Nonna Mia. 3125 Esplanade Avenue, New Orleans, LA.

Saint Expedite.  Patron of prompt delivery.

La dolce vita is saucy in New Orleans.  New Orleans is not a pizza town, so when a pizzeria stays in business, you can bet that they cook a good pie.  With indoor and outdoor seating, Nonna Mia does what it does very well.

On Mondays and Tuesdays, pitchers of beer are five dollars, and bottles of wine are half price.  This is reason enough for some visitors to New Orleans to extend their stays past a weekend.  Nonna Mia, like every generation of endeavors, was born out of love.  New Orleans runs on live, shared between grandmother and daughter and granddaughter.  Traditions are made by the people who live them.  Nonna Mia delivers.

Neither deep dish nor thin crust, the pizza chefs at Nonna Mia craft their pies New Orleans-style.  Even if your nonna is not from Nola, you still know good pizza when it is put in front of you.  This is good pizza.  If you walking up to City Park, pop in for a slice at the bar.  If you want to sample a slice of New Orleans pizza culture, you will get an flavorful education.

Legal seafood

I've only eaten at Legal Sea Foods twice.  One of those times was last night.  While one of my companions went on record saying he preferred the Legal Sea Foods at the Aquarium to the Gaslight on Harrison Ave, I think this is an apples-to-oranges comparison.  I like Gaslight too, but I've also only eaten there twice.

I've heard Legal Sea Foods described as being an expensive 99.  I don't exactly agree with that either.  While both may be New England chains, everything about Legal is geometrically better than whatever is offered at 99.  Legal doesn't necessarily feel like a chain.  99 can't help but seem like anything else.

I pinched a placemat last night and was reminded that since 1981 serving Legal clam chowder at Presidential inaugurations is a tested, bipartisan tradition.  I'm not going to rave about the restaurant.  As much as it's good, it also tends to be very crowded.  It isn't the cheapest seafood in Boston but it has a reputation for being reliable and, as the marketing will tell you in the T and on the sides of buses, the fish is fresh.

The collection of various fish sculptures in front of the restaurants is a testament to good taste and they enliven the streetscape.

You can learn all the facts here, if you are so inclined.  If you want to check them out the old fashioned way, their phone number really is 1-800-EAT-FISH.

The Legal cod are for eating, unlike this chap we discussed yesterday.

Publish Post

Goings on between Dot and the 'bury

Are they shooting a movie in Dudley Square?  I drove by where the new police station is going up and the cops in hi-viz lime jackets were directing traffic or, rather, watching traffic go by.  There were a couple of trucks on the northern corner unloading sound equipment and spot lights big enough to qualify as Klieg lights, though I doubt any premiers are debuting.  The trucks blocked my view, but it looked like a film crew and maybe some caterers, hair stylists and, dare I suggest, actors were blocking out scenes between the back of the Silver Slipper Restaurant and Drain's House of Style.

The Silver Slipper and Drain's are certainly two Boston landmarks that deserve to be commemorated on film.  Too bad they couldn't have been worked into the verisimilitude of "The Friends of Eddie Coyle."

Further up Warren Avenue, I noticed that Gyro King has closed down in Grove Hall!  One of the reasons I had meandered in that direction was for a gyro.  The other reason was because today was wonderful motorcycle weather after yesterday's relentless rain.  I had taken a shortcut to Blue Hill Avenue and instead of the most beautiful Shwarm-tastic sign in all the Boston metro area, I saw a colorful sign for "Chifipi"

Stuck in traffic about a half block away, I wondered what this Chifipi could be.  I had to navigate traffic on two wheels as I passed but I can tell you this based on the logo painted on the front window: Chi stands for chicken, Fi stands for fish, and though I can't be sure I'll bet dollars to donuts that Pi stands for pizza.  This doesn't bode well, gentle reader.  It takes specialization to become King of anything, be it with gyro meat or purple prose.  I don't know any cook yet who has mastered the trifecta of chicken, fish and pizza pie.

It's worth a future investigation though.




I saw The Friends of Eddie Coyle recently at the Brattle.  Good movie.  Pretty much how the world saw Boston in 1973 and the cinematic image hasn't changed too much if you consider Mystic River, et al.  The Athens of America.

