Pizza with Love

In 2004, my partner Tom and I were driving out of Melbourne to visit his parents. They lived in the small country hamlet of Violet Town, near Shepparton, a two-hour drive from the city. One of us had worked late so we were leaving the city about 9 pm. Neither of us had eaten, and we decided to stop on the way at a restaurant, rather than delay ourselves even more by making a meal at home.

This was pre-Google Maps, and the days of analog phones, so Tom had to rely on his memory of which eateries lay along our route. Restaurant kitchens in Melbourne often close about 10 pm, even on weekends, and take last orders by 9.30. We were racing the clock to find a nice place that was open where we could sit down and eat quickly and get back on the road.

We stopped into a pasta restaurant. "Sorry, " they said, "We've got too many orders ahead of you. We can't take any more." We stopped into a fish and chips place. "Sorry," they said, "we closed early tonight because we were slow." We tried several more places without success.

Tom drove along the eastern edge of the city, heading north. We were traveling on smaller streets through East Brunswick to find a restaurant that was still open, but we were getting close to the freeway. We were getting hungrier and hungrier.

"There's a burger chain at a petrol station just after we get on the freeway," said Tom, "If we don't find a place, we can eat there."

"Do you really want fast food?" I asked him. We were both trying to eat healthy.

"Not really, but it's either that or we don't eat tonight. We can't wake my parents up banging around in the kitchen. They have to get up at 4.00 am," said Tom. His Mom ran a coffee and pastries stall at the local Saturday Farmer's Market, and his Dad had to load everything in the farm truck and drive her there by 6 am.

Suddenly, I spotted an A-frame sign on the sidewalk. I Carusi Pizza. A string of fairy lights in the window was lit, and the door was open. All good signs.

"Hey, stop here. Let's try this place," I urged Tom. "Hope it's still open," he said," I would love a pizza!" He pulled into a empty spot in the next block and we walked back.

I looked through the window. All the lights were on, but the tables were empty. "It's probably closed too. They just haven't turned the sign around yet," said Tom. "Well, let's still try," I replied.

As we walked in, the owner came out to greet us. "Are you open?" I asked. "Sure, yes, we're open," he said," Have a seat and I'll bring you a menu."

The menu was simple: just a short list of pizzas and a few starters. No pasta, no desserts. The owner said he wanted to focus his attention on making really good pizzas and not be distracted with other Italian dishes.

I ordered the Pizza for a Friend, just because I loved the name. It's made with fiore di latte, pumpkin, roasted pine nuts, rocket and goats cheese. The owner told me it was originally a custom order for a friend, but everyone liked it so much it went on the menu and the name stuck. Tom had the Quattro Formaggi (four cheeses), made with fiore de latte, gorgonzola, fontina and parmagiano. We ordered a rocket salad as a starter.

As the owner disappeared into the kitchen, I headed to the toilet. Toilets in Australian restaurants are outside at the back and you usually go by the kitchen. As I passed, I looked in. All the counters and surfaces were imaculately clean and it looked as if everything was put away. The owner was pulling out pans and taking ingredients out of the fridge.

I realised, with a sinking heart, that he had probably just closed and put everything away. "Look, I don't want to put you out," I said to him. "I hadn't realised you were closed." He continued to pull things out. "Nonsense," he said, "I've taken your order and you are my guests." "Really," I persisted, "We can go to the burger chain on the freeway."

That did it. He straightened his back and looked at me seriously. "Tonight you will eat our pizza, not fast food."

On the way back, I stopped to chat with the owner as he worked. His name was Pietro. He told me about his family. His father was from Sicily and taught his son how to make real Sicilian pizza. His Dad had a large organic garden which supplied the vegetables and tomatoes for I Carusi. The restaurant had only been open for a week, and Pietro didn't want to turn away any business, which is why he had re-opened when we walked in.

We talked about how you could taste the love in food and you knew when someone loved to cook for people and when it was just a job to them. Pietro told me about his past job as a circus performer and I told him about my aspirations to be a writer and to go to Italy.

Tom and I wound up having one of the best meals of our lives that night. The food was simply made but with the best quality, freshest ingredients and the pizzas were perfectly cooked. "I can taste the love," I told Pietro.

I told my friends Marta and Nick about this fantastic place we'd discovered in East Brunswick. Tom and I started to go often, even though it was a bit of a drive for us. I Carusi was popular with local Italian families. We'd stop in for dinner and see a long table filled with with three or four generations, speaking a mixture of English and Italian. Often, there was an elderly nonna wearing black and a baby in a highchair.

In the early days, the tables were covered with white butcher paper (to save on laundry costs) and customers could borrow packs of colored pencils or crayons and draw. Nick was an artist and would sketch portraits as we waited for our pizzas. The rest of us drew floral designs or doodles. After a meal, the paper, with red wine rings from our glasses, crumbs, smears of red tomato sauce, and our scribblings, was crumpled up and thrown away.

Tom, our friends and I went to I Carusi for birthdays, anniversaries and special occasions. Sometimes, we just went because we craved pizza made with love. We would bring a bottle of wine and there was always a table for us. We usually asked for the back room, especially if the front was crowded. Our friends started to go on their own and take their friends. Word spread in our circle.

We met the owner's sister when she started working as a waitress as Pietro was too busy making pizza. Then, as it got even busier, a cousin started working there just to make takeaway orders.

The pizza menu grew longer. Pietro added desserts, saying, "Everyone asks for them."

"You should write about this place," said Marta,"Might be your way to break into The Age (a local paper)." "No way," I replied,"I know this is selfish, but I want I Carusi to stay a local hangout."

However, pizza this good, made with love, could not be kept secret.

More and more we spotted non-locals (students from Carlton, dressed all in black, preppy-looking young couples from Richmond) when we went. The place grew more and more popular. Then came the day the Melbourne Age gave it a glowing review. After that, it was harder and harder to walk in and get a table, but Pietro always found room for us. We'd been there at the beginning, he told us. Sometimes, when we went, there was a line of people waiting.

Then one evening, Pietro took me aside. "I'm sorry, "he said, "We are getting so busy now. This is probably the last time I can find a table for you if you don't have a booking. I'm so sorry."

The restaurant was always crowded by then. I couldn't hang out by the kitchen and chat with Pietro as he worked because staff were rushing in and out. I felt that, while the food was still wonderful, I Carusi had lost that local feel.

I finally went to Italy on holiday and tried the pizza in Rome, the Castelli Romani hilltowns, Florence and Venice. None of it was as good as our Sicilian hangout in East Brunswick. I sent Pietro a postcard while I was overseas, saying, "I've now eaten pizza all over Italy and none is as good as I Carusi!" He kept that postcard on the order board by the kitchen for several years.

Then Tom and I broke up, and Marta and Nick moved away. I didn't want to travel out to East Brunswick on my own so I stopped going.

I asked Pietro the last time I saw him if he felt he had made enough pizza. "I still feel the love," he said, "I still want to make food for people. When I don't feel the love anymore, I'll quit."

All photos by I Carusi, used with permission.

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