Casa Rugantino

The signs, we admit, were promising. We had heard of others dining at Casa Rugantino. We had heard that it was ridiculously small, and had been in business for nearly three decades at the same spot in Belmont village. And we were determined to try it, and did so at the next luncheon opportunity.

Our party was three, and we hesitated at the doorway, with all the tables full except for the large table, set for six, in the middle of the tiny room; but this was littered with "Reserved" signs. We made our enquiries, and the hostess grunted in an encouraging, we supposed, way, whisked the multitude of Reserved signs and place settings from the table, and disappeared. We took this as an indication that we might be seated, and were rewarded for our initiative, eventually, with menus.

Now, we do wish to make it clear that we understand the difficulty of preparing a luncheon menu. The proprietor must find sufficient variation and interest, and yet limit the extent, preparation time, and price of the meals on the card. If the menu should fall down on any of these scores, it is a failure.

Let us say that Casa Rugantino was a success in one matter: the preparation time. Most of our party's meals were delivered hot, and with some speed, though one of the three meals was a good five minutes behind the others.

We personally sampled the lasagna. It was served in a round vessel similar to a French tart pan; it was covered in mozzarella cheese, and sauce was bubbling up the sides of the pasta with great energy. One companion ordered the grilled chicken on salad, and the other spaghetti and meat balls.

The lasagna was thin and rather loose, but was hot and reasonably tasty. We know not what possessed the chef to put slices of ham in the lasagna; while we admit that the effect was not unpleasant, we will not be soon emulating the practice in our own kitchen.

The spaghetti and meat balls were uninspiring. We wonder why an Italian eaterie would ever descend to using pre-made sauce, as Casa Rugantino almost certainly does (and if it doesn't, they would be well advised to use a lighter hand with the sugar).

While the food was passable, the service was not. We seemed to lose sight of the server whenever we lacked something; there was the staggered delivery of the three meals; the manner of service was brusque at best; and not only the server, but also the cook had prolonged and very loud conversations with other, more familiar diners, and in the tiny space, their voices were amplified to the point where we could not converse easily at our own table.

We realise that we had only a limited lunch menu before us, and visited on a busy Friday noonhour. But we cannot think of a single quality of the restaurant that would bring us back, and can think of several deficiencies that would forbid our return.

We are happy to report that the vaunted Vincenzo's across the street was not too busy when we went there to acquire some decent food. When Vincenzo's moves downtown, we wonder, what reason will remain to visit Belmont Village at all?

Ristorante Da Vinci

We are often required to travel on business; every now and then, we arrive at such a pleasant city as Montreal that we are almost willing to accept the inconvenience and homesickness whilst on the road. This visit in particular, while marred by sour weather and difficult business proceedings, included a visit to an unexpected gem in the downtown.

We walked with a companion about the downtown area, looking for reasonable casual fare; snow was falling, and the ale-houses were filled with revellers celebrating the birthday of a famous Irish snake-wrangler, or barkeeper, or some such event. Our hopes were failing, and we were discussing returning to our lodgings and ordering room service, when we happened upon Ristorante da Vinci on Rue Bishop.

We were surprised to find a coat-check girl in attendence, as well as two or three maitres d' (is that "maitres des"? it need not be said that our visit was mainly to the West Island, we suppose). Indeed, the staff seemed to outnumber the customers, although those were uncountable in the irregularly-divided dining room.

We were seated at a rather inaccessible table, made so by a large party of children and adults who were there in anticipation of an upcoming hockeying-contest at the local rink. (Although we are students of all areas of human endeavour, we confess that sport spectation is one that does not particularly occupy us.) The table was loud, and not ideal dining-neighbours, but we endured.

The menu was pleasantly varied, although a number of standard entries were in attendance. We were almost concerned that we would have nothing new to report from this visit, after our recent (and celebrated) visit to La Fenice. How wrong we were!

We began with a small number of strips of flatbread, coated with tomato sauce and olive oil, and toasted lightly. While these were rather good, we spent a certain part of our lives in Hamilton, Ontario, where a certain bakery serves a concoction known throughout the city as Roma pizza; we have therefore a great familiarity with oily, tomato-covered flatbreads. But the bright tomato and pleasing crunchy and chewy texture put us into a positive mood.

Our companion and we split an appetizer of Carpaccio di Salmone Marinato con Capriccosa; three smallish strips of salmon were delivered, marinated in the manner of ceviche, with a pleasantly fresh and crunchy salad of vegetables. A creamy but rather underflavoured dressing was drizzled overtop along with a measure or two of olive oil. Not terrible, we concurred, but perhaps not quite worth the asking price.

Then the rest. Our companion sampled Gnocchi di Ricotta Alla Da Vinci; these velvety dumplings were certainly hand-made, and were served in a perfectly-balanced tomato sauce with Sicilian olives, and pancetta. It was an extremely competent effort, and anywhere that handmade gnocchi are available, they are to be appreciated.

