Home after a short/sweet trip to Boston, where I finally bit into Keith Richards’ memoir, walked Newbury Street with the Europeans and uni-brows, hit up Harvard for some irony and J.P. Licks, and witnessed the most rowdy, wasted Bruins fans tearing up the train station, eating glory and fried-rice off the food court floor. Boston: it might not know that grown women should never wear baseball hats, but it knows how to celebrate.
Keepin’ it classy in the South End, I had one of the most delicious and pleasurable meals ever at Coppa, Ken Oringer’s enoteca. All my favorite things…Campari and Prosecco fizz, earthy farro, small bites of homemade pasta, a crispy white pizza with burrata. We loved our waitress, the neighborhood, the whole vibe. Bottom line: If I were a restaurant, I would be Coppa.
There was one unresolved issue at the dinner table. When, if ever, are you supposed to feed yourself with your fork facing down? I see foodies do it all the time. This is something I’ve been too embarrassed to say out loud for a long time, yet the très chic chef across from me didn’t know the answer either. Now I feel vindicated enough to put it out there. Any clue, my cultured epicureans??
