Acquerello
1722 Sacramento (at Polk), 567-5432. Open Tuesday through Saturday from 5:30 to 10:30 p.m. Wheelchair accessible. Reservations strongly advised. Parking: private garage a few doors west, $8 maximum. Muni: all Van Ness lines, 19 Polk, 1 California. Sound level: soft buzz even when full.
Where do you take old foodie friends, briefly vacationing from their adopted home in the South of France? "We'll eat anything but French food!" they specified. Acquerello qualified. Although famed for luxury versions of "rustic" food from all over Italy, its Web site estimates a food bill of just $35 per person. And it was open New Year's week (when my first four choices were closed).
Acquerello means "watercolor." Indeed, heavily framed Italianate watercolors adorn the creamy walls. Thick carpets, white napery, and gleaming crystal wineglasses await your arrival at the table. Chef/owner Suzette Gresham made her name at Donatello (the now-closed luxury Italian restaurant in a Union Square hotel); her partner, maitre d' and sommelier Giancarlo Paterlini, was Donatello's manager. The latter comes to greet you, seat you, almost wash your feet for you, he seems so intensely solicitous.
The waiter, too, seems almost to dote on you at first, although a mordant sense of humor gradually emerges (or perhaps it just takes awhile to decipher his accent). Glasses of rosy fresh juice -- a blend of pink grapefruit and something gentler -- are immediately placed in the center of each of the large, handsome plates with which your table is already set. You're handed oversized binders containing menus of two standard-size pages and a wine list approximately the length of Dante's Divine Comedy.
Too quickly, the waiter asked what we wanted. I hurriedly seized on a Verdicchio ($28) from the Marche, a crisp (and affordable) familiar white -- but somewhere, pages distant, another Verdicchio was listed. Which did we want?, the waiter queried. I asked him the difference. "Verdicchio is a very primitive grape in any case," he said. "Do you want the dryer one?" But I'd made a fatal error by ordering wine (especially Verdicchio!) without Mr. Paterlini's permission; evidently we were supposed to let him guide us, perhaps to something more rarefied and costly. For the rest of the meal the sommelier/host stood nearby with arms crossed, looking over our heads.
We returned to studying the menu, which mirrors the courses of a classic Italian dinner: first antipasti, then primi piatti (pasta, risotto, etc.), then entrees. We hadn't gotten very far when the amuse bouche arrived -- splendid little slabs of poultry galantine (similar to páte), smooth and luscious, accompanied by swirls of lyrical sweet pear sauce with the barest touch of mustard. "I'll be back in two minutes," said the waiter when we confessed ourselves unready to order, and he returned as overpromptly as promised. "Is this your first time?" he asked, and with that, he suggested that we share antipasti and pastas; the kitchen would divide them for us.
Antipasti were easy: There were five of them and four of us, so we skipped the salad. The appetizers arrived in a trice as four pretty little islands arranged on each plate. Parmesan budino (a tiny circle of flan) with warm asparagus and pea sprouts ($10) had the dreamy synergy of Parmesan and asparagus, the contrast of creaminess and crunch. Seared monkfish carpaccio with watercress, borlotti beans, and lemon anchovy dressing ($12) was a tiny medallion of deliciously assertive fish, subtly complemented by its barely noticeable attendants. Grilled tuna nuggets ($11) were grocery-grade ahi with the usual hot-seared exterior/raw interior, over a "ragu" of minidiced crunchy vegetables on a puddle of bashful green pesto vinaigrette. Braised artichoke "tortes" ($11) were artichoke bottoms topped with melted fontina cheese, with a dab of delicate saffron mayonnaise -- so tiny a dab, it vanished in a breath.
We'd still had no time to compose our order. "Those people over there are having the same problem deciding," said the waiter. Of course they were: No one in our neighborhood was allowed leisure for menu-reading and discussion. Impatient, the server suggested a trio of pastas, which were the very choices that most tempted us. They arrived immediately, again arrayed into islands. Tortiglioni ($13), ridged thick-walled skinny tubes, were stacked nine per plate like Lincoln Logs, over a rich savory sauce of pureed foie gras and marsala with specks of black truffle and a dash of white truffle oil. Verdant green onion tortelloni ($14) were stuffed with pureed sea bass, reminiscent of salt cod, and sat on a slick of cream sauce piqued by the unexpected note of sweet anise. One of each pair was topped with golden caviar, the other with American black caviar, electrically crunchy like tobiko. Trios of lemon ricotta gnocchi ($12) were bland and sticky, served over fresh-flavored "pesto" based on spinach and zucchini.
Although portions were modest, we needed a pause -- which we didn't get. Entrees arrived: A hunk of halibut ($24) served in a pool of ginger orange cream sauce, with an underlayer of braised fennel, was crusted with sweet amaretti cookie crumbs and ground almonds, which kept the fish moist. I found the combination weird, but my companions thought it adorable. I preferred involtini ($26), veal rolls enclosing prosciutto and a haunting artichoke puree. Roast pork loin ($23), medium-pink inside, was encrusted with parsley and pink peppercorns, accompanied by a sweet little heap of minced strawberries in balsamic vinegar, and by eggplant scapece -- a few ultrathin mandoline-cut slices of blackened Japanese eggplant. A more generous vegetable assortment highlighted a brace of roasted pancetta-stuffed quail ($24), surrounded by firm-tender golden and red beet wedges, baby green beans, and hazelnuts.
foam order.com
