Eats+Drinks
Blast from the Pasta The Chicken with Sherry Sauce at Cariera’s is true cucina Italiana. Trust me—I’m kinda sorta Italian myself. R H E YA TAN N ER
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F R ED LOPE Z
’m not one of those people who’s traced their genealogy to determine exactly what brand of European my ancestors were. I do know, however, that I am at least 12% Italian, which of course gives me the authority to have a lot of strong opinions on Italian cuisine. That being said, if you haven’t treated yourself to lunch at Cariera’s Fresh Italian, I’m going to need you to put this magazine down and go do that. Like, now. My dish of choice is the Chicken with Sherry Sauce. I get mine with penne, but you can customize it with your personal pasta preference. Though I’m typically a red-sauce kind of girl, I make an exception with sherry sauce because it has a subtler variant of that acidic tanginess I love.
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Cariera’s is super generous with portions—it’s the first Italian I’ve ever had to order a to-go box for—and its pasta-to-other-stuff ratio is pretty balanced. Every forkful came with a tender mushroom or a seasoned bit of chicken. And I wouldn’t be a true one-eighth Italian without talking about the garlic roll. It has a tougher crust that makes the soft, warm inside all the more satisfying. Maybe I am too gung-ho about the carby goodness of Italian food in general, but it comes from a place of nostalgia. My grandmother was genuinely half-Italian herself, and she was as phenomenal a cook as you’d expect. But it was always a particularly good week when Gramma brought over that giant foil pan full of homemade lasagna—I
WI N TE R G AR DE N
say week because there was usually enough to feed a horse, or at least a family of five for several days. Gramma passed away a few years ago, and couldn’t cook like she used to even before that, so I haven’t tasted that lasagna in a long time. Fast-forward to the first time I stumbled upon Cariera’s. I got baked ziti, my go-to dish at any new Italian eatery, to test the cheese and the sauce. I wasn’t expecting much out of the ordinary, so I still remember how blindsided I was by that first bite. It was hers. It tasted just like the lasagna I loved as a kid. It was … I guess the word is “shocking,” how instantly it took me back to her house, to the sound of her laughter. But what was more shocking to me was that I hadn’t forgotten.
Gramma never wrote down a recipe (she usually measured with her heart). And yet, after all the years that have passed since the old lasagna days, I still instantly knew when I had discovered that flavor again. Does that make it true, authentic Italian? I’m not qualified to say. But it is at least as Italian as Gramma.