Breakfast at Bickfords

I don't watch a lot of TV.  In fact, the last time I watched an entire program, it was probably BJ and the Bear.  I couldn't tell you what episode it was.  All I remember is Sheriff Lobo hassling Billie Joe McKay over a legitimate contract hauling job.  It was a big misunderstanding.

There are actually two things better than watching a rerun of BJ and the Bear, if you can imagine that.  One of them is building a model of BJ's Kenworth K-100 semi truck and living out your own, pretend, trucker adventures.

The other thing is pulling whatever you're driving into the Bickford's at 77 Gallivan Blvd in Dorchester.  There's ample parking.  Indeed, you can pull an eighteen wheeler into the lot and many hungry road warriors do.  Why is breakfast at this Bickford's better than reviewing your beta tape BJ and the Bear archives?  Because, for the majority of the people reading this, breakfast at this Bickford's will make you feel young.

When I eat at this Bickford's, I am the youngest person in the building by twenty years at least.  Usually more, much more.  I don't mean my fellow diners only.  I mean the waitresses, the manager, the assistant manager, the fry cook, the prep cook, and the dishwasher.  This may not seem like much if you're ten, but I'm forty-five.  It's not many places anymore that I can say that I'm the youngest person in the room by far.  I can say it any morning of the week at 77 Gallivan Boulevard.  If you're feeling a tad over the hill, a trip to Dorchester may be the psychological cure you need.  Especially first thing in the day.

 A nod to Slay, Monstrobot of the Deep!! for the 80s flashback graphic.

Cavolo/Tavolo

In 1918, Guiseppe Malatesta opened a trattoria in Peabody Square.  He called it Cavolo, the Italian word for cabbage.  It seemed like a good idea at the time with all the Irish immigrants moving into the neighborhood.  There was also a sizable German population, but Mr. Malatesta could never say the German word for cabbage convincingly: kohl.

Selling meals of slaw and sauerkraut out of his storefront paid the rent but just barely.  Creditors from the Shawmut Bank that had advanced capital to Mr. Malatesta weren't happy with the cash flow and they feared they would have to foreclose on his chopping blocks and crockery.  What would they do with them?

Mr. Malatesta sprung a plan to spice up the menu a bit.  Dorchester's main trolley stable was located a little up Dot Ave, where the Field's Corner Shopping Center is now.  He contracted with the City of Boston, which had recently annexed Dorchester, to take care of streetcar steeds that had gone lame.  Thus, the menu of his restaurant added a bit of protein to its mix.  Cavolo was married to cavallo,  Cabbage plus horse is very chic if you say it French and, at the time, it was unintelligible in Italian in Dorchester.  The same can be said of the listed ingredients in Vietnamese sandwiches in 2009.   It sounds good, it tastes good, I'll come back tomorrow for another.  Both the flavor and the price are right.

Sometimes it takes a little extra to make a go of a restaurant.  Simple isn't always best.  People don't mind paying a little more if they feel they are getting their money's worth.  As old, Mr. Malatesta would have said, "Una tavola con una tovaglia fare il piatto bellisimo."  A table with a cloth does make the most beautiful dish.  Sometimes you just have to give it a little window dressing and not a-speeka-da-eengleesh.  It's true, if unpretty: Never give a sucker an even break.  We all have to eat, and no matter how it's gussied up, Dorchester delivers the vittles most people demand.

A tip of the fedora to the Dorchester Reporter for pointing out an example of history repeating itself.  A tip of the fork to the eatery at 1918 Dorchester Avenue in old Peabody Square that is working to serve its clientele well.  Rather than giving the people who pass through Ashmont Station what they supposedly need, Tavolo is giving them what they want.  Something nice to eat homeward bound at fair value for the dollars they earn at the other end of the Red Line.

A perfect Boston cocktail?

You can buy beer by the pint at a good price in Dochester, Boston's biggest and best neighborhood, but what about cocktails?  Can a sophisticated palate purchase a fine sipping drink in the Dot?

Early actuarial calculations based on first hand experience point toward the negative.  Dorchester is good at some things.  It rests on a bedrock of natural strengths that can be dependably quarried to everyone's satisfaction.  Subtlety is not one of Dorchester's stengths, however.  This is a part of Boston more attuned to the rhythms of the pile driver and the staple gun rather than a paring knife or muddler.

