When my family and I went to Piazza 1909 in La Jolla, the first thing that hit us was the atmosphere. The restaurant occupies a historic home site built in 1909, and the age of the building gives the dining room a coyness that’s more personal than refined. It was like stepping into someone’s home, except with the added aroma of garlic, bread, and wood-fired pizza drifting from the kitchen.
We started with burrata served with tomatoes and olive oil. It seemed like a simple thing on the surface, but the moment I cut into the outside, the soft center exploded out, combining with the sweetness of the tomatoes and the delicate pungency of the olive oil. It was light and rich and fresh all at once. My best part about it was that it didn’t need anything to be a star — the ingredients had all of the drama.
Following was arancini (fried rice balls) for starters to be enjoyed by everyone at the table. The golden crunchy outside, the creamy risotto and generous amounts of cheese oozing through inside. Each mouthful consisted of crunch of the outside and cheesy gooey center. It was a lovely little treat that prepared us for the pasta and other fuller dishes but did not fill us up.
As my entree, I had the Margherita pizza. The crust was crispy and chewy with that nice char on the outside, with a fresh, bright tomato sauce on top, melting mozzarella that softened to streaks of creamy white, and basil leaves that added a light, herbal finish. It was a plain dish that did not try to be so but instead maximized balance and purity of flavors.
We also tried the shrimp and asparagus ravioli with saffron sauce, which was the highlight of the night. The pasta was delicate, holding the filling just tightly enough without losing tenderness to the bite. The shrimp added sweetness, the asparagus green freshness, and the saffron sauce tied the whole affair together with its golden, subtle flavor. It was a special-feeling dish but not heavy, the kind of meal that was supposed to impress without overindulging.
My dad got the penne alla vodka, something that I never had in big servings before. The sauce was good with a mild flavor of tomato, and a splash of vodka that appeared to bring out a bit more of the lightness of the tomato. The ridges of penne caught up the crevices of the sauce, so with every bite you tasted creamy, tangy, smooth, all at once. It was comforting in another way than the pizza or ravioli — richer, but balanced.
As a dessert, we ended with tiramisu. The espresso-soaked ladyfingers and mascarpone cream were united in gentle but not soggy layers, topped only with a dusting of cocoa powder to complete bittersweet. It was the kind of dessert that keeps flavors in check — rich enough that it’s decadent, but not heavy that you’re regretful you devoured the last bite.
What was striking at Piazza 1909 was the extent to which the food connected with Italian heritage and something even older. Burrata, which was all about raw cheese, reminded me of how much the Romans prized milk from sheep and cows and turned it into light cheeses fresh. Margherita pizza, as modern as it sounded, reminded me of Roman flatbreads cooked on rocks and sprinkled with oils and herbs. The shrimp and asparagus ravioli in saffron sauce made me think of Roman use of costly spices — saffron, in this case, was a luxury item that the wealthy consumed for its color and fragrance and used to flavor a dish. Even the arancini, rice center and crusty rice exterior, made me think of how the Romans adapted and changed bland foods to make them more textured and interesting. Penne alla vodka, being young, showed me that the idea of layering the sauce and creamy texture depends on the Roman-era love for richness and contrast in taste. And yet, since tiramisu is a product of the twentieth century, layering sweet cream and soaked cakes has its tradition from Roman banquets, when honey, milk, and layered pastries usually followed the feast. Most importantly, the way dinner was structured — first something light, then bread, followed by starters, pasta, finishing with something sweet — felt an outgrowth of the Roman celebration of making eating an experience as much about being together as about consumption.
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