Back to the Purple Garlic

I wrote enthusiastically about Cerroni's Purple Garlic when it returned to its original location on Austin Highway last year. I've become something of a regular there (again), because it really is excellent, outstanding, superior, fantastic pizza. I could go on and on about that, but there's more to a restaurant, and more to a dining experience, than just the main course, and I think I've made that point already.

Unfortunately, the other things that go into making a pleasant experience are somewhat lacking.

When you get to the Purple Garlic, you're escorted to a table, given menus, and then expected to go to the counter to place your order ... usually. This time, though, we were greeted by a somewhat unenthusiastic kid of about high-school age, who asked us if we wanted menus. We said we did, so he handed them to us and waved vaguely about the room, indicating, we surmised, that we could sit wherever the hell we wanted, he didn't care. We chose a place, examined the menu, and made our choices. I went to the register and placed an order for two salads, a pizza, and two glasses of wine. I paid the bill, gathered up the wine, which had been poured and left sitting on an adjacent counter, and went to my table.

About twenty minutes later, I remarked that, for the second time in a row, the salads were taking forever to arrive. Last time we went, about a month ago, the salads arrived just before the pizza. This time, they seemed to have been missed altogether. We mentioned it to the waitress, another disinterested high school student, who said she would check on them.

They duly arrived a couple of minutes later. They were not worth waiting for. I've given up on complaining about the lost art of salad preparation. Apparently, culinary schools no longer teach that nothing in a salad should be so big that a lady has to open her mouth to an ungracious width; and nothing in a salad should have to be cut by the customer. Tomato slices, onion, cucumber, and especially lettuce leaves should be reduced to an unobtrusive size before serving.

What does that mean?

Well, like I say, that sort of graciousness is out of fashion. But these salads consisted mainly of whole lettuce leaves, with a single (intact) slice of tomato, a single (similarly intact) slice of red onion, a large crouton, and a pepperoncini. The whole thing was bland, in addition to being gauche. And the salad dressing (Italian, in my case) added nothing. 

The place is generally pleasant, especially in fine weather with its large outside seating area, hidden from Austin Highway by shrubbery; in August, of course, there's no way I'm sitting outside when there's air conditioning to be had. But we were there on a Saturday night, and at the Purple Garlic, kids eat free on Saturdays (and Wednesdays). 

This isn't really a bad thing, at least not for me. I'm at the age where a flock of moderately well-behaved infants and toddlers is a charming sight, and the common refrain of "Mommy, I have to poop" brings only a smile and a fond memory. But I can see where it'd be unpleasant for, say, a twentysomething out on a date. Just be forewarned: if that's you, go on a Friday night.

But do go. The pizza really, really is first-rate, good enough to warrant the four-and-a half chiles rating. Just don't get a salad.

First take on the new Ciao

Thanks to a couple of gushing "mobile reviews" on Urbanspoon, I decided I could go ahead and try Ciao, on Olmos Drive just east of the Circle. It used to be one of Damien Watel's places -- the downscale one, but still really, really good -- but ... well, it seems local-celebrity-Chef Watel has run into some financial difficulties because he's selling off his restaurants (La Frite, the Belgian bistro on South Alamo, has also changed owners recently). Maybe the new place out beyond Loopland is sucking up more of his resources than he anticipated. Whatever the reason, the new owners -- he's the chef, she's the wine steward; I think their name is Walker but I may not remember that right -- have already begun to accrue some favourable opinion from the sort of people who post one-sentence reviews from their smart-phones. Me, I don't have a smart phone: as far as I can tell from my limited exposure to them, they exist only so your boss can make you work longer hours, and you can get your friends to say "ooh" when you make the screen images slide around. And as anyone can tell after reading anything I've written, I prefer the prolixity facilitated by a laptop computer. 

I don't doubt that the new folks at Ciao are working hard at making their restaurant better than it was when it was Watel's; a tall order, since it was pretty darn good from day one. They haven't yet had time to update the web page, even. What's it been, like, a month? Two? Tut, tut.

What does that mean?

But they're doing good. The menu is a little more extensive than it was before; it has more variety, but still carries an identifiably Italian identity throughout; and the wine list is extensive enough, I suspect, to satisfy any reasonable demand. We opted for stuffed eggplant and shrimp with risotto, sixteen and eighteen dollars, respectively, and although when our food came it looked like puny, unsatisfactory servings, neither of us was dissatisfied in the end.

There was, unfortunately, a large party in the other room that was causing some disorganization in the kitchen, because after a surprisingly long wait our server appeared to make her excuses for the delay. We asked for bread to tide us over. The foccacia bread that was brought was excellent: warm, but not hot, with a cheesy tang and a full, substantial texture. Shortly after that the food arrived.

I believe the Walkers acquired the crockery with the door keys. It must be hell, trying to stack all those different shapes in the kitchen. No two plates on the table were the same shape and size. Ordinarily I wouldn't even mention this, but it seems, somehow, self-consciously affected to have so many different plates.

The entrées, though, were excellent, though I might've picked a better wine to go with mine. But I ordered the wine before deciding what I would be having, so it's my own damn fault.

The only real complaint I have is the dessert. I was assured that the cannoli were made in-house, so I ordered them. (I'm a sucker for cannoli.) What we got were three tiny pastry tubes, their ends dipped in chocolate, stuffed with cold, sweet ricotta, and artfully laid out on a swirl of chocolate. But the shells were, I'm sorry, stale, and we had to send them back. Cannoli shells are tempermental things, and must be cosseted and catered to. They must have everything they want, right down to the preferred colour of M&Ms in their dressing rooms, or they just won't perform as they should. These cannoli shells were obviously given a bag of peanut M&Ms and sent out onto the stage.

The decor is largely unchanged, which is somehow reassuring. Often, new owners of a well-known place will start off by doing everything over differently, forgetting that, while we may like or dislike the décor, it's the food we come for, and come back for. A few small changes are all that the new people have bothered with, possibly on the theory that if it ain't broke, don't fix it.

Really just an excuse to mention Guanajuato...

There's magic in the air, there.

I don't know why I like Natalie's Café so much. There's nothing really special about it: a small family-run greasy-cucharadita in a part of town I almost never go to (on Cupples Road, just north of US 90 West). I found it entirely by accident when I had to be at a nearby school and, given my fondness for trying new places, stopped in.

What does that mean?

Anyone who reads this blog with any regularity -- nobody, as far as I know, but who's counting? -- knows that my quest for the perfect breakfast taco ranks right up there with Love and Justice, the other two things in life worth fighting for. The chilaquile tacos at Natalie's are as close as I've come, so far. They transport me back to Mexico, to those ancient days in Guanajuato (a magical city to visit with your one special one) when I first discovered chilaquiles.

What else can I say about it? The ambience is utterly mejico tipico, the service is good, not fussy and not great, and the prices are low -- or at least, they seem low after so long on the North Side. Actually they're about average for the less affected parts of this very inexpensive city.

I took a friend there for lunch yesterday. I think she was a little put off that I wasn't taking her to a more trendy North Side establishment, but she admitted that the enchiladas were very good even though she wouldn't feel safe walking along the sidewalk out front. (I would, at least at that time of day; I often forget that the women I know tend to be a little more concerned than me about personal safety.) I gave serious thought to ordering something other than chilaquile tacos, but in the end I couldn't bring myself to pass on them: as I said, I don't get over to that part of town often, and felt I should take the opportunity when it presents itself. Mmmmm.