We, however, chose the Osso Buco di Latte con Risottino di Parmagiano. We were quite hungry after our long day, and felt quite ready for a hearty repast. We were heartened when the waiter presented a tea-spoon for the bone marrow; we were very pleased when an extremely generous portion of veal shank arrived on a bed of risotto.

We have spoken at length of risotto in the past; our heritage draws us to it, yet our intellect (and many well-wishers) warn us to stay away from the risotti typically presented in restaurants. We know that they are right; it is among our few character flaws that we refuse to obey.

We plucked the large weed growing out of the shank-bone and laid it on the side-plate. We examined the risotto, and found an area unmixed with the veal sauce. We took a few grains with the fork. We tasted.

We were suddenly six years old, in our grandparents' dining-room, with the entire extended family, at lunchtime on Christmas day. The chef could not have duplicated nona's risotto more closely. The grains were tender, but whole and firm; the broth was creamy but not sticky; the rice was a soup, not a pudding. This was risotto. This, we repeat, was risotto.

The veal was lovely. The sauce met it well, a light ragout of onion and tomato accented with a little orange peel. The marrow we duly scooped out and ate on crostini. But the risotto...

We enjoyed our after-dinner coffee but were too full for any manner of dolci. We paid. We left. But we will remember that risotto for some time. And the next time we visit Montreal, we believe we will return.

A Mandarin Restaurant

While we are fortunate enough to have a wide array of ethnicities in our family tree, all of our cherished Asian relatives happen to be from the south. Outside of Canton and Hong Kong, we are sadly bereft of Chinese home cooking (though, we admit, we find it very difficult to tire of our relatives' black bean salmon, won ton soup, and other delectables).

Thus it was with great relish that we accepted an invitation to dine with friends at what we imagined was a new northern Chinese eaterie. We hope to keep a most open-minded palate, and we know that that is earned through testing one's limits with excesses of flavour intensities. A bite of flashing-hot Xi'an-style food seemed just the thing to catapult us into the warm spring weather. Or would it recall the imperial kitchens of Beijing? Or even Manchurian hot-pot? Our acquaintances were unable to answer our queries, and with great anticipation we met with them for our designated lunch.

Imagine our surprise, then, when we entered the impressively large dining hall -- or somewhat small airplane hangar, perhaps -- to find a buffet-style meal extending far into the distance. We were seated with alacrity, as our companions wisely chose an early hour for lunch; enthusiastic wait staff immediately brought water and took drink orders (though my pleas for oolong or bo lei tea went, sadly, unfulfilled).

To the buffet. We allowed our companions, who, we learned, had visited similar "Mandarin" outlets in the past, to lead the way, and they marched right up to the hot table. This was a blessing, we later learned, when we espied such items on the cold table as "tuna salad" and "wilting romaine leaves coated with salad cream"; meanwhile, apparently without any sense of irony whatsoever, "Boston Clam Chowder" was offered among the soup selections. Hot and sour soup was in attendance, but we broke with our typical pattern and declined to sample it.

We believe it to be most instructive to give a cross-section of the buffet items; thus we offer this list.

• Beef ho fun. These broad rice noodles, stir-fried with a simple soy-based sauce with bean sprouts, onions, and slices of beef are a longtime favourite of the Droll household, and we were surprised to find that they were competently cooked, and were not, as we expected, greasy or soggy, and the beef was tender. However, their flavour was somewhat tepid.


• Peking Style Pork. Here, we thought, we were for it: authentic Beijing-style work. But to our surprise, the pork appeared to be dipped in some sort of childrens' confection, a reddish caramel, we suspect, not far from the coating on a candy apple. We would have enjoyed it, perhaps, if the strips of pork had not been cut solely from the part of the belly with the greatest amount of gristle per pound.


• Lemon chicken. We have a dear aunt in another part of the province who, while she runs an Americanized Chinese restaurant to complement the palate of her local patrons, makes a delicious lemon chicken: pan-fried, lightly breaded chicken breast cutlets, with the tartness of fresh lemon juice accenting the sweet, thick lemon sauce. We will think of our aunt for a while, in the hopes that the memories of Mandarin lemon chicken fade away.


• Breaded shrimp. We fail to see how farm-raised, factory-breaded shrimp, in a soggy coating, with no marine flavour or texture to speak of, belong on any buffet on earth, much less a Chinese one.


• Sushi. We were surprised, as we progressed along the buffet, to find a cold case containing eight or so varieties of maki sushi; we were unaware of any Japanese provinces in China. Upon closer inspection, however, we found that these were in fact not maki at all, but rice and nori seaweed rolled around such apparent leftovers as teriyaki chicken and ("Hawaiian") ham. It is impressive that these cooked foodstuffs in maki inspired more fear and revulsion than, for example, unyaku.


