Burrata at Frank

I've realized something now that I've started this blog: I'm giving away the locations of my favorite places to eat, and some of them get crowded enough as it is.  I flatter myself to fear they'll be suddenly swamped.  Still, they deserve all the business they can get.  

One such place - a hidden gem that isn't so hidden on a Friday night - is Frank, part of the Lil' Frankie's joints down in the EV.  Or at least I think it's called Frank.  It could also be Vera, which is the "bar" side of the place.  That's neither here nor there, since there's not really a sign or awning outside.  It's an unassuming sliver of frontage on 2nd Avenue between 5th and 6th, offering a menu full of Italian "comfort food" with a fantastic selection of wines and a specials board that is crammed nightly with an array of delights.  That specials board is what I peer at every time I pass by (which is often) to make sure there's still serving their swoon-inducing burrata.  I should clarify: a burrata from Puglia that pulls no punches with it's cream content.  There is a lot on their menu that is delicious, mark my words, and even if they didn't have the burrata (which has happened on occasion) it's still worth going to.  But really, I'm just here for the cheese.

A burrata is literally a cream bomb, its name meaning "buttery" in Italian.  It's a mozzarella made in a way that produces ritagli (strings) of cheese that hold together a liquid panna (cream) that can kill a decency censor at fifty yards.  Served at room temperature with fresh beefsteak tomatoes and the perfect drizzle of balsamic vinegar, the burrata at Frank is what every burrata wants to be.  The milk is so milk-y you feel like you've actually had a relationship with a cow.  It's not too salty but salty enough that you know it's not dessert.  The tomatoes are a fine textural vehicle for the creaminess and the balsamico serves as a flavor enhancer that points up the sweet, the salt and the distinct dairy flavor.

It tastes living and savory, like what you'd imagine roaming the flat-topped hills of Puglia feels like: the Adriatic spread out like countless shining jewels beyond the gentle slope of the coast, the buttery Mediterranean breeze, the smell of the salt sea and hot stone, wholesome, pristine, unchanged by time or progress.  One bite transports you to this place and, like a young lover's kiss, lingers on your tongue, in the flutter of your heart and in the flush of your cheeks; a sweetness you revisit days, if not years, later.

Like the memory of a simpler time, when you were young, unhurt, and you didn't know what that aching in your heart was, thinking about this burrata will catch you at the oddest of times.  You will long for it as you sometimes long for a sunny day with the song of cicadas and a heartbeat the only sounds as you lie in the tall grass side-by-side with that first love who never knew you loved them.  You'll think "something's missing" and before you can rationalize it, your tongue and your soul will have recalled.  To eat this is to remember how bittersweet and simple life was, and to look back with gentle fondness at the self you once were.

When was the last time you remembered?