Post card from Italy #2
Parizzi’s Third Generation Has a Vision
Small fillets of red mullet ride the asparagus rails at Parizzi in Parma. Photo: Steven Richter
I start every day with the persistently adolescent dream I’ll soon be eating something sublime. But my hopes quickly flag tonight with one look at Parizzi Ristorante in Parma, where three generations of family have gone minimalist. The avant-garde art, florescent tubes and pierced stainless steel, our table in a private dining room, droplets of blown glass scattered on the table. I’ve felt betrayed too often by the pretensions of ambition and upscale fusion in Italy. Like the fussy bread tonight. Pretty but not very good. And then the chef’s offering arrives, a small ball of chicken liver mousse to scoop up with a toasted crisp. Silken wow. And with it, a lesson in not judging by appearances begins. A focus on presentation, the imposition of fancy plates, a fascination for new techniques, even a redundant foam, none of it seems to distract from the fine flavors and textures of Marco Parizzi’s food, most of it decked out with marvelous greens and vegetables.
Mullet fillets ride in on perfectly cooked green and white asparagus under a frizzle of puntarelle defined by stripes of herb salsa. Carpaccio of yellowtail and langostinos on an elegant salad tossed with sea urchin plays sweet voluptuous flesh against crunch. And a salad of room temperature beef with wilted field greens and black truffle tinged with sherry vinegar is equally pleasing. I don’t even mind the candied tomato in the saltiness of toasted crumb-topped bigoli noodles with black olives and anchovy. I have only myself to blame that I forgot to ask for the squab rare.
We’re in Parma after all, so attention must be paid when the captain wheels in a rolltop cart with three ages of parmigiana. (There are some pretensions I’ll defend.) And by now I appreciate the linen cloth, the floor length grey satin skirt underneath, the Venetian water glasses, each a different color, as well as the first dessert that tastes like the inside of a cannoli. Since we’re with Cesare we’re getting the full VIP dessert attack. Something labeled “Winter, 2009” is a heap of chocolate debris and wan white bubbles. Fitting, I guess. Tartly citric sorbets are a tonic, lined up like billiard balls on carpaccio of pineapple. I can live without the small spray-can of chartreuse that seems to delight everyone, but I surrender to a Daliesque display of chocolates – even though the Dali is more thrilling than the bon bons. Worth a detour, absolutely.
Parizzi. Strada Repubblica 71, Parma. 39 0521 285952