I had a Dottini at Ashmont Grill last week.  It is a sweet  concoction along classic martini lines.  Instead of gin and vermouth and an olive, it tarts up the recipe with some kind of sweet liqour, some other liquid and a garnish to replace the salty, green olive.  My Dottini had three candies resting at the bottom of the glass.  The candies?  Ha-ha!  Dots.  The gummi confections didn't absorb a bit of alcholic flavor and really didn't dissolve enough to add any nuance to the sipping experience.  It was a good enough drink, and Heaven knows Dorchester is all sweetness and light, so the symbolic, "I'm drinking a Dottini in Dorchester" joke wasn't lost on me.  I don't really have a sweet tooth, so this one-note  beverage didn't hook me.  I do think, however, that a giant Dot candy statue should be cast in bronze in the parking lot opposite the giant Clapp pear that resides on the southern edge of Edward Everett Square. 

I did land around dead center of Downtown Crossing this week at the Marliave.  My first impression is leaving me wondering why it took so long to stop in.  It is old fashioned inside and I am often downtown switching from Green or Orange Line to Red, so the pop-in convenience is an added plus.  What  really won me over at the Marliave though, was its cocktail menu.  They may have beer on tap but I didn't notice.  They are selling hard liquor attractively packaged, and the menu is a joy to peruse.  I ordered the Molasses Flood.

Rum, molasses, lime, bitters, a hint of seltzer.  It isn't a strong drink but its a good one.  It's really good.  Anything that marries molasses with bitters has to be good to sip.  It's named after the tragic North End Molasses Flood of 1919.  There are better ways to commemorate tragedy than to name drinks after them, but at least this cocktail ignites some historical lesson-themed conversations around the bar rather than the usual sports-obsessed debates you find in Dot dives.

There is no reason Dorchester cannot inspire a bit of sweet and bitter mixology.  These two sensations brew in Dorchester every day of the year around the clock with the cream usually rising to the top.  Dorchester is a place of champagne tastes on a draft budget, though.  As gentrification looms, we may find more Marliaves than Saint's Diners in the Dot.  Heaven forbid the day the Saints go marching out.

New look!

Take a new look at ye olde Dot with fresh eyes. It's not your grandparents' Dorchester. It's yours, ripe for the picking. Succulent fruit like a Clapp pear picked off a sagging branch at the cusp of an autumn midnight under a harvest moon, Dorchester is nourishing and sweet. Whether you're hankering for a roti or a slice of pizza pie or grilled octopus or barbeque, you'll find the nourishment that satisfies your craving in Dorchester, Mass. Food for the soul. Dorchchester is full of savory flavors to fuel your internal combustion. It's yummy It's umami.

Ye olde Dot is older than Bostonia itself by a few months and it looks the part of a coquettish sibling. Dorchester is flirtatious. It is rambunctious. It is full of vim and pep and piss and vinegar. Dorchester doesn't mind speaking its heart. Dorchester has the soul of a child in an wizened body. It's a regular Benjamin Button.

Dorchester keeps what is best of its old parts but it is sleek and modern and streamlined. It's arte nouveau. It's l'arte moderne. It's je ne c'est quoi. You can't put your finger on what makes the Dot so good but you can feel it's pulse. It's a thumper too, like a jackrabbit that's just outpaced a pack of greyhounds and is ready to bed down in a hutch with a bevy of does. Ooo-la-la! Dorchester still has that old black magic called love.

If the electric company could harness all the energy in Dorchester a green revolution would be underway and no one in America would have to worry about oil independence. The Dot is hotter than greenhouse gasses. Dorchester exhales volts and megawatts. If you plug into Dorchester you can tune out the rest of Boston. Drop into the Dot. Dorchester's thermostat is always turned on high without any waste of heat.


I've never read the story but my son and I saw the movie and we enjoyed it very much. The story is probably different and better, the way these things usually work. Watch your local newspaper listings in a few years for the debut of the Dot Matrix movie coming to a theater near you!

Fat raven

I saw the fattest crow on Aukland Street. It could barely fly. My bicycle was zipping down the street's center whisper-quiet and I must have startled it. It was snacking on a dropped pizza crust (from Venice Pizza?) between two parked cars as I passed. The crow sure startled me. I slammed on the brakes at the commotion to my right.

The crow let out a squawk and flapped its wings frantically, trying to get aloft for an escape. It flapped and flapped to no avail until, finally, it got some space between its feet and the asphalt. It hovered a moment and then slowly drifted upward, flapping mightily all the while, to the gutter over the porch at #72.

