“Dogpatch pizza” is our family’s name for Piccino. It is not an insult. It is a geographic descriptor. Dogpatch, for those outside of San Francisco, is a neighborhood between Potrero Hill and the Bay. We have an inexplicable fondness for the Dogpatch, and even looked for a house there before finding our current digs. When Piccino first opened we could never remember the name, so we started calling it “that pizza place in Dogpatch” and you can see how that might get shortened.
So, anyway, last night my dashing husband and I spent an hour sitting in a circle on a rug singing “Buenas Dias” with other parents of kindergarteners in his class at Parent Night. Since we already had the sitter sitting at the house, we took advantage and headed out for dinner. One antipasto plate, a bowl of tomato-beet gazpacho, and a mushroom pizza* later we were pretty pleased with ourselves and Piccino. “This place just does everything right, don’t they?” my dashing husband asked. I had to concur.
* I will be attempting a re-creation of this pizza. It had a “mushroom-tomato pesto” spread on in with a bit of cheese and a few sauteed wild mushrooms. Brilliant idea. Tons of mushroom flavor from the pureed cooked mushrooms blended with a bit of tomato paste (that’s my guess, anyway) that was the “pesto.”
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