The Cult of San Benedetto

After sucking down a pint of house special fried rice and a mountain of pork dumplings, the second task Trish and I fixated on after landing back in the states after our European vacation was finding a local source of San Benedetto iced tea.  It sounds crazy, but the whole family, especially Val, became obsessed with it after discovering this magical, refreshing beverage in Rome.

It may seem slightly ludicrous to get so worked up over iced tea, but then you've probably never tried San Benedetto.  Yes, it's that good.

We actually stumbled onto a local "dealer" just a block from our apartment.  Can it be that for the last decade this beverage equivalent of crack has been hiding out just down the street unbeknownst to me?

Trish and I were trying to find some fresh pasta and fixings for the jar of pistachio pesto we brought back from Sicily.  I've always walked past Dave and Tony Salumeria, but never ventured inside because it seemed like a place only a real Italian should be shopping - a tiny, dark store stacked floor-to-ceiling with imported boxes and bottles written in foreign languages, with old men smoking outside and hunched old ladies shuffling out with their rolling carts and orthopedic shoes - way too hardcore for me.  But if any store would carry our crack-tea, this would be it.  We crossed ourselves like good Catholics and walked in.

Dave and Tony's is magical.  The place is the Italian foodie's equivalent of Disney World.  We explored the narrow aisles stacked high with dried pastas, sauces, condiments and candies.  Above a counter full of freshly made pastas and breads hang rows of cured meats and cheeses and behind that, a case full of fresh mozzarella and even more meat.

And then we saw them.  Lined up on the dusty cracked floor, next to gallon tins of olive oil, swathed in glorious, gray fluorescent light, were bottles and bottles of liquid gold!  Can you hear the angelic "Ahh"?  We immediately purchase four bottles, three regular and one peach flavored.

As if that weren't enough, we were served by a swarthy Italian hunk from behind the check-out counter, complete with dark, slicked-back hair and chiseled arms protruding from behind his white butcher's apron.  Dreamy.  And yes, he spoke fluent Italian - at least to the old ladies in front of us in line.

I now make a weekly pilgrimage to Dave and Tony for my fix, my bottle of San Benedetto.  But somehow, the bottle never lasts more than one meal.  But imbibing more often would dilute the anticipation, nay, the magic, of that first delicious sip after having been deprived of it for days. 

Yes, I sound like a crazy person, but just try it and you'll see how easily you're indoctrinated into the cult of San Benedetto.

Drink the kool-aid...er...um...I mean tea.