It’s cute. It’s downtown. It has a classy-sounding name (yes, I also judge books by their covers). Once, I got so close that my hand was on the door-handle — but my date changed his mind and dragged me farther down the street.
When I walked up the stairs last week, friend in tow, I was ready. I was more than ready. I was so ready that I pulled instead of pushed and then got stuck in the small double-door entryway.
Once inside, we did the awkward shuffle of choosing who sits on the bench and who sits on the chair, and settled into the atmosphere. With exposed brick, huge windows and a warm yellow glow from the dimmed lights, it was comfortable, sophisticated and half the tables were full.
The first thing we noticed was the wine — in one corner, behind the bar, is a giant, glass-walled room full of bottles of wine.
A wannabe connoisseur, I was certain we had come to the right place.
When the waiter came around, I held off on ordering a glass, hoping I might get help finding the perfect pairing for my meal — Italian food and Italian wine are, after all, better when married.
My friend asked for help choosing a light red, and the waiter turned on one heel, as if on a mission. He came back with a tiny carafe and a large glass and poured.
“Try this,” he said, and took our order for appetizers — grilled bread ($3), since we were hungry and a basket of it hadn’t yet appeared.
She nodded her approval of the wine and he commented, “Ah, well it’s the lightest red we have, so…”
And then he walked off.
Though she didn’t know what she was drinking, it suited her taste, so she turned to the menu in search of a vegetarian-friendly meal.
Meanwhile, I was weighing my options. An adventurous eater, I always look first for things I’ve never tried. I eyed the grilled monkfish ($19), the braised quail ($17) and the crispy “St. John” rabbit ($16).
While we were deciding, our waiter came back with a basket of bread — and the grilled bread we’d ordered (which came with a delicious garlic-olive-oil spread that made it worth our having gotten it).
After some time to make up our minds, we placed our order: for her, the vegetarian cassoulet ($13) of asparagus, beets, brussel sprouts and cippolini onions over white beans; for me, the rabbit (over potato and edive salad).
Still in need of a beverage, I asked his advice for a red wine to pair with this new meat. “Hmm… I have a pinot,” he said, with a question mark.
“I like pinot,” I offered, and once again, he turned on his heel and returned with another little carafe and another big glass, poured, and walked away.
As we were whispering to ourselves about the waiter and our mystery wine (and while we heard a different waiter regaling another pair of young women with details of this and that vintage), our food came.
Hers was served on a warm skillet, vegetables piled over white beans. Included were the best brussel sprouts we’d ever tasted.
Mine was a mass of breaded meat over a salad of tiny sliced potatoes (with an amazing dressing that turned out to be a mustard vinaigrette).
But I wasn’t sure what to do with the meat.
The butter knife wasn’t going to cut it. And the place had enough class that I wasn’t going to get away with using my hands.
One piece was easier — moist, darker meat. The larger piece was dry, and might as well have been chicken.
Armed with a fork (and the polite tips of my fingers), I picked at it, trying to tell the meat from the bone under the breading. I got a few little bites and took a breather, going after the little potato-slices instead, which proved to be quite good.
I went back in for a second round of attack and came away with a few more shreds of meat.
My friend laughed as she skewered a sprig of asparagus with her fork. Her beans were filling enough that she didn’t mind slowing the pace and we finished at around the same time — her holding her belly, and me pushing away the meat-ragged bones while praying for a dessert menu.
We opted to share the Torta di Noci ($7.50) — a bourbon-walnut torte under a cinnamon spread and vanilla gelato — with the understanding that she only had room for a bite.
When it came (after a rather long wait), I couldn’t help myself, and hovered with my fork, as if fighting for every last bite. When it came down to it, I did fight for the last bite — or rather, stole it (accidentally!), leaving her fork in midair.
Laughing at the mishap, we were happy when the check came to break the tension — and to finally tell us what we’d been drinking. But all we could tell from the receipt was that hers was a barbera ($6.50), and mine Truffiere ($9).
As the hostess wished us a good night, we got trapped once again in the tiny entryway as another pair tried to get inside –– a humorously fitting end to the evening.
Perhaps I’ll go back to try that monkfish, and I’d certainly return for dessert. Maybe I’ll prod the waiter ‘til his wine brilliance comes out — while he didn’t tell us much, he picked exactly what we wanted.
— Sarah Trent