Cheery Confusion

Il Porcellino

As happens to all of us from time to time, my friend Barrie was feeling a tad ... blue. There were reasons for this, of course, although she probably wouldn't appreciate my detailing them here. So I'll make something up. What happened was, Barrie's cat got sick on the custom suede seats of the brand-new stretch Hummer limousine she bought with the proceeds from her lucrative investment in the Congolese Telephone Co. Then, Congolese Telephone took one on the chin (a "political" situation), gutting the ad budget for her new limo business. What's more, she's convinced the $1 she loaned her stepbrother -- former Dallas Cowboys linebacker-turned-cokehead/ convict-turned-clean-and-sober-fellow Mr. Thomas "Hollywood" Henderson -- is the same dollar he spent earlier this year on a winning $28 million lottery ticket. And has Hollywood been returning her calls? Ha. I think you all know the answer.

Anyway, I'd be upset too if that happened to me, and since I consider Barrie a dear friend, I took it upon myself to cheer her up. Back in the day, we would have donned my velvet horse suit and blown off some steam dry-humping unsuspecting tourists at Fisherman's Wharf ("Oh, let's get a picture with the pretty horsy!"), but since we're still on probation for that I went with the old backup plan: a 22.3-ounce Pilsner Urquell for her to sip while I drove to Montclair, where we rubbed the snout of the lucky ceramic pig at La Salle Avenue's Il Porcellino.

Like many, many, many, many, many Italian restaurants the world over, Il Porcellino ("the little pig," named after a lucky bronze statue of a wild boar in Florence) is a joyous, welcoming place. An open, airy dining room -- exposed brick, bright yellow walls, straw basket Chianti bottles -- speaks of warmth, bounty, and togetherness, while languid, billowing opera music caresses the careworn diner like a breeze. The black hand of melancholy will find no place to grasp here -- instead, the heart falls open, as Barrie's did when she rubbed the aforementioned ceramic pig and made a wish. She didn't tell me what the wish was, although it should be noted that Congolese Telephone was staging a comeback the last time I checked -- a lucky pig indeed.

Location Info


Il Porcellino

6111 La Salle Ave.
Oakland, CA 94611-2801

Category: Restaurant > Italian

Region: Montclair


(510) 339-2149. Open for lunch Monday through Saturday from 11:30 a.m. to 2:30 p.m., dinner every day from 5 to 9:30 p.m. (10 p.m. on Friday and Saturday). Reservations accepted. Wheelchair accessible. Parking: easy. AC Transit: 15, 64. Noise level: low to moderate.

Brodetto di cozze $7
Caesar salad $4.95 small/$6.75 large
Risotto di mare $11.95
Medaglioni di maiale $13.75
Saltimbocca di pollo $12.50
Tiramisu $5
Valle Isarco pinot grigio $26

6111 La Salle (at Moraga), Oakland

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This was a balmy night, so we dined alfresco at one of two streetside tables, where the good citizens of Montclair strolled past under rustling green trees dappled with light. Our waiter, a charming young hooligan (Italian, of course), took a shine to us immediately, plying us with smiles, friendly banter, and assurances that the food here was as good as anything we could get back in Italy.

Well, I figured, we'd see about that. I began to believe him as I noted the nice (free) touches that preceded our meal: a pitcher of sparkling water and a plate of hearty white bread accompanied by Il Porcellino's version of panzanella, a mild, tangy dip made from bread crumbs, tomatoes, garlic, olive oil, vinegar, and fresh herbs. Such generosity called for a drink -- a crisp, dry, spanking-fresh bottle of Valle Isarco pinot grigio '99 -- and, since Italian meals are best served hearty, a nine-course banquet that kept us, and our waiter, busy for the next hour and then some.

Il Porcellino offers an extensive selection of classic Italian dishes, from pasta porcellino (penne with onions, garlic, artichoke hearts, olives, crushed tomato, chili oil, and shaved pecorino) on the low end to filet mignon with Gorgonzola on the high. Daily specials (such as risotto "Machiavelli" with roast chicken, spinach, mushrooms, and saffron) accommodate the adventurous, while lighter, younger eaters can get their fill with a children's half-order of pasta. Also, as is often the case with extensive Italian menus, one stumbles upon pitfalls and mediocrities (we'll get to those later), though we managed to avoid both with a splendid pair of appetizers.

We began with a glimmering plate of carpaccio di salmone -- lusciously marbled sheets of cured salmon topped with lemon olive oil, onions, and capers. It was nothing fancy, but then carpaccio doesn't really require fanciness, and so we came away satisfied. A more complex choice was the superb brodetto di cozze -- beautifully arrayed green-lipped mussels in a tangy garlic, red pepper, and white wine sauce. Though the mussels were as hulking and succulent as could be, the sauce proved the undeniable highlight, and took wonderfully to the crispilicious little garlic toasts interspersed with the mussels.

From there, unfortunately, things slid a bit, although our waiter remained a dashing rogue. I liked my classic Caesar salad with whole anchovies, but didn't love it -- as is the case with 80 percent of the Caesars in this world -- and Barrie felt the same about her insalata della casa. She got the small, which was huge, but only a shade above average: Though nicely dressed with a mild Italian vinaigrette, the mélange of greens, Gorgonzola, almonds, and walnuts lacked the oomph to take it beyond.

Still, these things can be forgiven, especially when your waiter's heart is filled with love for creatures big and small. For example, while chatting us up between courses, he pointed to a dog leashed to a parking meter in front of a bar a few doors down and told us the poor beast had been there for hours. A die-hard animal lover, Barrie thanked him for the information, then stepped back inside the restaurant to rub the pig once again. Within seconds, the dog was in the bar sipping gin and tonic, while a somewhat bewildered-looking man sat leashed to the parking meter, whimpering at passers-by in the hope that one would stop to pat his wretched head.

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