it leaves not a thread of grease

The coating isn't the smooth one of the usual supplì. It's coarse, flaky, golden and uneven, it looks made of crumbled flakes rather than breadcrumbs. The sphere sits on a green gremolada cream, inside a ring of dark ossobuco jus, with grated lemon zest on top.

The bite is a perfect fry. Crisp outside, dry, and here's the thing that stuns me: there isn't a thread of grease. Not on the fingers, not on the lips, not in the mouth. None of that heaviness fried food almost always drags along, no greasy film left after. It's fried and that's all, clean.

Inside, the ossobuco has a decisive flavour, full, of meat carried on for hours, the kind that falls apart. The gremolada underneath is heavy, green, and comes in to soften it: the lemon and parsley lighten things, cut the fat, keep the bite awake instead of letting it close heavy. The dark ossobuco jus around does the opposite, brings it back down, deep and long.

There's something I like, in here. The supplì is Roman, it's the street food of Rome, and Pezzetta is Roman. But he filled it with ossobuco, which is Milan, the city where he's just opened. It's a dish that holds together where he comes from and where he is now, without saying it, just by putting it in the filling.

And then there's the fry. A fry with no grease seems a detail of nothing, and instead it's the hardest thing there is. It means oil at the exact temperature, exact timing, no shortcuts. Most fried street food is remembered by the mark it leaves, on the fingers, on the napkin, in the stomach. Not this one. I finish it and nothing is left, only the flavour. Pazzesco, crazy, is the word that came out on the spot, and I'm keeping it.