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Gran sbadiglio 2: L'incubino
Our last dinner at La Scarola was something of a bust as far as I was concerned. While Nuphy feasted, I sipped chicken broth out of deference to my troublesome tummy. When that stayed down okay, I followed it with some grilled octopus and a few bites of his risotto. No drinks, no dessert. So it's not like a revisit would've been too soon. But catching sight of Piccolo Sogno across the street aroused my curiosity, and I talked the old bugger into giving it a try.
I'm glad I did, since it means I never have to go back. And I'll appreciate our meals at its rival all the more. The food isn't bad, it just isn't good value for money. The octopus in my grilled seafood appetiser was tough, and everything tasted of little more than char. When I actually was able to make out the infused oil, I thought it lovely (despite the former presence of capers), but that really only happened on one bite. At least it had more character than the autumn gnocchi, which read well but were doughy and bland. The spinach in them lent nothing but colour. When you read "mushrooms" on a menu that offers slices of shaved truffle, you expect, I dunno, porcini? But mostly what I saw were flabby slices of baby portobello. Thanks, but we do have a neighbourhood grocery nearby. Nuphy was more successful. He praised his ravioli and enjoyed his salmon with fingerling potatoes so much he gave me a sample of each. The potato was lovely and crisp on the cut side, and the salmon, although perfectly seared, was mushy.
Service was excellent for the first hour and then abruptly dropped off. Suddenly servers, who had never been more than a nod away, became difficult to catch. Even after becoming impatient for his fish, Nuphy went ahead and ordered dessert, grappa, and a coffee with only fifteen minutes before we need to push on. As I anticipated, the chocolate cake arrived at the last possible moment, giving us hardly a chance to stuff down a few molten mouthfuls before dashing and no time to dispute the brand of grappa. (Nuphy, a partisan of Banfi, swore he'd been given the wrong stuff.) Flustered, the poor man attempted to put away his fountain pen incorrectly an suffered an explosion. They went out of their way to be accommodating--even comping a couple of items--but I wanted to tell them it was a waste of effort.
It's really a lovely space, sectioned off in such a way that doesn't impede circulation but does block sound. Despite being two deaf old men, we didn't need to raise our voices (though we did occasionally have to lean in). For some reason, the lighting was dim in the seating areas but harshly bright in the restroom and the art was uninspired but not especially cheesy. It was a healthy crowd, well dressed and well heeled, but I'll be damned what they see in the dishes to pack them in like that.
I'm glad I did, since it means I never have to go back. And I'll appreciate our meals at its rival all the more. The food isn't bad, it just isn't good value for money. The octopus in my grilled seafood appetiser was tough, and everything tasted of little more than char. When I actually was able to make out the infused oil, I thought it lovely (despite the former presence of capers), but that really only happened on one bite. At least it had more character than the autumn gnocchi, which read well but were doughy and bland. The spinach in them lent nothing but colour. When you read "mushrooms" on a menu that offers slices of shaved truffle, you expect, I dunno, porcini? But mostly what I saw were flabby slices of baby portobello. Thanks, but we do have a neighbourhood grocery nearby. Nuphy was more successful. He praised his ravioli and enjoyed his salmon with fingerling potatoes so much he gave me a sample of each. The potato was lovely and crisp on the cut side, and the salmon, although perfectly seared, was mushy.
Service was excellent for the first hour and then abruptly dropped off. Suddenly servers, who had never been more than a nod away, became difficult to catch. Even after becoming impatient for his fish, Nuphy went ahead and ordered dessert, grappa, and a coffee with only fifteen minutes before we need to push on. As I anticipated, the chocolate cake arrived at the last possible moment, giving us hardly a chance to stuff down a few molten mouthfuls before dashing and no time to dispute the brand of grappa. (Nuphy, a partisan of Banfi, swore he'd been given the wrong stuff.) Flustered, the poor man attempted to put away his fountain pen incorrectly an suffered an explosion. They went out of their way to be accommodating--even comping a couple of items--but I wanted to tell them it was a waste of effort.
It's really a lovely space, sectioned off in such a way that doesn't impede circulation but does block sound. Despite being two deaf old men, we didn't need to raise our voices (though we did occasionally have to lean in). For some reason, the lighting was dim in the seating areas but harshly bright in the restroom and the art was uninspired but not especially cheesy. It was a healthy crowd, well dressed and well heeled, but I'll be damned what they see in the dishes to pack them in like that.