Of pizza and place

Coppi's Organic
1414 U St
Washington, DC 20009
202-319-7773

To borrow a couple of turns of phrases from one of the greats, Coppi’s Organic is the kind of place that you mix your emotions up with. There are places in this world that it is awfully easy to be hard-boiled about but there are some that will make you care. The room is long and narrow and not well-lit; as you walk in you can see the bar at the end of the room and the great wood-fired brick oven glowing insistently. It is high-ceilinged, and there are black and white pictures up on the walls of Italian Grand Prix cyclists from an era gone by. It is as if the owner opened a window into his passion for cycling, opened it for anyone – interested or not.

The last time I was there I was with Jeff and we sat in the middle of the room. I had been looking forward to the meal for a while before and this was a good a place to have it as any other. The murmur of conversation formed a wall around us as we sat and ate, and talked. For that reason alone I am convinced that Coppi’s is the place to go if you want to have a good meal and a good conversation. It is either due to great acoustics or a quirk of fate that no matter how close you are seated to other tables – and they do get pretty close – somehow, the only conversation you will hear at Coppi’s is your own.

The restaurant specialises in Ligurian cuisine, which Jeff informs me is superb. Liguria is a coastal strip in north-western Italy, famous for its focaccia and pesto among other specialties. Its influence is clear in Coppi’s menu – which is dominated by greens, mozzarella and sweet basil. Their antipasti is passable, and the home-made pasta good without being exceptional. These flavours and foods are all wonderful things, but what I really like the most about the place is its pizza.

The pizza at Coppi’s is made in a large-domed brick oven at the far end of the room, a large beast of an oven that defines the room. Wood-fired ovens are far superior to others for the cooking of most foods in general, and pizza in particular. This is not only because they can reach temperatures far higher than conventional ovens, but also because the food is evenly cooked by the wood-fired floor below as well as the heat radiated from the dome above. This ensures that pizza, in particular, can be browned to a crisp on the outside and yet remain light and fluffy on the inside.

But all the technology in the world will not save you if you do not care about the food, and that Coppi’s does. Its dedication to local and organic ingredients means that it can be a little expensive, but this is all completely forgotten once the pizza is served. The pastry had that taste of simplicity that most Italian cuisine has, with more than a strong hint of high quality olive oil. Yet the refusal to complicate the bread-making process ensured that it still predominantly had that old fashioned doughy goodness that I like in my bread.

I had had the lamb sausage pizza before, and I did it again, knowing it would not disappoint. When I called two days earlier I had asked if they were still serving it, knowing that the menu rotated with the seasons. The woman on the other end of the line laughed at the preposterousness of my question, and said, “Absolutely. That’s my favourite too, and I promise you, they’ll never take it off.”

It tasted like a thousand lambs had been killed to make that sausage, and their meats had been seasoned with the spices carried by a thousand merchant ships, across a thousand oceans. The garlic was strong but not overpowering, and there were hints of rosemary and thyme. Jeff chose the Genovese pesto pizza, wanting to see how Coppi’s would take local ingredients from the here and now, to recreate a tradition from many miles away, and many years ago. The pesto had been salted heavily and had a lovely crunchy texture. Both pizzas were, naturally, gone all too quickly.

With the turnover so characteristic of the restaurant industry it is sometimes difficult to create that familial atmosphere among the hostesses, waitresses, cooks and bartenders and all the other lovely people that help put the food on our table and make sure we have a smashing time. This did not seem like a problem at Coppi’s, the banter was obvious between everyone on the floor, and most of the people looked genuinely happy to be there. The one time I was there with Mira we had a delightful waitress – I think her name was Jamie – tall and dark-haired with an uncommon beauty; she spoke with a lilting, abrupt delivery and walked with the awkward grace of one who is still discovering the beauty of her own body. One is always discovering, it seems. She was charming beyond measure and I think I kind of fell for her a little. I asked about her this time I was there but she was not working that night, and somehow that made me fall for her a little more.

