We've been frequenting this place for a decade, and save for the turnover in waitstaff nothing changes; it's still owned by Dieter Paul, an elegant man running a swellegant Italian bistro, where the wine's as fine as the pastas you can mix and match with the sauces of your choosing (we prefer pesto, and pronto). The pizzas are divine--as thin as Swiss biscuits, and just as melty in your mouthy--and the specials truly are; nothing makes us swim upstream faster than the cioppino, the seafood medley where the hits just keep on coming. Only problem is, it's barely on the menu, which is no sweat for the regulars: Dieter will actually call you when it's on the menu, which only makes us love him that much more--impossible, we know, but still. And, as a bonus, it's one of the best date-night restaurants we know: fancy enough to warrant slacks (makes your lady think you have class), but cheap enough to keep you from breaking the bank, even if it's a piggy bank.