboard almost hidden by the scales.  The Panino is prosciutto, tomato, fresh mozzarella and an herby olive oil on some crusty rustic bread.  All made to order.  Add in a overdyed blood orange soda and you’ve got lunch for one and a half for less than ten bucks.  If we ever do a North End Cheese Sandwich Smackdown, this will be a contender, for sure.

In the process of checking up on DePasquale’s to provide the link above, I noticed something odd about DePasquale’s address in Google Maps and Street View.  Sure, it’s not uncommon for the Goog’ to be a block or two off with an address, especially in the older parts of town, but in this case, the 2-D online maps are stymied by a 3-D situation: the submerged I-93 runs more or less beneath the street above, and Google is a little mixed up between them.  Observe the street view on nearby Hanover…

…but when you try to look at Cross street or to zoom in…

So next time you’re stuck in traffic on 93 under Boston, imagine you’re driving up to a deli takeout window.

A rainy day near Haymarket…

Looks like it might spin.  Maybe the sign will help.

Maybe not.

PS It didn’t spin.

In the name of new experience, I accepted an invitation from fab journalista and fashionista A to attend a launch party for a new fashion TV show at the ICA.  And that was before I knew there was an open bar.  Apparently StyleBoston is the new thing on New England Cable News (NECN), covering all sorts of Boston stylishness not least including an opening at Gallery Kayafas I attended some weeks ago with ace marketing analyticist L.

You can read the full detail of the fashion on A’s boston fashion blog, but I’ll echo her comments on our invisibility as apparently too old, too fat and simply too boring to be photographed even in passing by the assorted photographers professional and amateur. As a sometime photographer myself, I’m pretty well attuned to when I’m being shot, especially when strobe is involved.  I’m pretty sure we weren’t captured once in a couple of hours of working the museum.  That said, when we interviewed and photographed people about their outfits, they were always flattered by the attention and quite willing to pose.

The ICA served admirably as a venue between the end of Shepherd Fairey’s run (finally) and the start of a Damien Ortega show, but the whole thing reminded me of the old question of “flight or invisbility.”

Somewhat like “cheese or chocolate” the question of which superpower you would choose is a great conversation topic and probably a decent half-assed personality test.  I remember hearing a piece on the topic on This American Life, but I always trace the meme back to Jonathan Lethem’s powerful novel Fortress of Solitude, in which a magic ring bestows one power or the other on its wearer (possibly both in some cases) depending on the person.  Some choose invisibility and some have it thrust upon them I suppose.

After the party, we meandered over to Sportello, Barbara Lynch’s mod South Boston homage to lunch counters and did what fashion models only wish they could do, we gorged on carbs.

I enjoyed a creamy corn risotto with chanterelles and pancetta and A had the bigoli with zucchini. Since I still don’t have a television, I guess I’ll never know if I appear in the background of an establishing shot on StyleBoston … unless alert limeduck readers let me know.

Oh, and one more thing.  You at the StyleBoston party, you know who you are: 1985 called, they want that tunic back.

A scene from St. Lucy’s feast, a somewhat less grand appendix to St. Anthony’s feast held in the same North End streets.

I managed to get some decent sound this time. For those keeping track, St. Lucy is patron(ness?) of the blind and often pictured holding a dish with her eyes on it.

I walked into the sandwich shop in a bit of a morning fog, outside my usual breakfast zone, and surveyed the pastries.  No savory scones here, not even a forlorn croissant, just doughy-looking bagels (feh) and a rag-tag assortment of muffins.  I selected the lemon poppyseed muffin, which was a somewhat brighter shade of yellow than nature alone might have provided.

“You want that grilled, honey?” asked the counterwoman.

I blinked twice.  Grilled?  Didn’t I just order a sweet muffin, pretty much an unfrosted cupcake with a bit of attitude?  I glanced over at the grill, a standard short-order griddle affair where you usually see bacon and eggs frying.  All my sweet/savory circuits were sparking.  Cake?  Fried?  Fried cake??  Then, suddenly, the fog lifted.

“Yes.  Yes, I will have it grilled.” I stated, proudly.

She deftly butterflied it, leaving the bottom of the paper intact, and slapped it on the griddle.  After a minute or two, it was wrapped and bagged.  I didn’t get a good look at it until I got to the office and unbagged my breakfast.

The browned surface was hot and buttery and the rest of the muffin was warmed through, although the faint tang of cooking oil faded quickly.  I can’t quite describe the mingling of the sweet cakey lemon flavor of the muffin with the salty flavor of the griddle, except to compare it to hot cornbread and salty butter, not a bad thing on a crisp pre-autumn morning.

Where can you get your very own grilled muffin?  Probably all kinds of places I never noticed, but this one’s from Mulligan’s at 83 Canal Street near North Station.