Exhausted, but feeling it was a safe distance from me, it panted and wheezed, catching its breath. It had a pot belly and bags under its eyes. I swear it sported jowls and love handles under its feathers. Not attempting to fly again, it walked along the porch roof and stepped onto an overhanging maple branch. Then it walked from branch to branch, huffing and puffing like an asthmatic until it was out of sight.

Grilled octopus

Firstly, you can follow our host on Twitter, where he almost-daily uses all 140 available characters to make an on-the-Dot observation. Now on with our report:

Ka-Carlos is an unexpectedly stylish bistro located at 33 Hancock Street in Upham's Corner. This is not a pizza joint or a Chinese take-out counter or a sub shop. This is genuine, upscale Cape Verdean food that is delicious and affordable to most and a celebration of Cape Verdean culture transplanted in Dorchester, the best and biggest part of the great city of Boston. Few tourists visit Ka-Carlos. It's a nieghborhood gem. Just ask Thomas M. Menino, if you have any questions.

We went on Friday, our second visit. The first time we went was almost a year ago, but we just popped in for a very good drink while touring the neighborhood. This time, disgruntled by service at the D Bar, we headed out of yuppified Dorchester into its more urban center: Upham's Corner, a neighborhood overly notorious for its poverty and grime. You'll find neither at Ka-Carlos and you'll only find them in Upham's Corner if you actively look.

The dining room is sleek and clean, filled with local Dorchesterites of all colors and backgrounds with nothing but civility and citizenship in common. Both make for good conversations. It turns out, Ka-Carlos makes great food in a setting that encourages good conversation. A trio was playing live, Cape Verdean music just loud enough to add ambiance to the decor.

We met Carlos and he's a great chap who is obviously proud of his place. We ordered grilled octopus. While we were eating, Carlos motioned to the chef, who was walking the floor, to introduce himself. My companion told him truthfully that every time I took a bite of octopus, I sat back and smiled contentedly. He said, "On the beach in Cape Verde, if someone caught an octopus, they would bring it to me and we would grill it right there over a pit in the sand." It tasted that good. These weren't tentacles but fillets of toothsome, white meat about two fingers thick and as long as your hand. I really did taste Cape Verdean purity carried along far-reaching, Atlantic currents while I sat back, smiled and chewed. It was a slow meal. You cannot rush perfection and I didn't want these mouthfuls to end.

We eventually emptied the plate of grilled octopus. Bidding good-bye and good-night to everyone at the bar as we walked by, we made our way into the Dorchester night with satisfied stomachs and best wishes for this remarkable chef in a remarkable locale.

A new pizzeria is born

If you live in Boston you are used to pizzeria flyers tucked into your front door. They all seem to use the same format from the same printer with the same layout, the same fonts and the same clip art. I found one of these today in my front door but the front fold was a little different. It wasn't enough to separate it from the pack that arrives over the course of a month, but I tend to read these from front to back closely because I have little else to do. My mail arrives in the afternoon and I've already spent an hour in the morning reading the Wall Street Journal and ten minutes in the morning reading the Boston Globe, so by day's end I'm ready to use my reading skills again and the mail is about all I have.

The logo on this flyer was a bit different. It wasn't set in white space floating above a picture of a choice pizza pie. It was cemented over a photo of a hamburger bun, some wraps full of indistinguishable filling, two disks that looked like pizzas, and assorted whole vegetables. The shop's address is at 856 Dorchester Avenue.

The shop's name is Avenue Grille & Pizza. I looked over the literature and I wondered, "Do I know this place? It's close by judging from the address." Click...click...click...the pieces fell into place: Avenue Grille... Great Ceasar's ghost!...and Pizzeria?

The Avenue Grille was a sit-down restaurant where locals gathered, that offered sandwiches as well as some dishes that required more preparation served on white china plates with a glass of wine or a cocktail. The Avenue Grille didn't have the best food but it did have a restaurant feel when you sat in its dark wood dining room. I knew it was under new management, but not that they were turning a bistro into a pizza joint. Maybe Dorchester does need more pizza joints. Maybe the hunger for pizza cannot be satisfied with pizzerias every half mile or so. 856 Dot Ave is almost equidistant between Pantry Pizza and Andrew Pizza. Maybe some people don't like to walk.

