Where have you had the best Osso Buco in SD?
Since La Trattoria closed in Santee and before that on Mision Gorge, I've not tasted any as good as Liliana's. By accident I was in the neighborhood and stopped in Buona Forchetta early, had a glass of Sangiovese, a delicious chuleta, risotto a bit rich and heavy, and a panna cotta, all for a measly $37. YUM! I'm going to try it again soon, along with your other suggestions???? Thanks.
Here is a place that is often overlooked, but actually rather good: Osteria Romantica (LJ Shores). I do not think that Osso Buco is on their regular menu, but I have had their Osso Buco and it was very tasty. San Diego does not have excellent Italian restaurants (at least, not that I know), but Osteria Romantica is very good and I have yet to find a better place for Italian food.
OMG...thanks for this rec. Very comfortable place with good service and we were not rushed. I went there planning to savor the osso buco but ultimately decided on the Veal Chop because not many places still serve them. It was simply divine. I will return for Osso Buco, unless something else grabs me by the neck.
I want this one...
Osso Buco By Billy Collins
I love the sound of the bone against the plate
and the fortress-like look of it
lying before me in a moat of risotto,
the meat soft as the leg of an angel
who has lived a purely airborne existence.
And best of all, the secret marrow,
the invaded privacy of the animal
prized out with a knife and wallowed down
with cold, exhilarating wine.
I am swaying now in the hour after dinner,
a citizen tilted back on his chair,
a creature with a full stomach--
something you don't hear much about in poetry,
that sanctuary of hunger and deprivation.
You know: the driving rain, the boots by the door,
small birds searching for berries in winter.
But tonight, the lion of contentment
has placed a warm heavy paw on my chest,
and I can only close my eyes and listen
to the drums of woe throbbing in the distance
and the sound of my wife's laughter
on the telephone in the next room,
the woman who cooked the savory osso buco,
who pointed to show the butcher the ones she wanted.
She who talks to her faraway friend
while I linger here at the table
with a hot, companionable cup of tea,
feeling like one of the friendly natives,
a reliable guide, maybe even the chief's favorite son.
Somewhere, a man is crawling up a rocky hillside
on bleeding knees and palms, an Irish penitent
carrying the stone of the world in his stomach;
and elsewhere people of all nations stare
at one another across a long, empty table.
But here, the candles give off their warm glow,
the same light that Shakespeare and Izaac Walton wrote by,
the light that lit and shadowed the faces of history.
Only now it plays on the blue plates,
the crumpled napkins, the crossed knife and fork.
In a while, one of us will go up to bed
and the other will follow.
Then we will slip below the surface of the night
into miles of water, drifting down and down
to the dark, soundless bottom
until the weight of dreams pulls us lower still,
below the shale and layered rock,
beneath the strata of hunger and pleasure,
into the broken bones of the earth itself,
into the marrow of the only place we know.
From "The Art of Drowning" by Billy Collins