Romagna Mia
Although billed as a restaurant of exceptionally authentic Italian cuisine, and priced to provide the same illusion, we cannot recommend Romagna Mia very highly at all. One would be better served with homemade stock, supermarket rice, and attention to detail. At Romagna Mia, a love for Italian cuisine seems obscured by empty pomp and fanciful menu descriptions.
We hesitate, sometimes, to comment too severely on the service at the establishments we visit; we are too aware of the stresses of restaurateurism may place on the staff. While we cannot accept rude or indifferent service, we can reserve our judgement lest it be too harsh.
However, no description of Romagna Mia would be complete without a word or two on the waiter; if pressed, we would choose the words "complete" and "ass" as the most accurate combination. For this man had not a modicum or respect for personal space; made "jokes" overwhelmingly personal and unamusing; declined to speak clearly when pressed for simple explanations; and showed only the barest respect for the attending matriarch and patriarch in our party. We would hesitate to employ such a personage to walk our canines, much less take our orders and serve our drinks.
However, with a rarely-seen cousin the centre of our dinner-party, we chose to ignore the indiscretions of our host and worked to enjoy the foodstuffs put before us.
To start, our party (numbering six) requested a selection of antipasti. Served, thus, were two plates of prosciutto di Parma con affettati e fromaggi nostrani -- in short, prosciutto and other cheeses and cured meats -- and a plate of Gran Fritto dell'Adriatico, which included calamari, shrimp, smelt, and vegetables sliced thin and fried.
Both antipasti were surpassing in quality and variety. If we were to complain about the former, it would be the lack of variety in the fromaggi department, with only a parmesan basket (unimpressive if one has seen it accomplished before) and chunks of parmesan in attendance; and about the latter, it would be the rather unfinished tomato dipping sauce accompanying the platter.
However, the prosciutto was served perfectly, thin and moist, draped attractively over the plate, and accompanied by no fewer than five salame and cappocoli; and the gran fritto lived up to its name, each component being fried to its pinnacle of flavour and texture. We were quite pleased with the variety of flavours and textures, and were willing, for a short time, to forgive the varied transgressions of the host.
Upon the arrival of the second course, however, our previous bonhomie was forgotten. In a strange confluence of caprice, each of our party of six ordered some variety of risotto: seafood risotti; risotti in pheasant ragout with black truffle paste; and risotti with walnuts and truffle, "served in a parmesan wheel". Our sense of daring emboldened by the antipasti, we selected this last risotto for ourselves, our patriarch selecting the same.
The parmesan wheel was duly wheeled out, and a measure or two of brandy poured into it and lit aflame. The attendant, with a couple of metal spoons, moved the brandy about for a while, melting, we were given to understand, the cheese, and a pot of risotto was produced and poured into the contraption. This, too, was moved about and then served, with the attendant hovering over to shave truffle -- white truffle, we noted, not the black truffle promised on the menu -- atop.
As it was served, we noted, with some surprise, that a long-grained species of rice had been chosen for our risotto. If the reader is unaware, we would point out that the rice varieties chosen for risotto -- whether arborio, vialone, or carnaroli -- are each short in grain. We would hesitate to correct the chef in his choice of grain, though, were it not for the fact that the rice was undercooked.
Indeed, we could forgive the truffle substitution, the overlarge pieces of walnut, even the annoyance of our host, if only the rice were cooked competently; what else, we humbly request, might one expect from a risotto?
The plate was reasonably tasty, and we finished it without comment, in deference to our visiting relative. However, we declined to order dessert, requesting only a coffee to help erase the memory of the supper-dish. And, we realised, this was the mark of a spectacularly unsuccessful meal: that the diner would sooner forget the just-completed meal than remember it. We were chagrined.
Not so our host. A few bons mots; a little inappropriate commentary; we were well-prepared to retrieve our coats. Romagna Mia, you will not be visited again, unless we are invited; and then, it will be, at best, the prosciutto to which we look forward. We are afraid that anything not arriving ready to serve will suffer a similar fate: prepared by incompetents, and served by idiots. We suspect that less flaming liquor, and more attention to quality and accuracy, would make for a far more passable meal, in every respect.