We hadn't been to the old Avenue Grille for a while. It is on the opposite side of Columbia Road from where we live. It's not a wide road, but it is a boundary where, those of us to the south like to think. separates the men from the boys. Maybe we should have crossed that boundary more often. Maybe we will now that there's a new pizzeria open for business. I'll have to give it a try.

Pork pulled at Pit Stop

Anyone who lives in Mattapan knows where the best barbecue can be found. If you're not familiar with the Dot, go down Morton Street and look for the knot of cars congealing traffic around address 888. Three eights are a good numerological number for the Pit Stop Barbecue. A calligrapher couldn't make a better choice. The number eight has a handsome head and a swollen belly, three in a row resemble the line of customers that leads to the counter at the Pit Stop.

The Pit Stop is a little shack on the corner of Morton and Hannon Streets. Its chimney exhales the mouth-watering scent of smoked meats. The people who live in Morton Street Village must be the hungriest in Boston, their appetites are always stimulated by the smoke out of the Pit Stop.

The pork ribs have a national reputation as being the best Texan style, slowly cooked meat north of the Red River Valley. You will sometimes see Winnebegos parked on Morton Street that belong to pilgrims who have made the trip east and north from southern, desert states to taste the best barbecue New England has to offer. It makes me feel fortunate to live a mere mile and a half away.

The pulled pork sandwich is a regular favorite, as are the pork ribs. Rich, salty, flavorful sauce that hasn't been replicated at any other, more fancy outlets complements the smoky meat the Pit Stop offers Thursdays through Sundays at a price every Mattapan citizen can afford. Local high school students and Back Bay Lotharios both report that the best way to get a date in an amorous mood is to offer her a meal of pulled pork. The Pit Stop often runs out of menu items due to excessive demand, but the demand for pulled pork sandwiches always seems to be the first supply that's exhausted. The rumors may be true, the pulled pork may be an aphrodisiac. The theory has been tested enough times to have street credibility.

The Pit Stop is more than a barbecue pit, if hearsay is to believed. It is also a passion pit, at least off premises. There isn't enough room in the Pit Stop for an orgy, only for takeout.

I was chatting up a couple of college students at Teatro, on Boston Common last night. They told me, "Spanish Fly drops have nothing on Pit Stop pork. That sandwich is a one-way ticket to heavy petting and then it's easy to get it punched for a transfer to the next zone." I asked if they were worried about the Swine Flu epidemic that may be heading to Boston. "I don't think past tomorrow morning," one rake replied.

The chicken smell

Claudia Fishburn has a rare medical condition. It isn't life threatening and people who aren't afflicted with pollosinusitis find it comical, but we all have our cross to bear and Ms Fishburn bears hers with a resigned air. You see, everything Claudia Fishburn smells, smells like chicken soup.

When a suitor brings her roses, they smell like chicken soup to her. When she stops by the perfume counter in a department store, all the testers smell like chicken soup. She went to the Wonder Spice restaurant in Jamaica Plain a few weeks ago and ordered the mango fried rice. It smelled and tasted like chicken soup. She's not a gourmet and her kitchen is stocked mostly with canned goods and lean cuisine. No matter what she cooks, it smells like chicken soup. Even her bathroom smells like chicken soup to her, which may be just as well.

She lives on Sumner Street in Dorchester, close to where this street branches off East Cottage. She moved here because it's right behind the KFC in Edward Everett Square. As she says, "I smell chicken all the time so it doesn't bother me. Other people might not like living behind a chicken restaurant, but I don't notice the exhaust off the fry-o-lators. I figured I'd take this apartment and free up one next to the public garden for someone who would appreciate that smell more."

Dot theology

An anonymous seminarian (by his request) who is serving a missionary tenure at an equally anonymous Dorchester evangelical church, has developed an interesting Biblical theory concerning the location of the Garden of Eden. He and I lunched at Shanti, the Indian restaurant at the intersection of Savin Hill Avenue and Dot Ave. Its address is 1111 Dot Ave for those interested in numerology. Apologies that the link is to the Boston Globe's review of the dining room. The Shanti web site seems to be down at the moment, hopefully only temporarily. It is really best experienced in person anyway.

