Every now and then when life gets complicated and the weasels start closing in, the only real cure is to load up on heinous chemicals and then drive like a bastard from Hollywood to Las Vegas. To relax, as it were, in the womb of the desert sun. Just roll the roof back and screw it on, grease the face with white tanning butter, and move out with the music at top volume, and at least a pint of ether.
Hunter S. Thompson
Raoul never got to Milwaukee. Had he made it, my prediction is that he would would have headed directly for Riverwest and the hip NESSUN DORMA on Weil Street. There he would have found something far more recreational than a pint of heinous chemicals: the pub’s memorable Artichoke Melt Panini. Digging into that sandwich might have resulted in a subtle and more lyrical revision:
…”move out with the music at top volume, and at least one serving of the artichoke Panini from Nessun Dorma on Weil Street.”
In a distracted and unbalanced world, Dorma’s panini gives stability. This judgement comes from a commentator who has studied the subject seriously; having sampled over the past thirty years, every artichoke melt that the Cream City (and environs) has to offer. Someone’s got to do it.
To keeps this feuilleton shorter than the second folio edition of Doctor Johnson’s Dictionary, I will mention only two by way of comparison: The long-gone SVEN’S on Kinnickinnic Avenue had a more than respectable specimen; but it was over-priced and too abundant in cheese. One look at the thing could possibly make the intimidated consumer hallucinate into thinking that they were about to devour, in one quick snack, the entire MARS CHEESE CASTLE (found off of I-94 in Racine County) turrets, kitsch and all. The Comet Cafe on Farewell had a fine example of the genre as well, but it was a bit too heavy on the pepperoncinis. If memory serves, that sandwich had more of the damnable things then there were gags in one of the more witty episode of I Love Lucy.
Enough nostalgia. Here is how NESSUN DORMA’s menu describes the delicacy.
Marinated Artichoke Hearts, Green Olives, Kalamata Olives, Peperoncini, Provolone, Asiago Ciabatta.
While completely accurate, this description is only a list. Compilations are not poetry. The menu fails to capture the inimitable spirit of the sandwich. Not adumbrated in this description is the art of the thing: the ingredients are so well mingled and balanced, that the stunned and confused palette doesn’t know where to go. What it does comprehend is that it is headed somewhere far away from where it currently is. Padua? Firenze? Perhaps. Maybe the verdant and terraced slopes of Mount Parnassus? Yes. that it! Certainly somewhere sunny and Mediterranean; far beyond and away from the dreary industrialism of Mil-town or even Sheboygan Falls.
If I were the management of the charming pub, (and needless to say, Bubba, I’m not) I would be more enthusiastic in describing the sublime concoction and thus would revise the entry in a more poetic vein:
Where, dear master, is an artichoke melt
that will take me from this hideous place?
In truth, my oft abused gut has been dealt
by fate a hand and landscape of disgrace.
Tell me where to go: no more Miller-Light.
No, no, please no, of greasy, pallid fries.
Take me to a rustic space where a bite
of grub helps me see God. No more damned lies
from the griddle. Where’s the truth; where’s the joy?
From her meditation the master said
“To NESSUN DORMA on Weil. Don’t be coy.
Order up that mingling of ’chokes and bread.
Thus off I went to find this splendid tart.
I went inside; down the hatch, and to the heart.
Brilliant.