As we left we had that feeling of leaving a party that we knew would go on for long after our departure, and that saddened us a little. The winelist is decent and the other food is very, very good but not great. The dessert selection was also a little disappointing, but the pizza, with its well-chosen combinations of intense flavours, with its superior pastry baked to wood-oven perfection – the pizza alone, is reason enough to go back.

So fresh and so clean

Restaurant Nora
2132 Florida Ave NW
Washington DC 20008
202-462-5143

There are restaurants, and then there are restaurants. This past week marked an annual tradition in DC – Restaurant Week – where a whole litany of otherwise unaffordable eating establishments offer a 3-course prix fixe menu for $30. The downside of this, apart from having to dine with the riffraff, is that there are only so few participating restaurants that put their usual heart and soul into their cooking this week compared to others, and there is every chance you will wind up with a thoroughly unsatisfying meal. Fortunately, there are some who maintain their dedication to gastronomic greatness – Corduroy, for example, offers its full menu for Restaurant Week – and I had the pleasure of dining at just such a place yesterday, the famed Nora.

Nora is, quite frankly, a damned good-looking building; the corner rowhouse at the end of one of many beautiful tree-lined streets in the area. A short ways off the main drag that is Connecticut Ave and nestled on the edge of what I like to call the sleepy side of Dupont Circle, it is muted red brick and looks more like home and hearth than anything else. The inside is made out to look like a stable and is equally lovely. A model airplane hangs from the pine beams that criss-cross the high ceiling, and a collection of Amish quilts are framed and draped on the painted brick walls. Doors lead to steps that lead to more rooms, and people appear from out of nowhere. It is the kind of place that makes you feel like exploring, but puts you too much at ease to start.

I had made this reservation a month and a half ago, so I was understandably excited. Allison, though, was even more so than I. She lives just a couple of blocks away, and as we walked over from her place I had to struggle to keep pace with her. We finally arrive though, right on time for our reservation, and are ushered right to our table. There is a shaded paraffin lamp on the table, and a bottle of olive oil – both lovely touches. When dining with one other, I like to sit at right angles; facing the other person directly always makes me awkward. I continue to fidget throughout the duration of the meal and am calmed only when there is food on the table or wine in my glass; it must have been a sorry sight.

It is so important, in food as in any and all other endeavours, to begin well. And we do, unequivocally. Allison and I both start with the vichyssoise – light and refreshing and quite delicious. There is a slice of something or other in the soup which we find out later is a tuile – French for ‘tile’ – a thin cookie made from wheat or potatoes that is placed over a rounded object when still fresh from the oven. Whatever the case, it is a detail that is much appreciated, as were the efforts of our waitress to find out for us. She was extremely nice, equal parts whimsy and charm and had a smile that made me think of my momma for some reason.

I go on to order the wild mushroom and corn risotto, while Allison has the Atlantic salmon baked in parchment paper. I don’t particularly care for salmon, but I had a bite of hers and the freshness was overwhelming. My own meal was – shockingly, vegetarian – but an explosion of colours and flavours that warmed my heart. I have a long and lovely history with mushroom risotto, from when Morgan first taught me to make it, right through to the days when Jose would bring chanterelles back from his work and we would break out the truffle oil and eat like kings. This, then, was another scenic step in what I am sure will be a lifelong love affair.

Nora’s whole deal – and possibly why the a la carte prices are so high – is that it is dedicated to fresh, local and organic ingredients. It was, as we read, the first restaurant in America to be certified organic – and the cooking certainly let that shine through. Everything we tasted was so good and wholesome and fresh, and to paraphrase something Allison said – made me feel like a better person.

We close out with dessert and I have a coffee to ward off the food coma; the night is young yet, and so are we. As we walk out I cast a glance back to look for our waitress, but I cannot see her anywhere. I am sure, though, that our paths will cross again, for I must certainly return to Nora; and so I am content to save the wave goodbye for the next time we meet, or never, as it were.