We hesitate, sometimes, to comment too severely on the service at the establishments we visit; we are too aware of the stresses of restaurateurism may place on the staff. While we cannot accept rude or indifferent service, we can reserve our judgement lest it be too harsh.
However, no description of Romagna Mia would be complete without a word or two on the waiter; if pressed, we would choose the words "complete" and "ass" as the most accurate combination. For this man had not a modicum or respect for personal space; made "jokes" overwhelmingly personal and unamusing; declined to speak clearly when pressed for simple explanations; and showed only the barest respect for the attending matriarch and patriarch in our party. We would hesitate to employ such a personage to walk our canines, much less take our orders and serve our drinks.
However, with a rarely-seen cousin the centre of our dinner-party, we chose to ignore the indiscretions of our host and worked to enjoy the foodstuffs put before us.
To start, our party (numbering six) requested a selection of antipasti. Served, thus, were two plates of prosciutto di Parma con affettati e fromaggi nostrani -- in short, prosciutto and other cheeses and cured meats -- and a plate of Gran Fritto dell'Adriatico, which included calamari, shrimp, smelt, and vegetables sliced thin and fried.
Both antipasti were surpassing in quality and variety. If we were to complain about the former, it would be the lack of variety in the fromaggi department, with only a parmesan basket (unimpressive if one has seen it accomplished before) and chunks of parmesan in attendance; and about the latter, it would be the rather unfinished tomato dipping sauce accompanying the platter.
However, the prosciutto was served perfectly, thin and moist, draped attractively over the plate, and accompanied by no fewer than five salame and cappocoli; and the gran fritto lived up to its name, each component being fried to its pinnacle of flavour and texture. We were quite pleased with the variety of flavours and textures, and were willing, for a short time, to forgive the varied transgressions of the host.
Upon the arrival of the second course, however, our previous bonhomie was forgotten. In a strange confluence of caprice, each of our party of six ordered some variety of risotto: seafood risotti; risotti in pheasant ragout with black truffle paste; and risotti with walnuts and truffle, "served in a parmesan wheel". Our sense of daring emboldened by the antipasti, we selected this last risotto for ourselves, our patriarch selecting the same.
The parmesan wheel was duly wheeled out, and a measure or two of brandy poured into it and lit aflame. The attendant, with a couple of metal spoons, moved the brandy about for a while, melting, we were given to understand, the cheese, and a pot of risotto was produced and poured into the contraption. This, too, was moved about and then served, with the attendant hovering over to shave truffle -- white truffle, we noted, not the black truffle promised on the menu -- atop.
As it was served, we noted, with some surprise, that a long-grained species of rice had been chosen for our risotto. If the reader is unaware, we would point out that the rice varieties chosen for risotto -- whether arborio, vialone, or carnaroli -- are each short in grain. We would hesitate to correct the chef in his choice of grain, though, were it not for the fact that the rice was undercooked.
Indeed, we could forgive the truffle substitution, the overlarge pieces of walnut, even the annoyance of our host, if only the rice were cooked competently; what else, we humbly request, might one expect from a risotto?
The plate was reasonably tasty, and we finished it without comment, in deference to our visiting relative. However, we declined to order dessert, requesting only a coffee to help erase the memory of the supper-dish. And, we realised, this was the mark of a spectacularly unsuccessful meal: that the diner would sooner forget the just-completed meal than remember it. We were chagrined.
Not so our host. A few bons mots; a little inappropriate commentary; we were well-prepared to retrieve our coats. Romagna Mia, you will not be visited again, unless we are invited; and then, it will be, at best, the prosciutto to which we look forward. We are afraid that anything not arriving ready to serve will suffer a similar fate: prepared by incompetents, and served by idiots. We suspect that less flaming liquor, and more attention to quality and accuracy, would make for a far more passable meal, in every respect.
posted by the Droll Bastard at 1:00 a.m.
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