• Barbecue pork. This was sliced to order at the counter where one might also sample that staple of the Chinese table: roast beef with mashed potatoes and gravy. We accepted a small slice of dried-out pork, and regretted it.


• Singapore noodles. Curry powder, vermicelli, and overcooked shrimp do not say Singapore; they say beware. We concur.


• Green beans. Stir-fried in chopped garlic, these were cooked rather nicely -- crisp but not raw -- and tasted of vegetable, rather than salt, sugar, and MSG. However, their presentation was unattractive; they were positively wizened, and we hesitated to sample them.


• Chicken wings. We are not certain where these came from, but we assume they were meant to be delivered to nearby Moose Winooski's and arrived at the Mandarin by mistake. Such an error would also explain why they were fried without seasoning of any kind.

We would be remiss if we failed to mention the service. The maitre d' in the section we occupied, Kent, was enthusiastic, polite, and charming. He ensured that plates were cleared immediately (but not too quickly); that water, napkins, and utensils were supplied without request and without delay. Few servers seem able to muster the energy required for the (admittedly difficult and thankless) job.

One other surprise -- and this, we have learned, is a well-known hallmark of the Mandarin experience -- was the hot, damp, lemon-scented towel offered at the end of the meal. While refreshing, we experienced strange feelings of having awoken in economy class as the plane began descending: refreshing, but far from satisfying.

As Americanized Chinese buffets go, the Mandarin is difficult to gauge -- the food quality is not remarkably bad, but the price is remarkably high. We suggest patronizing one's local Chinese outlet when the desire presents itself, and saving one's pennies for a trip across the ocean for the real thing. Hot, moist towel included.

La Fenice

At times, even the best of us must suppress our more rational urges and visit Toronto. And, with the better part of our faculties stifled, we might find ourselves agreeing to meet dear friends in the most unsavoury, dangerous, and ill-mannered parts of the city, where strange and unpleasant persons, dressed in the most decadent manner, ply the most abominable trades. We are talking, if it need be said, about the theatre district.

And so we were seated in La Fenice, an Italian eaterie in King Street's restaurant tenement. The food was quite passable, and the service was -- if we may say so -- eccellente.

Our reservation was for a party of six, but soon after arriving, we learned that our number would be reduced to four. The waiters, who had kept us a large, comfortable table in the front window, immediately bustled about to reduce the settings at the table -- but let us keep the roomy table with, as far as King Street affords, the view.

This was typical of the service there. Three or four gentlemen, all with forte Italian accents, were ceaselessly attentive and polite. More on the service anon.

We opted for a family-style approach, ordering three antipasti and three primi. The appetizers were priced at $11.50 and the pastas were $15.50 to $18.50. There was a decent wine selection, and a companion ordered the house Chianti, which at $33 may have been the best value on the list.

The antipasti were all quite good:

Daily antipasto platter: A selection of meats and cheeses (ahem). This was a daily special, and included coppacola, prosciutto, a couple of salame, a small portion of parmagiano, and some pickled vegetables. All were quite good, but we did not realise until later that the cheeses promised with the plate were almost entirely absent.

Carpaccio all' emiliana: Obviously prepared with some knowledge and care, six large slices of cold, raw beef were presented on a large platter, drizzled with olive oil, sprinkled with capers, and draped with long shavings of parmagiano. We found, however, that the chef rather missed the point of carpaccio, which, we hazard to guess, is to serve the beef such that its bright, lively flavour can be enjoyed in its naked form as it almost dissolves on the tongue. Perhaps Emilian is a sous-chef with slightly too much enthusiasm who manned the oil-jar; perhaps he is the chef, from a province where food that does not glisten is not worthy of the table. We care not to speculate. The result, however, was a carpaccio with a flavour sadly masked by oil, salt, and brine. Not inedible, mind you, but a missed opportunity.

Zuppa di cozze del golfo: Steamed in a light and tasty tomato and broth sauce, these mussels were in good season -- meaty, tender, flavourful. There were two or three pounds of them, too, and when our party seemed unable to finish the last handful, a waiter, without prompting, divided them among the diners. Then, instead of taking the dish away, he spooned the sauce onto our plates and produced more bread with which to sop it up. More on this in a moment.

The pasta, too, were quite competent:

Gnocchi al filetto di pomodori: Tomato sauce is best when it harnesses the fresh, clean sweetness and fruitiness of the tomato -- not cooked so long that it becomes a heavy, somber ragout, but not cooked with such abandon that its youthful stridency and acidity remains. It is a tightrope. La Fenice's chef walked it with ease, dressing the gnocchi with a light and bright sauce that pleased both the eye and the palate. If the gnocchi were made that day, in that kitchen, it was an accident, but quality gnocchi remains a rare dream, often unfulfilled; a good tomato sauce is well within the reach of any kitchen, but is always satisfying when it is encountered.

