Photo credit: Kensie Wallner

Piccolo: Unique Bosnian Menu

By Neil Schloesser
Contributing Writer          

The mirror across from me was broken, but there was nothing else to do but continue. There was no money to buy a new one and there was no money for food yet there was money for food.

The devilish medium always has a way of showing itself when most needed and at that instant there was a need to get away from the mirror and into a restaurant to be waited on and shown the respect that money can buy: cheap, tawdry, and only for a few fleeting seconds.

Piccolo is a Bosnian restaurant on 13th Avenue near South High. There is an expensive car worth several college educations parked out front and a few customers sitting at tables on the sidewalk.

The door opens and the interior reveals itself to eyes that just saw a fractured mirror. Lungs expand. A man follows me in and heads to get a menu. A butt sits and eyes look. Lungs contract.

Tasteful. Earth tones, blue booths, faux Tiffany lamp fixtures, clean, crisp, soccer on a flat screen, wet bar in the back, laptop on a lone table and a middle-aged man in black acting as waiter and cook.

“Water.  Espresso.”

“Right away.”

Seven years bad luck. Clichés. There is nothing but the mind and empty space and this table is nothing but electrical forces. Free fall into free fall.

Stomach reacts, growls, is in charge. Broken mirrors may be real but nothing else is.

“Meze: $16.99.  Mozzarella sticks, feta cheese, smoked beef, smoked sausage, broiled eggs.”

“Broiled eggs?”

Espresso.  Water.

Hearts join in a union and continue to look for other hearts. Unification. The table is smooth and quiet.

“Sudzukice: Grilled spicy links served with flat bread and mustard.”

“Balkan sandwich: Smoked beef with cheese served with fries.  $8.50.”

Beer, juices, and pop. The menu is small, quick, and laminated. Gyros. Sandwiches. Sausages.

“Sudzukice and the Balkan Sandwich.”

“Both?”

“One’s for my mother.”

My head looks around and I see the cracked mirror in all the places eyes can see. Coffee is good. Coffee is gone. Water is water. Prices are average.

Two plates. Excellent presentation. White background, large sandwich between two slices of flatbread filled with sausages. Reddish-orange dipping sauce, sour cream, both in a small container, pile of red onions, starkness through beauty.

Stomach growls louder. Mom is getting nothing.

Flatter bread, thin slices of smoked beef, cheese, fries, white background like the mind of man, sour cream, a compact pile of fries, again there is simplicity and beauty.

The beef is tender and the smoke comes through and takes ahold of the bread and cheese and enters the palette like a guest who doesn’t overstay a welcome.

The sausage is rich but simple. The bread is light and airy.

“This is amazing,” the man in black is told.

He smiles and says “Thank you.”

The man in black continually goes next door to the grocery store and returns moments later. Over and over again. The restaurant is mine, the restaurant is his.  Mine. His.

The kitchen is open and free like youth.

Good behavior means no jail. Evil thoughts form in absence. They sink before reaching the sky.

Good food means repeat business.

There are no other restaurants with this type of menu.

Unique food means repeat business.

Leftovers are packaged, the check is paid, the door opens, the warm interiors drops behind as the wind takes the mind and fractured mirrors reflect the evening sun.

“Pretty good, Piccolo. Pretty darn good,” my stomach thinks as it eases into the orange and blue evening.

Questions and comments: .(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address)

What: Piccolo
Where: 2215 13th Ave S
When: TWThSu 10-10; FSa 10am-1:30am
Info: 701.365.0763