This earnest, young man explained that after diligent research and sleepless weeks spent triangulating references in original Hebrew and Aramaic texts, he had located the spot where the site of Original Sin occurred. He posits that the famous apple tree where Eve succumbed to temptation and then coaxed Adam to the do the same was originally located where the Civil War monument stands in front of Dorchester's First Parish Church. His plate of eggplant curry had just been placed in front of him when he said, "Look at the situation. It's a perfect site."

I mentioned that most scholars put the site a few thousand miles and an ocean away to the east but he was undeterred in his conviction. He said, "If I stand on the corner of Quincy and Bowdoin Streets and look uphill, I can see that apple tree. I can smell apples. I can see a python curling around the granite of the monument around that Union soldier's leg." I suggested he may be hallucinating but he dismissed this as narrow-minded pettifoggery on my part. It's true I hadn't spent a lot of time researching the topic prior to our interview.

He said, "How can you stand at the summit of Meeting House Hill, in that triangular park in front of the First Parish Church, and not look around and see the makings of Paradise as far as your eye wanders?" I didn't argue the point but I did point out that we could take a dining room poll and easily find more than one person who did disagree with his assessment. He relished his eggplant and encouraged me to enjoy more of my lentils. The food, as usual, was very good, perfectly seasoned with a balance of salt and spice.

Is Dorchester Edenic? In some ways, yes. It is the birthplace of many sins. Is it a sullied paradise? Like so many other places, the answer is: of course. Is this guy a crackpot or a visionary scholar? I don't know. If he lands a segment on the History Channel some people may believe the theory he is peddling. For the people who live in the neighborhood, they'll probably keep peddling their bicycles and taking the bus to get to work. It's a nice idea and it is certainly applicable, whether it will hold water, is another matter altogether. Dorchesterites overall don't like being the center of attention or a world-shaking movement. They are busy enough getting on with their lives. This is a place where utility trumps conjecture.

Restaraunt Laura

On Columbia Road, a little north of Everett Square, is a haven for Dorchester's Cape Verdean community. Restaurant Laura is the kind of warm, clean place where neighbors drop in for a glass of port, a little bite, a little gossip, and a good time. They have live music.

My companion and I popped in on a cold night and were made welcome. The wine selection was extensive and inexpensive, perfectly paired to the menu. I had bacalau stew. My companion had a roast beef dish so tender she cut the meat with a spoon. Everything was bright and fresh and swimming in garlic-infused, Portuguese olive oil the color of near-equatorial sunshine. It was a welcome respite from the subarctic wind blowing off Dorchester Bay. It's not just the food that makes Restaurant Laura special.

They say Dorchester is home to the largest Cape Verdean community in Massachusetts. More Cape Verdeans live around Uphams Corner than in New Bedford, if you can believe that. Restaurant Laura caters to them and everyone else who wants to enjoy some of this island nation's unique culture. The spot has a lazy atmosphere. People linger over their dinners and the talk travels between tables, good-natured jokes, compliments, commentary, most of it spoken in Cape Verdean creole, a branch of the Portuguese mother tongue. The night we were there, there wasn't a lull in the atmosphere. Musicians were on stage serenading the patrons with ballads that made at least one diner think he wasn't in Dorchester but in Praia, the capitol of Cape Verde.

The dancing Dot

I was enjoying some coffee and dry toast at Saint's Diner in Codman Square this morning when I was approached by a fellow customer. "Hey, Mr. Writer," he said, "You know not all of Dorchester is Irish." I looked around at the obvious and replied that I'm not of Irish descent either. "Then why do you always use the Irish when depicting the spirit of Dorchester?" He was referring to yesterday's report on the Dotusi, a dance that marries Irish step dancing with 60's era, camp, go-go moves. It was one of those moments that showed the power of the internet at work.

I explained that I can only relate things as I find them and that I have often commented on Dorchester's Vietnamese element and the African-American culture around Codman and Morton Street. I have reported on the Polish enclave near Andrew, and the Cape Verdean community around Uphams Corner, and the polyglot international students that live around UMASS Boston. I suggested that if there were really to be a dance to represent the spirit of Dorchester, indeed, more parties would have to be involved in its choreography. Did this gentleman know anyone with the expertise?

"I have a cousin who danced in a few Snoop Dogg videos. She's got some Dorchester moves that make Riverdance look like a cake walk. She didn't like your description of the Dotusi either."

