Bar Exam

“W elcome to my house!” says Michele Zacco. Technically, it’s not his
house: It’s Fremont’s new Azzurri Vino Bar. But if your Sicilian friend
invited you over to watch a soccer match, it’d be a lot like this. The
pregame show with goofball Drew Carey wearing Sounders-colors
plaid is less compelling than the open door leading to the back deck.
Is it possible to have a beer outside? “Prego!”

Azzurri has only been open a few weeks, and the deck isn’t furnished
yet, but carrying chairs out is no problem. A gas grill is going,
loaded up with bell peppers; the bell peppers’ cardboard box sits on
the deck, full of empty beer and prosecco bottles covered with a
sprinkling of espresso grounds. “Sorry you have to sit with the
garbage!” says Zacco cheerfully, nudging it a few inches with his foot.
His Italian accent works like a spell: He’s not really sorry, he
doesn’t care, and neither do you. It’s nice out, the garbage doesn’t
smell, you’ve got a Peroni; this is la vita bella.

Azzurri is a neighborhood place, and so far, pretty much every
expense has been spared. (Zacco’s old house was Pontevecchio Italian
Bistro, also in Fremont; he closed it earlier this year.)
AZZURRIVINOBAR.COM is hand-painted in wavering blue letters on one
wall, and a repurposed Nantucket Nectars refrigerator hums in the
corner. Decor includes Italian soccer jerseys and scarves, a
black-and-white poster of a naked woman executing an impressive
bicycle kick, another poster depicting a sexually charged scene in
a bike shop (“A Clemént non si resiste!”), and a painting of the
Ponte Vecchio. A slightly deflated toy soccer ball sits in a corner. In
terms of the vino, there are only two kinds: If you would like a flute
of prosecco or a tumbler of Nero d’Avola, you’re in luck. The manner in
which Zacco offers it—there is no wine list—makes you feel
like you’re in luck anyway. It is the definition of charm.

The food menu is brief and, to be perfectly honest, the food is less
than stellar. A roster of panini ($6) is named after various European
soccer teams; tribute is paid to AC Milan with grilled peppers,
provolone, and remarkably tough chicken breast. Maybe it’s a Sicilian
thing: The Palermo, with mozzarella, tomato, and basil, is fine. A
gorgonzola e noci salad (also $6) has wilty baby greens,
untoasted walnut pieces, and what appears to be bottled blue-cheese
dressing. Zacco isn’t much for housekeeping, either; you can feel free
to wipe off your own table, and the floor could use a broom.

But you don’t care—you’d like another Peroni. They might be
out, but Zacco’s brother has a special stash. Zacco goes and
looks. “PERONI!” he sings triumphantly from behind the bar, and all is
right with the world.

Azzurri Vino Bar, 223 N 36th St, 547-1050