The interior of Cafe Piccolo fails to make an impression nearly
completely. The exception: the Leg Lamp. The Leg Lamp stands in a
corner, its shapely fishnet stocking glowing, wearing its high-heeled
shoe and alluring fringed-lampshade skirt. If you haven’t seen A
Christmas Story, you should immediately, or the Leg Lamp at Cafe
Piccolo won’t make any sense, nor will the chortling and cries of
“YOU’LL SHOOT YOUR EYE OUT!” that come from various tables as people
spy it.
Otherwise, Cafe Piccolo’s decor just slides right out of the mind.
After having dinner there once, I could only recall some toys in a
waiting zone (no children in evidence), a vague impression of a wine
rack on one side, a midsize portal into the kitchen allowing for a
reassuring but unloud amount of kitchen clatter, the Leg Lamp, and a
very groovy orange metallic van that happened to be parked outside.
(The exterior is even more unprepossessing, if possible; Piccolo shares
the ground floor of an anonymous Maple Leaf condo building with a
dentist’s office. There’s also a dog groomer, a nail salon, and the
feeling that the whole neighborhood has taken a giant Xanax.) It’s just
a neighborhood Italian place with wall-to-wall carpeting and unbright,
flattering lighting, including the requisite glowing red candleholder
on each table.
The image that’s ingrained in my brain, in all likelihood forever,
is of a plate of Piccolo’s pasta: purpley-dark wide ribbons of
squid-ink pappardelle, looking kelplike, with pale circles and tiny
tentacle-clusters of calamari nestled among them. It had the quality of
an optical illusion about it, with the light-colored squid-squiggles
appearing to be the pasta and the noodles like a lovely nighttime
blanket of sauce. The face of my friend who ordered it had an
expression of scary glee as she lifted it toward me, saying, “SMELL
it”—then there was a waft of enticement, like the first smell of
ocean when it’s not yet in sight. And it was good, this calamari
amatriciana ($16.95), the squid achieving a difficult-to-believe
tenderness, with bits of pancetta, an utterly correct level of spicy
heat, and the taste of the squid ink actually meaningful in the
thickish, handmade noodles, a delicate doubling of the sea theme. The
friend’s face remained overjoyed while she inhaled everything but the
bowl (and the portions are not small).
What would’ve been the worst case of food envy ever recorded was
averted by the simple goodness of a selection from the old-school
mix-‘n’-match pasta-‘n’-sauce menu: a plate of fettuccine Bolognese
($14.95) with the addition of meatballs ($4.95 extra). The fettuccine,
chosen over spaghetti because it’s house-made, had a rustic, nicely
chewy substantiality. The ragu was the right color, more rich-brown
than red, with bits of carrot still intact. The meatballs, made with
organic pork and beef, were slightly rosy at their centers, with a
hand-chopped texture and the scent of fennel and fresh oregano. A dish
like this, done properly, is not a revelation; it’s merely a joy. I
wish I were eating it right now.
Cafe Piccolo has just got its heart in the right place. It’s the
first restaurant of a young married couple—he, Nick Carlino, is
also the chef. He previously worked at the Turntable incarnation of the
restaurant at EMP, Duke’s, and Dahlia Lounge. About the last, he says,
“People want you to mention something fancy,” in a way that suggests he
doesn’t give lip service a lot of credence. Piccolo espouses the
slow-food philosophy: excellent local ingredients, as much as possible
made from scratch, with love. A pretty splendid antipasto plate
($10.95) recently featured, in addition to the listed
delights—grilled artichoke hearts, roasted peppers, olives,
eggplant agro dolce, minted carrots and beets, fontina, Gorgonzola
dolce, and house-cured salami—house-made chorizo and capocollo. A
new spring salad of grilled hearts of romaine ($6.95) is lemony with a
little chili kick, punctuated with smoky-sweet candied almonds and bits
of creamy-sharp blue cheese.
A second dinner was, perhaps inevitably, a bit of a letdown. Piccolo
is the kind of place where if you had your druthers, you’d live in the
neighborhood, find your favorite dishes, and never order anything else
again. An appetizer of seafood bruschetta ($10.95) featured squid (as
in the pasta dish, of an unparalleled, almost liquidy texture),
scallops, and shrimp, with visible bits of garlic but a too-restrained
flavor (salt and pepper helped). A special that night was big
triangular ravioli filled with Dungeness crab and ricotta ($16.95),
bathing in an English pea broth; the thick pasta, while subtly flavored
with lemon and mint, was heavy against the fluffy filling. Chicken
saltimbocca ($15.95) featured Rosie’s organic chicken breast with
house-cured pancetta, baby artichokes, asparagus tips, polenta like
melted butter, and a sage sauce: very fine indeed. None of it could
eclipse the memory of either the amatriciana or the meatballs.
Desserts’ appeal varied rather wildly. An overset panna cotta
($5.95) seemed like it’d been dwelling in the fridge for too long; a
clafouti with sweet-tart rhubarb topping ($5.95) had the weight of a
doorstop. Far better: housemade chocolate gelato ($3.50), or liquid
options in the form of limoncello and a grapefruit version of the
Italian lemon liqueur ($6, made at Piccolo as well). Also noteworthy in
the beverage department: a good, long list of Italian wines, divided by
region and bargain priced (with by-the-glass options half-off on
Tuesdays and Wednesdays). Servers are friendly and casual, but they
know the wines as well as the food.
The place has been open for a year and three-fourths—the Leg
Lamp was a gift from the staff to Nick at Christmastime, after he
decreed that it was the only holiday decoration he’d have on the
premises. Then he thought, why not leave it up year-round? Even people
who haven’t seen the movie seem to appreciate its oddball charm.