Salsipuedes might have been my favorite simply for its commitment to serving weird shit — Belotti is unequivocally Italian, and is in no way trying to be weird — I almost felt like I had brought some cheese and nuts out to a garden and plucked lettuce leaves up one by one to eat with the toppings — served in the stupid good Parm-beef stock reduction that coats every nook and cranny of the pasta — every piece of stone fruit in the universe is still rock hard in April — somewhere in here, we ordered more wine — Belotti served the suckling pig skin on, shellacked in some kind of gelatin-rich stock-balsamic sauce — give me more pork skin — but don't steal my window table.
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