"It's ridiculous! I can't take you to an Italian restaurant in Belgium after you've spent the last three months in Italy and are looking for a change!" My sister shook her head and laughed. I assured her that I didn't mind, especially since we didn't have time to find another restaurant before catching the train. Besides, even if you think you're sick of pizza, you can probably eat a little more with pleasure.
Brussels is a very international city with people from all over (especially Italy), so it makes sense that I was not disappointed by the pizza that we ordered from our Italian restaurant. Even after only a couple days in the French/Dutch world of Brussels, I felt the comforting familiarity of the menu, waiters, and food of Italy*. I recognized the biodynamic qualities in our house red, the diavola pizza was as good as it was in Italy, and I politely declined the typical Italian caffe or other digestivo after the meal. We ate our hot pizzas quickly but still lost to the frigid chill of the night air. Even under less-than-ideal circumstances, Keziah and I enjoyed another day in her world together. With her graceful "merci" and my now out-of-habit "grazie" we walked away into the dark with full bellies.
*This is not the post to debate whether it was "authentic" Italian food or even if it can be called "Italian" at all. I'll save the terroir/authenticity debate for another time, but know that my sister and I discussed it.
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