Salumi

It might be enough just to say, "Salumi."

But that's probably not enough for most of you. Not for me either. If you don't know about this temple to cured meats, then it's okay. Many in Seattle don't know about it. It's a foodie thing to track down the inside track on the esquisite and rare.

The guy who makes the meats and runs the joint is Mario Batali's dad, Armandino. I've not been to the kid's restaurants, but I have seen his many, terrific cookbooks and he seems to be the real deal. Mr. Batali was in the shop shuffling around at the end of the day, greeting diners and wondering what was for dinner. That's what I assume at least.

Funny place. Rectangle. Wide enough for a counter to construct sandwiches and for patrons to line up. Maybe four table, the big one with 12 seats, communal. A big bottle of wine had a red which you pour yourself, $3.50 a tumbler. The other tables were two-seaters. Truly a small room, like when your family outgrows the kitchen dining nook but you squeeze in anyway.

My sister and I were lunching on various cured meats with unspellable names. The soprasatta (which I might have spelled correctly) I've had at another restaurant in town, the Sitting Room. I was prepared for its magnificence. It still reigns for me but all the other meats were equally as good. By equally as good, I mean choose-this-for-your-last-meal good.

It might be difficult to define what constitutes a good salami. I am not a food writer, just a guy who likes to eat with a big smile. But for anyone looking for a definition of "good," Mr. Batali's salamis should be a good starting point. Sometimes you have to drop all of the analysis and "wow" inflation, and pare back to an honest label for a basic, a staple of life.

I know that all my Italian forebears are shining down on us today, each with a tale of what they miss about the Old Country. I can miss it too now and I've never been there.