Scarpetta Barosa Means Italian

I was all geared up to wax poetic about Scott Conant’s new place on 14th street that’s been garnering all kinds of praise. I dined there prior to the Bruni three stars and Platt’s exclamation of the food as “almost priestly.” And I cannot deny that the food at Scarpetta made an impression on me. However, the crowd was boisterous, making the already brazen dining room too loud. In the Diner’s Journal last week, Bruni talked about a restaurant’s clientele adding to (or subtracting) from a restaurant experience. Did he have Scarpetta to himself when he reviewed it?

I think I could have put all the pomp aside and chosen to focus on the high quality food if I had not, the very next night, gone to Barosa, a real Italian restaurant in my very Italian neighborhood. I do not have space to discuss each individual aspect of the two evenings so I will analyze the first impressions, because they both essentially mirror the dinners that ensued thereafter.

At Scarpetta, I sat at the bar before being seated. I ordered a cocktail on their list that, it turned out, tasted like cough medicine. After one sip I ordered another drink. The bartender did not ask me if anything was wrong with the one I’d just ordered and was ignoring; he simply poured my new request. All fine except while closing out before we went to the table, we saw that we had been charged for this putrid syrup. We made no fuss about it, but something about the first interaction—this act that left me feeling ripped off and not personally cared about—wholly permeated the dinner. The entire thing felt programmed (as have the reviews: Ah! Scott Conant! We are supposed to like him, right?! These reviews seem a little hyperbolic).

At Barosa, we were greeted with a warm welcome from the owner, told we could sit anywhere that was open (the restaurant was equally as full as Scarpetta), and when I asked about a four-top, our host proclaimed, “whatever makes you happy will make me happy.” Ahhh, well said. The repast that followed was friendly, delicious, and came with a free tiramisu when they’d run out of our requested cannoli.

Conant’s family is Italian and he may cook a wonderful rendition of spaghetti, but before you believe Bruni’s claim that, “it’s the best dish of its kind in the city,” just give it a try from the fellas in Brooklyn. A three-star Italian restaurant should be more than Italian food; it should be an Italian experience.