I apologise already for the football metaphor. I was only moaning a couple of weeks ago about every random company using the World Cup to market their (completely unrelated) products, and here I am writing headlines like this. My only excuses are that a) it genuinely is an appropriate metaphor in this case; and b) I have become uncharacteristically excited about the football (uncharacteristic in that I was one of those kids at school who got bullied for being utterly rubbish at team sports), ever since Holland beat Brazil in the quarter final.
In fact, it must’ve been around that time last week, whilst rallying my Facebook troops to vote for July’s (Italian) Restaurant of the Month, that a new friend commented that she favours Bella Storia. I was overjoyed to hear that Bella Storia is the dining progeny of the previous owners of the Koevoet – officially my favourite Italian in Amsterdam. Clearly, I had to go immediately.
So last night, while Spain were busy beating Germany, I was sitting outside on the pavement in the quiet, residential Staatsliedenbuurt feeling very optimistic. The restaurant was busy (clearly everyone else had heard about this place before me, to my horror) so we had to wait a while for menus, wine lists and place settings. However, red wine and water arranged, we settled down to a full and knowledgeable explanation of the extensive specials board.
It was heavy on mozzarella, which was clearly a sign. I opted for the ‘Tris Freschezza’, which could have been called ‘Mozzarella, Three Ways’. Or just ‘Mozzarella To Die For’.
Tris Freschezza
The dish consisted of generous bulbs of burrata (a mozzarella-cream combo), regular buffalo mozzarella and scamorza (smoked mozzarella). I nearly wet myself with glee. I asked Carlo (who I think I remember from the Koevoet a couple of years back) where he sourced them. Apparently the first two are imported from southern Italy; the scamorza is actually produced by an Italian family in the Netherlands. He wouldn’t tell me their name but you can buy the cheese direct from Bella Storia. That’s unless I’ve cleaned them out of mozzarella before you get there.
Carpaccio of Octopus (not Paul)
We also ordered the carpaccio of octopus, which was simply dressed in lemon juice, olive oil and rocket leaves. The octopus was cooked, whereas I’d expected it to be raw, but it was nonetheless delicate and delicious.
Ricotta and mint ravioli
For main courses, we decided to go with two primi, the first of which was ricotta and mint ravioli with pesto. The pasta was perfect, the filling sweet and fresh, the pesto made with chunky fragrant almonds. Other than a slight lack of seasoning, it was a dish that hit the back of the net.
And this is where we reach half time. I wish I’d quit while I was ahead, but it was too late. Our second main was a dish of gnocchi with butter and truffles. The gnocchi itself was a little chewy, the truffle diminutive and the butter – well, just butter. Alongside a meat dish it probably would’ve worked, but I had to coat it in parmesan to beat the blandness. Disappointing, but still, not a disaster of England vs. Germany proportions.
Gnocchi with truffle and butter
It was dessert that really confounded me. And I feel bad for saying this because it’s Carlo’s mother who makes them (I hope for my sake he’s not reading this). The white chocolate and limoncello mousse was less mousse-y, more the texture of very thick cream. It was studded with strawberries and was fine if you like dentist-inducingly sweet puddings. The tiramisu, on the other hand, was the opposite of sweet. It was as though some cheeky waiter had swapped the sugar and salt labels on the jars. Seriously, both the biscuit-sponge base and the creamy mascarpone tasted distinctly salty. I called Carlo over to explain the problem.
Tiramisu and white chocolate-limoncello mousse
‘It’s the bitterness of the cocoa,’ he replied, ‘and you know mascarpone is a cheese, right?’ Yes, well-intentioned Carlo, yes I do. This isn’t bitterness I can taste; this isn’t mascarpone; it’s salt. I begged him to taste it, to reassure me that I wasn’t going mad, that my tastebuds really did not deceive me.
He wouldn’t. Instead, he brought us a new dessert: the limoncello version of the tiramisu, which was almost as sweet as its white chocolate mousse colleague. The thing is, I don’t even particularly like sweet things. I don’t have a sweet tooth. A tiramisu that was bitter and alcoholic and soaked in strong gutsy coffee would’ve been fine by me. Just not a tiramisu that was salty.
To Bella Storia’s credit, Carlo was polite and patient and gave us our third dessert for free. And for that reason this restaurant gets four stars. But I’m still sad. That mozzarella was off the star-rating scale, and I desperately wanted the meal to continue to astonish me. It did – but not in a good way.
I’m convinced it was a mistake. That well-meaning Carlo was also not privy to the salt-sugar-swapping tomfoolery. That countless people have happily eaten mamma’s homemade tiramisu before and since without experiencing the brackish taste of disappointment. Hell, I think I’ve even eaten tiramisu from Carlo’s mother (the very same!) at the Koevoet in the past…
And so, while I rather wish I’d chosen the scroppino, I will be back. I might just eat mozzarella all evening. But I think Bella Storia deserves a second chance. Now there’s a luxury that Holland won’t have if we lose to Spain on Sunday…