I suggested she get in touch with the dancers in Neponset for some collaboration. The gentleman agreed to put this suggestion to his talented cousin. We will see what comes of the cross-pollination. Anyone else willing to lend their sense of rhythm to this project is encouraged to do so but, as with most things, we don't believe a committee is the best means to achieve artistic expression.

Dorchester is a multi-faceted jewel of a place full of folk carrying DNA from around the globe. No one strand dominates the others. Dorchester is, in fact, a sprawling jelly of a place that jiggles and sparkles according to the jostling of its many constiuent ingredients. There won't be one Dorchester dance in the end, but many, as befits a place made up of so many feet, each moving to their own beat.

Over 2,000,000 pizzas sold

Those aren't golden arches across from St. Mark's Church at 1740 Dot Ave. That's the storefront that pizza has kept open for over 18 years. The whole time McDonald's has served billions and billions of hamburgers over the decades, Charlie's Pizza has served up its share of slices. They boast of 2 million pizzas sold and they have the receipt books to prove it. Charlie's Pizza has been a Dorchester institution for almost two decades and it is still going strong.

It's a cut throat pizza market in Boston as any pizza chef will tell you. Shops open and close with the regularity of traffic lights going from green to red. Pizza fashions change like the hemlines on ladies' skirts and the width of gentlemen's neckties. What was popular last year is out of favor come the following January. Charlie knows, he's seen them come and he's seen them go.

Charlie offers everyday specials: You can get a small cheese pizza with ten wings for $9.99 any time during normal business hours, for example. Charlie offers lunch time specials: There is a $2.00 discount on any large pizza or calzone ordered between 11:00 AM and 3:00 PM weekdays, for instance. Charlie also offers a unique pizza pie you can get nowhere else, its a little concoction called 'The Turkish Farm.' It is one of the shop's more popular pies even though St. Mark's Parish isn't known for being home to large Turkish population.

The menu states quite bluntly and categorically that the Turkish Farm Pizza has "No pizza sauce." Then it goes on to list the ingredients that are used. Prices range between $8.99 to $17.99 depending on the size.

An overworked icon.

We were at Landmark Center the other day (before the snow) and noticed a familiar face while en route to the art store. If I recall recent franchise business news, UFood Grill is the recently renamed and rebranded Know Fat! restaurant chain. Any name would have been better and UFood is okay, I guess though I'm still not tempted to try it. The new mascot is a curious selection.

Isn't this winking cutie the guy from the Tedeschi candy bags?? Who licensed his appearance on behalf of the UFood chain? Does Tedeschi know he serves two masters? I doubt there's a lot of overlap between customer bases but where does a mascot draw the line? I'm all for making a buck and I realize times are tough, but how can this chipper imp keep smiling when he's appearing all over town? With one more endorsement, he may become the most overworked icon in Boston.

Burger King smells better

Burger King, that hamburger empire with outlets on Dot Ave and Columbia Road is branching out of the food business and into the scent business. We don't mean the aromas that waft out of the fry-o-lators into the surrounding neighborhood. We mean the scent of seduction "with a hint of flame-broiled meat" as only Burger King can do it. Flame broiling is what separates BK's burgers from McDonald's, as much as customers being able to have it their way. Now you can have it your way after a shave and not be a slave to the corporate tastes of Drakar, Canoe, Stetson or Old Spice.

Burger King has introduced its own cologne, or 'body spray' as the marketing wonks at Axe like to call it.

I was in line to order a loaded Angus Burger at the Dot Ave BK, standing behind a couple of toughs. You know the kind, construction workers wearing grimy, Carhartt overalls with baseball caps that haven't seen a washing machine since they were made. and bandannas in their back pockets caked with half-frozen snot and grit scraped from V-8 engines' headers. They had beards speckled with crumbs from yesterday's lunchtime subs and teeth as stained and crooked as the tombstones in the Old Burying Ground on the Common. These guys didn't place an order for food. They asked for the new Burger King cologne they has heard about from their buddies, the cologne that drives carnivorous women wild.

The cashier thought they were crazy so she summoned the assistant manager, a pudgy fellow who has obviously enjoyed his share of complimentary Whopper Jr.'s in lieu of a decent wage. He took control of the situation and told these customers that the cologne was only available for sale via the website firemeetsdesire.com. The shorter of the two protested, "But I don't have a computer." The taller one pulled him aside and said, "You can use mine. I'll get a bottle for each of us."

