There are no chianti bottles here, but if there were, they would be broken, deliberately, just so. There are definitely no checkered tablecloths, but if there were, they would be artificially stained. We are dealing with a new order here, for new citizens of a new world, with inverted notions of trash and taste.
Perhaps the neighborhood has influenced the décor. Once a truck paddock, the area is now a spooky center of high-tech shenanigans. Bustling by day, it’s echoing and empty at night, as if neutron bombs fell at five. The buildings have been saved, but for whom? Or what? For little liberated animalcules crawling from their agar? It gives us the creeps, or the willies, or the creeps and the willies, and we’re man enough to admit it.
Ah, but here’s the surprise: despite the ridiculous interior and bleak neighborhood, we’ll be back again and again. Why? Certainly not because we were charmed by our waiter, a cheeky pup, presumptuously familiar, who clung to the obsolete stereotype of the Italian Lothario and seemed to be laboring under the impression that the name of the place is the motto of the staff. No, we’ll be back for the food, the glorious, glorious food. When food is this good it can be all an evening needs to be great. It can make the most pompous and tedious companions tolerable, can even make them seem clever, amusing, charming — well, almost. The food here is of that transcendent quality, from the crusty, chewy, twisted loaves of peasant bread to the tart sphere of lemon ice that comes unbidden but oh-so-welcome as an accompaniment to one’s espresso. Most of the dishes are interpretations of Italian classics, which is to say that they have been altered at the whim of the chef. Constant readers will know how wary we are of these chefs’ whims — often they mean that the “chef swims” in water over his head and, too often, drowns. But not here. The substitution of goose liver for chicken in an otherwise conventional ràgu Bolognese produces a richness of flavor and aroma so sensual it nearly makes us blush. The surprising bite of the chicken filling in the tortellini comes, we learned after persistent probing, not from the cayenne we had expected, but from the Chinese hot oil, làyóu. And oh-oh-oh those supplì al telèfono! We figure that a half hour a day on the rowing machine will allow us to eat these lusciously gooey mozzarella-filled risotto balls once a month. Scusi — time to row.
— BWB
Dolce Far Niente
13 Bascomb Street, 555-3993.
American Express, Diners Club, Visa, MasterCard. No checks.
Handicapped: easy access.
Parents: leave the kids at home; this is a post-stereotype restaurant.
Dinner 6–1 Tuesday–Sunday.
Reservations required.
[to be continued]
Have you missed an episode or two or several?
You can begin reading at the beginning or you can catch up by visiting the archive or consulting the index to the Topical Guide.
You can listen to the episodes on the Personal History podcast. Begin at the beginning or scroll through the episodes to find what you’ve missed.
You can listen to “My Mother Takes a Tumble” and “Do Clams Bite?” complete and uninterrupted as audiobooks through YouTube.
You can ensure that you never miss a future issue by getting a free subscription. (You can help support the work by choosing a paid subscription instead.)
At Apple Books you can download free eBooks of Little Follies and Herb ’n’ Lorna.
You’ll find overviews of the entire work in An Introduction to The Personal History, Adventures, Experiences & Observations of Peter Leroy (a pdf document) and at Encyclopedia.com.
🎧 481: There are no . . .