Two of the most beautiful bites I’ve had in months both came in the past week, both thanks to one very talented—and underused—chef. Andrea Mastrandrea runs the tiny kitchen at B Espresso Bar, the superb Italian coffee shop and lunch counter Toronto Life shares a building with. The kitchen wasn’t designed for serious cooking—with two electric burners and no proper ventilation, it’s better suited to spinning out microwave burritos than the delicious, honest pastas, braised porchetta sandwiches and humble (in a noble way) root-vegetable salads Mastrandrea makes most days.

I’m still trying to persuade the shop’s affable owner, Bruno Colozza, that he’s wasting his chef’s talents, as the caffè doesn’t serve dinner except on rare special occasions.

Meantime, Mastrandrea grabs me every now and then when I’m on a coffee run, usually to have me taste a sauce or a new ingredient. Last week, he gave me a box of zeppole, a seasonal pastry (traditionally served on the Feast of St. Joseph) his brother Nicola makes at the family’s bakery north of the city (Aida’s Pine Valley Bakery, 830 Rowntree Dairy Rd., Woodbridge, 905-851-8642).

One of my food encyclopedias calls zeppole, “an Italian doughnut, chewier, fluffier and a lot greasier than the North American kind,” which, judging from the pastry Mastrandrea gave me, is kind of like calling gnocchi “Italian Kraft Dinner.” These “doughnuts”—tender-crisp, greaseless and flavourful, piped with cumulus-like semolina cream that’s fortified with amarena cherries—are divine, the perfect marriage of rich and light, savoury and sweet. They’re nearly good enough to have me bowing to the saint in prayer. Nicola says the shop will sell zeppole until Easter, for $2.40 each. And then they’re gone until next March.

The other thing Mastrandrea had me sample wasn’t quite so laden with symbolism, but I think it might be the most beautiful soft cheese ever. He brought out a little package of ricotta di bufala—imported buffalo ricotta—some of the creamiest, freshest, most exquisitely balanced stuff I’ve tried. He smeared a generous dollop of it onto a piece of baguette, then topped it with a daub of fig conserves. “Try,” he said. All told, I think I tried five or six times. I could hardly bring myself to stop asking for more. It’s made by Campania Felix and costs $9.50 for 250 grams—not much more than industrial cream cheese—at Grande Cheese Co. (9737 Yonge St., Richmond Hill, 905-883-3539, plus four other locations). As it’s fresh and perishable, best to call ahead to confirm they have it in stock.

The marketing people at Danone, the yogurt concern, are atwitter about the company’s new “all-natural” yogurt line. Which is a bit rich, considering some of the other products they’ve managed to find a market for in my local No Frills’ dairy aisle.

Danone, after all, brought the world Activia, a yogurt whose chief appeal—aside from being full of artificial flavours, gelatin (I hope it’s derived from real hooves) and modified corn product—I gather, is to give us all regular bowel movements. Danone is also responsible for Cardivia, an omega-3 "enriched" product—i.e., goosed with fish products that very definitely do not belong in the dairy aisle—that’s aimed at consumers who believe eating nutraceuticals that taste and appear something like yogurt might just erase all those years of cheeseburger dinners.

And now, introducing Naturalia! The yogurt they didn’t jam full of synthetics or weird additives, or cover in dubious health claims (you can read the ingredients here). I tried it the other week. It’s very good, with a clean taste and just-creamy-enough texture, though it has nothing on the stuff from Liberté, the Quebec-based producer.

Now if only “all-natural” yogurt weren’t the exception but the rule.