Lecosho

Lecosho is so goddamned awesome, Jesus Christ obviously came back from the dead to eat there. Unfortunately, Jesus's timing sucks because he came back from the dead a couple thousand years too early to eat at Lecosho, which sucks for him and all the zillions of people who died without eating there. Almost as motherfucking awesome as Lecosho is the fact that Word’s spell check software recognizes “motherfucking” but not “Lecosho.” That’s progress.

The handmade spaetzle ($6) was tasty. This price got you a big bowl filled with shitloads of chewy pasta squiggles, the golden- brown ringlets mounded up, like a careless toss of a pretty girl’s head on a summer day. This cascade was topped with a gossamer pile of microplaned romano, like cheesy dandruff on Goldilocks’ scalp.

$6 also got us a bowl of balsamic lentils with potatoes. The French puy lentils, heaped up like gleaming emeralds in a long- lost undersea treasure chest, were perfectly cooked. The eponymous balsamic vinegar kept a respectful distance; with each bite the vinegar made itself known without yelling “IT’S ME, MOTHERFUCKING BALSAMIC VINEGAR BITCHES” at the top of its vinegary lungs. Atop this savory pile were three medallions of grilled potato, seared a pleasing burnt sienna outside, soft and pillowy inside.

Grilled polenta was, at $6, similarly priced and also similarly as awesome. Three scalene triangles of polenta, sides perfectly straight as though cut by industrial machinery, were crusty outside yet as fluffy and silken as a cloud of pussies within. They were lightly salted and graced, like the spaetzle, with another microplaned drift of romano.

Housemade sausage with roasted cabbage and apple slaw ($10) was okay. The sausage itself was so fucking good, I’m totally gay for this sausage: when cut into, this juicy glans of pork sausage ejaculated a lurid gout of juice all over the plate. The meat was delicately seasoned, and very finely ground into a perfect sausage. Sadly, there was only one of these awesome homoerotic sausages for the huge- ass bowl of cabbage. The roasted cabbage and apple slaw was great: crisp, sweet, maybe a bit too tart, and did not at all smell even the slightest bit flatulent, as cabbage sometimes can. A dressing of housemade mustard came close to overwhelming the slaw, but those canny Lecosho assholes stepped right back from the brink, and so it tasted (mostly) balanced.

Spicy coppa salad ($9) was the only thing I’d consider a misstep. Arugla, pickled beets, and a couple blobs of goat cheese were piled atop a couple thin slices of coppa. Like a bitchy Republican from a Podunk congressional district, these beets screamed red- faced at full volume, dominating the proceedings. The goat cheese, obviously designed to buffer the beet’s tirade, proved ineffective at quelling the uproar. Unlike the balsamic vinegar in the aforementioned lentils and potatoes, the pickled beets didn’t have the good sense to back the fuck off. The spiciness of the coppa only added fuel to the fire, intensifying the bitchy flavor. Each bite of this salad was like licking a brass doorknob with lightning bolts shooting out of it. The arugula was fresh, at least.

Cavatelli ($15), on the other hand, managed to be spicy without losing its cool (just like me). This price got us a big bowl of cavatelli, which was supple and folded into little packets, like a magnificent pile of pasta vaginas. These labial folds were evenly painted with a rich orange tomato sauce. The sauce, like the coppa salad, had a sultry, unapologetic heat, but the creaminess of this sauce kept it from flying off the handle. Bitter skeins of braised kale twisted throughout the bowl, and the whole thing was topped with the recurring pile of finely grated cheese.

But probably the BEST FUCKING THING we ate was the porchetta. Affordably priced at $17, we got a huge meaty slab of porchetta. If you don’t know what porchetta is, allow me to explain with this fanciful meaty analogy: imagine a world made entirely of meat. The crown prince of this fleshy land is a fat kid, whose torso is made of meatloaf, his cock is a salami, and each of his legs is a whole prosciutto. His fiery, proud eyes are spicy meatballs, and instead of freckles, his nose is dotted with bacon bits. All hail King Meatyass! In his hand he holds the sacred symbol of his office, Porchetta: a pinwheel made of meat, this holy relic spins lazily in the carnivorous wind which blows across King Meatyass’s kingdom.

Maybe I went too far with that dumb fantasy. After all, how unrealistic is that? Kings don’t carry pinwheels! Duh. But that’s what porchetta is: a pinwheel made of pork. Lecosho’s porchetta was superb. A whole pork tenderloin was rolled up in pork belly like a jelly roll, then the whole thing was roasted. Sliced into cross- sections and finished in a pan, the belly was as yielding and juicy as when your girlfriend comes home drunk, and the central core of tenderloin was, after having been constantly basted by the fat of the belly, tender like a skinned knee The porchetta was perfectly seasoned, with a rind of crisp skin, and served on top of a mound of white beans and thinly sliced baby turnip. The beans were creamy, and the baby turnips, cute little while minarets, each topped with a precious green crewcut, were piquant and sweet. It doesn’t, my friends, get better than this.

We didn’t get dessert because that's for people who mourn an unrequited love and read the Twilight books. If you’re still hungry, get more porchetta.

Lecosho is badass. Unfortunately for Jesus and George Washington and Rick James and all of the other sad motherfuckers who died, they will never be able to eat at Lecosho, but I lived long enough, so fuck you, dead people.

Rating: 9.5 dead out of 10

Lecosho is located at 89 University St at the Harbor Steps

For reservations call 206-623-2101