"Lamb chops and brains breaded--sweetbreads--escallop of veal--fresh
mushrooms--Italian squash when in season--asparagus or cauliflower--fried
in fresh butter--dipped in beaten eggs--lime jus."
"Fritto Misto" means fried mixture, and the recipe as we finally
elucidated it is as follows:
Take a lamb chop, a piece of calf brain, one sweetbread, a slice of
veal, a fresh mushroom, sliced Italian squash, a piece of asparagus or
of cauliflower and dip these into a batter made of an egg well beaten
with a little flour. Sprinkle these with a little lime juice and fry to
a delicate brown in butter, adding salt and pepper to taste.
At the Gianduja, as at all other Italian restaurants not much affected
by Americans, you will find an atmosphere of unconventionality that is
delightful to the Bohemian. There is no irksome espionage on the part of
other patrons, all of whom are there for the purpose of attending
strictly to their own business, and the affairs of other diners are of
no consequence to them. There is freedom of expression and
unconsciousness, most pleasing after having experienced those other
restaurants where it seems to be the business of all the rest of the
guests to know just what you are eating and drinking. There is little of
the obnoxious posing that one finds in restaurants of the downtown
districts, for while Italians, in common with all other Latins, are
natural born poseurs, they are not offensive in it, but rather impress
you with the same feeling as the antics of a child.
One of the little, out-of-the way restaurants of the Italian quarter is
the Leon d'Oro, at 1525 Grant avenue, and it is one of the surprises of
that district. Lazzarini, he with the big voice, presides over the tiny
kitchen in the rear of the room devoted to public service and family
affairs. Soft-voiced Rita, with her demure air and her resemblance to
Evangeline, with her crossed apron, strings and delicate features, takes
your order, and soon comes the booming sound from the neighborhood of
the range, that announces to all patrons, as well as to some who may be
in the vicinity on the street, that your order is ready, and then
everybody knows what you are eating. As you sit, either in curtained
alcove or at the common table in the main room, little Andrea will visit
you with his cat. Both are institutions of the place and one is, prone
to wonder how a cat can have so much patience with a little boy. Andrea
speaks Italian so fluently and so rapidly that it gives you the
impression of a quick rushing stream of pure water, tumbling over the
stones of a steep declivity. He is not yet old enough to understand that
it is not everybody who knows how to speak Italian, but that makes not
the slightest difference with him, for he talks without ever expecting
an answer.
Lazzarini understands the art and science of cooking, and some of the
dishes he prepares are so unusual that one goes again and again to
partake of them: Possibly his best dish is the following: