Last night I dined on the Bistecca, a 50 oz porterhouse, it was like the feeling you get from hitting all 5 clays from each of all 5 firing positions – blindfolded. The space was even as warm an inviting as hunting lodge. I was at chi Spacca with my buddy El Carnicero. We call him the butcher because he buys natural cows in bulk. He get them from vineyards in Northern California once they have run their course supplying fertilizer for the grapes. They are completely farm raised as they graze on grass all day, and taste almost as good as the Bistecca.
But before the 50 ouncer we started with the elusive white pie. There really is no Focaccia di Reccos that can compare. And you can only get it at chi Spacca, they don’t even serve it in their two other sister restaurants next door. Legend has it that it took the priorietor if this establishment four years to prefect. It’s super gooey, and even the crust is melty. It’s a pizza that even a seasoned Venezuelan hunter would eat. It had been a while since I had seen El Carnicero. I think the last time was over bison burgers at the Oak Tree Gun Club, trap shooting with the kids.
We picked up right where we left off talking about hunting, but this time it was different. The day after we went to the range, an 8 year old girl in the mid-west at another range, accidentally shot and killed her Uzi teacher. Beyond the conversation about what kind of guns anyone needs to hunt was a further thought about whether one can even hunt in the US anymore. The great irony of it all is of course that those who sought to preserve it may now have destroyed it.