After enjoying my scrumptious Angus Burger, I went home to confirm the facts. It is true, a meat scented cologne is for sale under Burger King's aegis, concocted to their exclusive, trademarked formula. After all, who could do it better than these experts in the field of flame-broiling beef for the masses.

I called Esmelda Perez, who is planning to open her "Smell Good Shop" on Upham's Corner. She told me over the phone, "Oh, I'm all over this one. I've already ordered a case and written the product line into my business plan. This will go over big in Dorchester. I smell dollars."

Where the good eats are

Yesterday was pleasant in Edward Everett Square, 59 degrees on the benches by the giant Clapp Pear Statue. Directly behind the park that sits at the bend where Columbia Road branches off the beginnings of Mass Ave and Boston Street, is a KFC that perfumes the neighborhood with the savory smells of fried poultry and Col. Sanders' special, secret blend of eleven herbs and spices. Taking advantage of the weather, five teen-aged boys were enjoying a ten-piece bucket of the Colonel's extra-crispy thighs, wings and breasts and commenting on their meal.

One boy said, "This chicken is okay but it's not as good as New York Fried Chicken. We could have walked three blocks and gone to New York."

The boy next to him replied, "There's nowhere to sit outside at New York. There's just a traffic island in the middle of Hancock Street. I'm not sitting there."

The boy next to him chimed in, "We could always sit inside. The tables are a little scrubby but the lights are bright. We would see what we're eating." This occured around 5:30 in the afternoon, dark in pre-winter solstice Boston even with the streetlights lit.

The second boy added this rejoinder: "Yeah, it's bright in there. It's bright enough to see the dirt."

The fourth boy said, "They run a clean joint but do you know where I want to go? KFC is okay and New York Chicken is okay but I'd rather be in Fenway. There's a Popeye's in Fenway."

The boy at the end of the last bench took a big bite of succulent breast meat. "Mmmm," he said, "Popeye's, now that's good fried chicken. They're living good in Fenway."

His companions nodded and smacked thier lips in agreement while they polished off the bucket. They made a plan to take the Red Line the next day and then any Green Line train but the "E" to Knemore Square. The first boy rubbed his belly and said, "I can't wait to pop in at Popeye's"

Strong medicine

When we introduced local beekeeper Leon Murphy yesterday, space constraints prevented us from reporting on a sideline he's developed from his hives on Norwell Street. We were eating pancakes at Saint's Diner in Codman Square when he explained it to me. In his words:

"An old, Haitian woman down on Morton Street heard that I raise bees and she came to me to purchase fifteen of them because her great-granddaughter had the croup. I didn't sell live bees at the time so I asked what she wanted them for and she gave me her recipe for croup cure. She took fifteen live bees and ground them in a mortar and pestle. Then she steeped the mash in boiled rainwater. After eight minutes she strained the tea through a cheesecloth and then squeezed every last bit of juice out of the bees. She said a teaspoon of this bee tea every hour along with rubbing chicken fat on the baby's neck and chest would cure the croup.

"I was skeptical but I sold her the bees, fifteen exactly for $2.50. Soon enough other people with croupy babies were knocking at my door. I figured, heck, I've got enough bees so I started making the tea myself and putting it into old pickle and peanut butter jars to save people the time of having to crush the bees themselves. It's not fun to do. It's worse than putting a lobster in a pot. They crunch. I even bought a mess of chicken fat from a friend I have in Newmarket and wrapped it in little packages of wax paper to go along with the tea. I charge twelve dollars a cure and I've got batches of the stuff in my hall pantry."

I said this sounded like a sound product. Leon Murphy replied, "You know what else? Even if you don't have a croupy baby it's good stuff. It's a love potion. I gave a few jars to my sister, Adelaide. She spiked her boyfriend's vodka and cranberry with it one night, without the chicken fat, of course. He proposed to her the very next day and they've been happily married for thirteen months. He's got eyes for nobody but her. There's power in my bees."

I didn't want to burst Leon Murphy's bubble. I've run into his brother-in-law a few times at Ka-Carlo's on Hancock Street. This chap is a tomcat of the first degree, flirting with the ladies and making time with whoever will answer his mating call. That said, I've also met Adelaide Murphy while she was still known by that name. Any man would love her.