Agnolotti al gorgonzola e salvia: We find gorgonzola to be one of the prettiest mysteries of the curd; at its best, creamy, sharp, sweet, tangy flavours meld into a serene and paradoxical delight. Thus it was with some happiness that we found our faith in the kitchen rewarded with fresh, well-cooked pasta and even-handed cheese in a light, creamy tomato sauce. We would have appreciated a slightly larger portion, perhaps, but we could not take issue with any part of the dish.

Risotto mare: Our disappointments with restaurant risotto are many. We advised against it, in fact; the table seemed inclined, however, and we relented to preserve the bonhomie. We are pleased with the outcome. The rice: al dente. The flavour: sweetness of seafood and earthiness of broth and rice. The result: a competent, pleasurable risotto, made with understanding and care. Such a feat should be neither newsworthy nor praiseworthy; we have been known to whip up a midnight risotto when the feeling overcomes us, with more success than most restaurants. Yet we must give due credit to the sure hand wielding the wooden spoon that produced this fine dish.

A note on service.

Restaurants are not -- cannot and should not be -- our home. We desire neither familial familiarity nor fleeting friendship from our servers; we want only professional respect and due regard, for which we exchange healthy tips and repeated visits. It is thus remarkable how often we encounter rudeness, indifference, neglect, and incompetence from servers, when we only want to be pleased.

La Fenice has solved the conundrum by employing pleasant, attentive gentlemen of middle years, with a respect for and knowledge of the food they serve. They serve their customers well because they identify so readily with them; they make their customers comfortable because they are so comfortable serving them.

We wonder whether restaurants realise that the gain is short in term when they hire cheap, young, attractive servers instead of mature, professional, competent servers. We would be last to tell a restaurateur his business, or his art; but if a server and his establishment present food as it is meant to be presented, and clearly understand how food is meant to be enjoyed -- not as art or artefact, but as something tangible and bodily -- we can overlook almost any number of missteps, whether in the kitchen or the dining room.

We thus assure La Fenice that, while their food is not perfect, it is good enough; and while they may be in the theatre district, we will be happy if we may visit them again soon.

Hannah's Bella Bistro: Lunch

When friends arrive from out of town, and express a wish to discuss varied matters over lunch, we are more than willing to accommodate them. When they indicate their desire to meet at their favourite local eaterie, we agree without reservation. When their favourite eaterie is one that we had heard of often but, for unspecific reasons, had never visited, we agree with all enthusiasm. And when said eaterie is sadly disappointing in execution -- well, we find ourselves at Hannah's Bella Bistro.

In selecting the day's lunch special, we must admit to having, along with a certain military gentleman of some repute, an affinity for the smaller chicken limbs. Thus when the server offered chicken wings with creamy cole slaw, we agreed wholeheartedly, and with every hope of satisfaction.

The meal arrived with an air of promise. The wings were large, and had an attractive (though rather dark) breading. The first bite was quite pleasant, with the wings being exceedingly hot inside and cooked perfectly.

However, as we progressed through the handful of wings on the plate, we noted a certain slowing in our pace. We soon realised that the problem was the coating; it was far too thick, and quite heavily salted and seasoned (with dried herbs and granulated garlic, as far as we could discern). We were, in the end, glad to be done with the wings -- vaguely victorious, though, rather than satiated.

Whatever positive feelings towards the wings that remained, we could not muster the same gusto for the cole slaw. The dressing was mucilagenous, rather than creamy; the vegetables were thick and chewy, rather than bright and crisp; we declined to finish the salad after a first, hopeful bite and a second, less enthusiastic forkful for confirmation.

A companion, it surprises us to say, fared yet worse in the meal. Our friend reported a shrimp risotto that was sadly lacking in the seafood (with only two shrimp adorning the rice, and those shrimp not exceptional in dimensions) and, worse, in flavour (with neither salt nor waiter available to improve it). Upon asked to sample it, we complied, as we rarely pass up risotto at all; we found, though, that our string of luck continued, that luck, of course being ill. The risotto was undercooked.

Let us say, as a sidenote, that our experience with risotto is extensive. We stirred our nona's pot in our days in short pants. We know intricately the arborio grain. When we say al dente, it is with great reverence. And we know, first and foremost, that al dente refers to a pleasant firmness; it does not refer to a gruesome, chalky texture of half-cooked starch. We do not accept it. We resolve, hereafter, to either avoid risotto in restaurants, or to angrily sling it back kitchenwards with some pepper'd words of our own.

Thus it was. The service was cheerful, though amateurish; the environs were energetic and pleasant, though a little loud. But we cannot with any confidence recommend Hannah's from this visit. Still, we are nothing if not optimistic, and may yet visit again.