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.