Many years ago when I was roughly the height of a fire hydrant, I went to a popular Italian-ish diner. They had free bread, cordial the colour of traffic cones and a policy of offering parmesan dustings at the table. The parmesan was in a jar and the texture of damp sawdust, but to me, a child barely smarter than an impressive dog, it was the best. The waiter would stand there continually sprinkling extra cheese flakes over my red sauce spaghetti while I dreamed about finally being able to eat a meal that was more parmesan than it was pasta.
I went to a similar diner as an adult, curious whether I’d still enjoy absurdly sized portions and school-camp parmesan, and the answer was an enthusiastic yes. This is the lowest grade parmesan you can imagine. I may not love it as much as a 48-month aged parmigiano reggiano but I’m not thinking about that when I eat it – I’m just feeling pleasure.
