adj: full of details, esp. in excess.
This past weekend my boyfriend and I treated ourselves to dinner at Le Virtu, a slightly schmancy Italian restaurant just moments away from his house in South Philly. The weather was gorgeous, I had just spent the day walking all over the city, and I was super jazzed about having a fine, homemade Italian feast. But, alas, the feast, it was not fine.
To begin, my patient boyfriend had arrived before me, and had secured a table in the far back of the dining room, right next to the tiny kitchen. After I arrived, ready to be treated to The Best Meal of My Life, we sat, unattended by anyone, for a solid 5 minutes. Harumph. Perhaps I should say now that I was once a waitress at a rather spectacular casual/fine dining Italian restaurant in New York City. Perhaps I should say that at this particular restaurant, which was easily four times the size of Le Virtu, with a wine list that could eat LV’s wine list for breakfast, the waitstaff was taught three super-important things: 1) make everyone feel special, 2) know the menus inside out and backwards, and 3) leave your psycho-drama at the door. I suppose my experience at Becco left me to expect certain things from other casual/fine dining establishments. Like a waiter, for instance. When ours finally showed up and asked if we were ready to order wine, he was scowling. Bored, perhaps, or annoyed by his role in life. Scowling waiter, strike 1. I ordered a bottle of white that I had selected during our 5 solid minutes of not being waited on. No sooner did I finish saying “we’d like the Trentino de blah blah,” Mr. Scowlypants asked for the number of the wine because he didn’t know the names. Gah. Fine, I gave him the number, they didn’ t have the bottle in stock. He leaned in to look at the wine list and make another suggestion, and selected the most expensive bottle of white on the page. Cheeky. I already had a second choice bottle in mind and ordered that instead.
Moving on to the appetizers. My boyfriend had tried the Scrippelle M’Busse soup at LV before and was anxious to order it again, so to offset the comfort-foody-ness of the chicken soup I ordered the antipasto misto plate. After we placed our orders a backwaiter (who smelled *exactly* like my high school prom date and made me giggle every time he walked by and I got a whiff) delivered complementary fried bread to the table. Two pieces plain, two puffs with mozzarella and thyme inside. Delicious. Within seconds he was back (I giggled) to deliver the soup and misto plate, which had about 10 yummy-looking, but somewhat un-recognizeable items on it. I asked for an explanation and was given one, but tsk tsk for LV not having their waitstaff explain the mystery food to guests when presenting the platter. Strike 2.
The appetizers were, I have to say, sublime. The misto had a nice assortment of goodies (though I wouldn’t have minded more cheese in addition to the one lonely piece of seasoned mozz on the plate) and the soup was indescribably awesome. Quite possibly the best soup I’ve ever eaten, actually. I wish I had stopped there and left with a glowing impression of LV’s food (I was just about full by then, anyway) instead of waiting for the entrees. My boyfriend had the Linguine Al Cartoccio, a “dry” (not freshly-made) pasta with calamari, clams, mussels and shrimp. It was brought to the table wrapped beautifully in a parchment paper coccoon, but the delicate food was ruined by heavy-handed seasoning and overcooked shrimp. My potato gnocchi in a tomato basil sauce smelled and tasted remarkably like Chef Boyardee. Completely forgettable. Steeeeer-ike 3.
In hopes of ending the evening on a high note, we ordered dessert. LV has panna cotta, an Italian custard, on their menu (minus half a strike for that) and it arrived drizzled with strawberry puree and homemade whipped cream. The whipped cream was superb, rich and vanilla-y. The panna cotta, sadly, was not. My boyfriend liked the mellow (ahem, flavorless)-ness of it, but I found it offensive. Oh well. As we were heading back home, my boyfriend pointed out that, for all its flaws, Le Virtu is still better than any other Italian restaurant in Philly. Can this be true? I think not. But I’m deterimined to find out. Suggestions, anyone?
