I finally tasted burrata cheese. Just a smidgen, unfortunately. And it only piqued my interest and taste buds even further.
I had lunch with some work friends at Oro (my first visit) downtown last week, and had already settled on my entree when the word leapt out from the simple description of the flatbread: heirloom tomato, burrata cheese, basil.
The flatbread was good — not remarkable, but just fine. All the ingredients were fresh and flavorful. But the little melty bits of burrata … ahhhh.
So how, might you ask, did I become obsessed with it?
It’s all Blood, Bones and Butter’s fault — the Gabrielle Hamilton memoir I’ve mentioned before in this space. I was mesmerized as soon as I read her evocative description of the cheese’s role in her post-wedding celebration:
We spent the waning afternoon hours having chilled Lambrusco and soppressatta tramezzini, all twenty of us packed into that tiny space where Jason, the owner, let us bring in, instead of wedding cake, a large platter of burratta — the soft, custardy fresh cow’s milk cheese from Puglia, which Michele had introduced me to — and thirty silver soupspoons, and for our wedding cake moment, amply photographed, we exchanged big killer spoonfuls of soft, creamy burrata.
I knew after reading the passage I had to have some. And now after my teasing taste I know I need to have some more.
I want to see and touch a whole ball of it, and cut into it to expose the semi-liquid, cream-and-mozzarella-filled center. And I want to eat it in several different ways. Cool, warm, by itself, paired with things.
So if anybody out there knows of anyplace within a few hours I can find this comestible and satisfy my fixation, shout out, please.