It’s been a rough couple of days. Scotland has just a few things going for it, but the Bronx it ain’t, when it comes to the mighty calzone, and all week I’ve had a meeting with one of my students, one Brittany Calzone, staring at me on the electronic calendar gadget, as if to indicate that on Friday at 4pm I’ve got an appointment with a delicious doughy packet of sausage, onions, peppers, mushrooms, and pounds of hot, viscous cheese.
This morning I realized that I haven’t eaten a calzone in two fucking years. And now I have to be taunted by this student who is actually Google’s fourth suggestion for “edinburgh calzone.”
After work today (when I penned the above), I headed to Vittoria’s on Leith Walk, the only place around that anyone could recommend for a calzone. It was good, if seriously flawed, and I feel a lot better. The Edinburgh calzone didn’t compare to the NYC variety, not even to the Texas variety that I used to get in Lubbock: the sauce wasn’t rich enough, the cheese wasn’t applied liberally, and the sausage wasn’t … well, it’s wasn’t, really. (May God save and protect Calabria Pork Store, Arthur Avenue, Bronx, New York, USA.) But the pain and madness of calzone frustration is over.