Bocce can’t eat just one

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This article was published 11/09/2017 (3232 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

It was Thursday night and I was feeling just a tad depressed as we trudged off the pitch.

This was partly because my bocce team had just been mercilessly battered by our hated rivals in a late-night game on the grassy courts beside Mona Lisa Ristorante on Corydon Avenue.

For the uninitiated, the Italian game of bocce is almost identical to curling, except you play it on grass and there’s a lot more drinking involved.

Bocce blowout aside, the main reason I was feeling blue — and anyone with a stomach will understand what I’m talking about — was the fact it was the final night of Le Burger Week and, for the first time in five years, I had failed to find time to stuff one of the competing burgers into my gaping cake hole, so to speak.

Again, for the uninitiated, Burger Week is the annual seven-day September celebration in which more than 100 restaurants in Winnipeg — and more than 400 in 11 cities across Canada — whip up decadent signature burgers and customers go online to vote for their mouthwatering favourites.

So that’s what I was thinking as my badly beaten bocce team slouched off the court and headed towards Mona Lisa’s patio for a late-night libation to salve our wounded pride.

My teammate Joe Grande, who along with being our star player also happens to be the ebullient owner of Mona Lisa, noticed my long face.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asked as we parked ourselves under the twinkling lights on the outdoor patio.

I debated what to say, then opted for the truth. “It’s the last night of Burger Week,” I sighed, “and I was too busy to get a (bad word) burger.”

Which is when Joe smiled a beatific smile. “Hey, we made a burger, too,” he snorted. “We can still get a couple.”

“You made a burger?” I replied. “But you’re an Italian restaurant.”

Joe’s smile widened. “I know,” he said, “Isn’t it wonderful?”

Which is when we ordered two of their Italian-style gourmet burgers, which I will tell you about in a minute, but first I want to blather on for a few paragraphs about my glorious relationship with all things on a bun.

The unvarnished truth is, I really like burgers. No, that doesn’t cover it. I love burgers. In fact, I worship everything about them, from their soft, pillowy buns to their juicy meat patties to their garden-fresh toppings and succulent condiments.

I am not embarrassed to say that, when I was a kid, my passion for burgers was the stuff of legend. My father actually used the promise of burgers as an inducement to improve my performance in athletic competitions.

As hard as this will be to believe of a man who currently has the same physique as a major kitchen appliance, I used to be a reasonably adequate competitive swimmer, despite an annoying habit to stop mid-race and tread water until everyone else caught up or passed me.

Which prompted my dad to explain that he was going to stand at one end of the pool during every race and wave a juicy cheeseburger in the air in the hopes my champion’s appetite would help me stroke my way to victory. Sadly, I found easier ways to fill my daily burger quota.

Still, if I had to produce a list of things that I love with all my heart (Note to my wife: it would be taken for granted that you and the kids and the dogs would top any non-food-related list), it would look like this:

1) Hamburgers;

2) Bacon;

3) Hamburgers with bacon.

The point I am making is that I was 20 shades of thrilled on Thursday night when, in the final moments of Burger Week, our waitress proudly brought me and my pal Joe a platter loaded down with two of their one-of-a-kind offerings.

A chain of drool dangling from my mouth, I stared at our plates and beheld what appeared to be a small deep-fried football, which in reality was a six-ounce veal patty, topped with mushrooms, Italian salami and Havarti cheese, then wrapped in pizza dough and deep-fried to a golden brown.

It was juicy and delicious and soul-satisfying, but the best thing of all was that this burger was encased in fried pizza dough, meaning you could bite into it without having gobs of burger gloop plopping on the front of your golf shirt just above your belly, which typically happens to me when I tackle my favourite food.

“OHMYGAWD! I’m in love,” I grunted between bites. “So has Burger Week boosted business?”

Gushed Joe: “Are you kidding me? It’s crazy! There’s people we’ve never seen before. We get deliveries, pickups, Skip the Dishes, people coming in to eat. Our lunches have picked up. Who the heck sells 200 burgers a day? And we’re not even a burger place. These people are crazy about it. They’ll come in for a burger, then go to another place and another one. They’ll go to five or six places a night for burgers. Everybody’s doing it!”

Joe’s burger didn’t have a name, so I suggested “Bocce Burger,” because I adore alliteration. Burger Week is officially over, but I tried to persuade Joe to keep this deep-fried goodness on the menu, because the future of democracy depends on it.

I have no idea if that will happen. What I do know is that I woke up Friday morning feeling deeply satisfied and oddly happy. At least I was until I looked at the calendar and realized I was supposed to be fasting because I had to go for blood tests that morning.

Which is when, suddenly, I felt a tiny bit depressed.

doug.speirs@freepress.mb.ca