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One of the things we most missed after returning with family from three years in Verona, Italy back in 1994, was our regular Friday night at the Pizzeria Ca’ Trentina. About week two after arriving in Portland, in a daze of folly brought on by desperation, we tried a popular local chain, and ordered a Margherita, a feast of simplicity and flavor when eaten at any pizzeria in Italy. It arrived slathered with melted cheese, soggy with too much tomato sauce, and almost pickled from the exaggerated quantities of garlic all over it. Being emotional when it comes to Italian food, I broke into tears.

How things have changed. Thursday night, we went to Ken’s Artisan Pizza, open only a month and packing them in, and had a margherita with arugula from a wood-fired oven and it was as close to the real thing as I have encountered outside Italy. It is too much to expect an exact duplicate — if that were possible, why look forward to a return to the Ca’ Trentina? But the fact that a chef wants to honor the values of real Italian pizza enough to get this close shows how much more sophisticated Portland has become in culinary matters. Now if someone could figure out how to make real, fresh, ricotta to drop in a few spoonfuls on a basic pizza, we’d be in heaven.

Ken’s is a friendly, unpretentious, efficient place. The fact that it is hugely popular doesn’t mean you will have a long wait for a table. It only serves salads, a few pizza choices, and a couple of desserts, so diners tend not be long at the task. We were told we’d have a wait of about 20 minutes, and at about 22 minutes we had our table. It was a great idea, I think, to keep it a simple operation.

Ken’s will probably become our “go to” place locally for pizza. There are at least two other places with wood-fired ovens, but the service is lousy there. At Nostrana’s, despite very good pizza and a more extensive and quite authentic Italian menu, I had my single worst service experience at any restaurant in my life and did not receive even an attempt at an apology for it, so am reluctant to reward the arrogance with a return visit. So Ken, thanks.

My friend Palermo came by yesterday, with her out-of-print book on the complete works of Picasso’s experimentation, as creator and destroyer, with Velasquez’ painting of Las Meninas. A born rebel in an age rebels with or without causes (Castro, James Dean), Picasso became the first 20th century celebrity artist by dazzling peers, critics and investors with the Protean creative impulse exhibited here.

He had a legendary, colossal ego. Note that in the 1656 Velasquez, the painter himself is almost obscured in shadow and the royal toddler is the person in the spotlight. In the 1957 Picasso, the painter looms large and magnificent, out of proportion to other figures represented. Was Picasso paying homage to Velasquez, to painters in general, or just himself? Was this just a sign of the times, 300 years after Velazquez?

What I want to know is how much did that ego drive his innovation. Science has decoded genetic material for shyness, why not for ego? We could all use some if it came with some of that zest for breaking out of tired old molds.

London Is So Dry, It’s Planting Cactus.

Such good timing. A few days after my post on the Olive, which is sinking roots in terrain once too soggy for it to prosper, this page one story in today’s Wall Street Journal reveals climate change is now bringing cactii to England.

Note: subscription required to access the link.

Long a symbol of the sunny Mediterranean, the olive now grows in once less suitable terrain. A radio report this week revealed that olive trees and almond trees are taking root in Devon, England. A farmer there is in his second planting season; by next year he hopes to begin pressing olive oil. We can now anticipate unusual pairings of ingredients from traditional Greek and English recipes. How about steak and olive pie? Almond pudding? Trifle of Orzata?

That’s the good news. The bad news is what global warming portends for southern Europe, not just in terms of cuisine but in more serious matters. We once spoke alarmingly of the Sahara desert’s creep southward, but today Sicilians and Pugliesi and Calabrians wonder if their regions’ climatic patterns are not becoming Africanized by a northward drift of the desert. This means a hot, dusty, parched environment, one inhospitable to most crops, including the olive. Droughts are commonplace in these Italian provinces now. Dust storms now occasionally drop sand as far north as Verona.

A few years ago, I sipped a refreshing tonic of almond syrup and water, a southern Italian summer staple, at the Tripoli cafe in MartinaFranca . It brought back childhood memories of Roman summers, late afternoons at the seaside town of Fregene, and of my mother daintily smacking her lips. Outside on the door stoops in the area’s towns women and girls (the boys were off fishing or doing something else) were peeling fresh almonds picked in the groves or bought in bushels at the markets. It is hard to imagine this part of the world without the almond and hopefully it will never come to that.

The olive trees around Martina Franca are ancient, thousands of years old. Some of the best olive oil in Italy comes from these trees, and is exported all over the world. Many of the trees have split in two, a pair of wide, groping trunks, and begun “walking”. They are wonders of nature, possessed of the essence of life for most of the Mediterranean world since history was recorded. Let’s hope they and the almond tree continue to thrive and support a culinary culture that goes back farther than antiquity.

We waited all day to take tea at the famous Blethering House in Oak Bay, Victoria. I’m a tea maven and one of the things I enjoy the most about the city is the tea houses and a great tea shop on Fort Street where I stock up on Irish Breakfast, Roibos, Green tea and numerous other fine leaves. So I was really happy to finally make it to this tea institution. But I must have been a blithering fool to fall for the myth of the place, as the service ranged from neglectful (30 minutes+ wait for a mostly cold plate order to arrive, and when it did, in bits and pieces) to rude, rolling eyeballs and all, plus the food was mediocre and I can brew a better cup of tea in my kitchen.

What I can recommend however, is the Malahat Inn on the Malahat highway towards north Vancouver Island. It is about the only place to grab a bite for a long stretch, and it is worth a stop in any case. Not just for the savory and satisfying antipasto plate or amazing fresh cut french fries, but for the view.