On a Wednesday at 10 pm, the
restaurant was filled with a well heeled, relatively mature crowd. Since we
hadn’t made reservations, we took a ten minute walk around the neighborhood. The
service was friendly enough, although the amount of discussion between the
waiters before putting our name down seemed more suited to an exclusive club
than a neighborhood restaurant. For our first course, we ordered ravioli
stuffed with a white fish in a fresh tomato sauce and tagliolini with anchovies,
pecorino and golden raisins. My dining companion felt that the filling of his
ravioli was a little dry, too compressed and crumbly compared to other versions
(including his mother’s, but that is to be expected). I felt my pasta was
mediocre in quality and that the flavor of the raisins was completely lost
unless you actually had one in your mouth.
We were both hoping the secondi
would be better. We were both disappointed. The radicchio torte my friend
ordered was one of the most unappetizing sights I have ever seen served in a
restaurant. It was a perfectly rounded, uniformly matte brown scoop in the
middle of a pale yellow puree, with a crowning sprig of parsley that did
nothing to redeem it. It didn’t taste as bad as it looked, but I have to admit
to a moment of embarrassment that anyone would serve something so ugly. The
texture was bizarrely mushy, and it didn’t really taste like radicchio so much
as like hazelnuts, mushrooms and earth. Not terrible, but definitely not great.
My baccala (salt cured cod) with
tomatoes and onions should have been easy to execute. I didn’t expect it to be
as good as my mother’s, but I am still struggling to understand how the chef
could have gone so wrong with a relatively simple combination of flavors. The
fish was overcooked to a slightly rubbery texture and the sauce was too sweet
and strangely gelatinous. It was also devoid of any chunks of tomato or visible
onions, which underscored the unfortunate departure from the rustic, saucy and
vibrant baccala I know and love.
Then, though we still had a quarter
bottle left of the delicious Sylvaner we were drinking, the waiter pressured us
into ordering dessert or coffee. He was obviously trying to rush us out so they
could close, which I always find rude but which was especially so considering
the three other tables still finishing their meals. To make matters worse, he
brought the coffees long before we were done with our wine! This may seem like
a petty detail, but drinking the coffee would have completely ruined our palates
for the lovely (white) wine we had left. As a consequence, our coffee was stone
cold by the time we could drink it. At a restaurant that considers itself as
highly as this one does, I expect service to be polite and alert enough to
gauge these details.
The only thing I truly enjoyed was
the Kuen Hof 2010 Sylvaner from the Sudtirol. It was crisp, with a faint aroma
of lemongrass and a lively balance of Asian pear and Alpine minerals. Imagine drinking
mountain spring water out of cupped hands after a grueling trek, savoring the
traces of stone and lingering winter on your palate. In general the wine list
was quite good and reasonable, with a wide selection of bottles for 25 euro or less
as well as more expensive options.
Trattoria Monti reminded me that it
might be better to avoid things your parents make wonderfully at home. Unfortunately
for my friend and me, that would rule out dishes ranging across cuisines from Mexico
to Japan. Instead, I will say I am eternally grateful for my mother’s wonderful
culinary skills and for the discerning palate she fostered in me. The art of cooking
(and eating) is a legacy to be passed on as thoroughly and carefully as any
more material inheritance. As one of the next generation of cooks and
epicureans in my family, I can only be thankful.
No comments:
Post a Comment