By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Alice Laussade
By City of Ate
By Scott Reitz
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Alice Laussade
Saltimbocca's! is billed as a bistro. A bistro is a small cafe, usually serving down-to-earth food and wine. But let's look a little further: The Food Lover's Companion says the word is also deployed to describe a small nightclub (the French bistrot means pub).
Let's scan the place. The main dining room flows into a series of pockets through brick archways. Sinatra bellows from the sound system, bistrot-like. There's a shiny black grand piano near the front, next to the sitting area with a stone fireplace. That fireplace is in need of a good chimney sweep, hearth scrubbing and stone blasting, such is the intensity of its brooding soot--also very bistrot-like.
It's dark, too; so dark that menu reading is painstaking. You can pull out the headings easily enough: antipasti, pizza, pasta, carne, pesce, pollo, desserts. But the words tucked below twist the face into a tight squint. We move the votives (with lampshades) closer. Doesn't work. The plastic-coated cream menu tones conspire with the amber glow to cancel out the letters. Through the blur a dish is described as "a generous portion of the Ravina family." This can't be right. This is Arlington, not New Guinea.
"We're going to install some lighting over these tables," the manager says sheepishly. He offers us a penlight. The little metal tube is eagerly passed from hand to hand around the table; its narrow beam instantly melting the menu's dark secrets. It's only then we discover that a generous portion of the Ravina family is not on the menu; their lasagna is.
Saltimbocca's! is operated by Randy and Brett Russell, a father-son team that also owns Italianni's in Hurst. They've lodged their bistro in a former Harrigan's restaurant. The pub part is in there, too.
This under the heading "pesce" is an eye-catcher: salmon piccata. Piccata is usually made by sautéing a very thin piece of veal or chicken, meat that's been pounded senseless until it reaches the thickness of a panty liner. It's hard to imagine doing this to a salmon fillet. Pounding salmon like a piece of veal would give you nothing but a pile of pink mulch. You could press it under weight for hours into thinness, à la gravid lox, but this is time-consuming. Better skip.
Yet where salmon piccata fails to entice, salmon oreganato proves too compelling to pass up. Look at that word: oreganato. In the early '70s, that would have been a breakthrough in stealthy cannabis bud terminology. Now it's just a word that gives a simple piece of fish (or clams, bread and olive oil) the cache of a Puccini overture. You can almost hear the "ganato" undulate piercingly from a mezzo-soprano throat.
But this piece of fish doesn't sing. The fillet is moist. It flakes. Between the teeth those flakes have resolve. But it's bland, with just a faint water spot of rich flavor. A coin of oregano butter rests on the surface, threatening to melt and ooze richness all over the surface before it streaks the sides. It never does. It just sits there maintaining its shape. The fish is ringed by slices of roasted potato, but a spud has never rescued a fish.
But daylight can rescue from eye strain and penlight menu blur. Take a seat in Saltimbocca's! indoor atrium just as the sun sets. The tables are glossy granite. Chairs are metal. Large curving windows wrap the room, glassing over the ceiling. This provides a stunning panoramic view of Interstate 20 and the power lines strung alongside the guardrails. Hundreds of starlings descend on the wires in a great cloud of ornithological soot. They line up with perfect marching-band precision. Maybe the key to ordering chaos in the universe is to string the galaxies with power lines.
Saltimbocca's! service is eager and accommodating, which doesn't necessarily make it as precise as a starling swarm. The wine service, in particular, is rife with glitches. On one visit, the waiter deploys a flock of smeary, water-spotted glasses. He quickly shuttles them off once we hold them up to the light streaming through the atrium glass. The smears turn those starlings into disturbing Rorschach Clydesdales. The replacements are much better. But after filling our glasses, he places the bottle on the buffet across the room. This is a fine bit of service strategy when one anticipates a crush of appetizers, bread plates, entrées and glasses of Bud Light for our table's outlier. But it only works if the glasses and bottle are monitored relentlessly.
My glass is drained. Two waiter passes fail to trigger the service reflex. So I get up from my seat and execute the self-service dance. I completely drain the bottle, engorging our glasses just shy of the rim to avoid the horror of more harrowing shortages.
Wine is a critical component of Saltimbocca's! repartee. Perhaps the most unlikely example is this: spinach and artichoke formaggio. It's a boat ringed with toasted garlic bread. The cargo is a smooth blend of cream cheese, Parmesan and white wine with strips of spinach, mushrooms and artichoke heart petals. Artichoke was hard to come by. After a dogged search, we pulled just two petals from the ooze. Still, the mix was velvety and thick, with a tangy edge that gently cut through the richness.