No Smashed Potatoes Here!

Mom would be disappointed if I started with dessert. But there is no better way to capture the "throw-your-cares-to-the-wind" ambience of Pisticci than by describing the sublimely assembled Italian dessert known as Tiramisu. First, a disclaimer: wet cake never has and never will appeal to me. I dip bread in olive oil (a must at Pisticci) and cookies in milk (a must at summer camp), but soggy sponge cake makes me cringe. That is, unless, it is part of Pisticci's Tiramisu ($6.00).

Tiramisu gets its characteristic taste and texture from the intermingling of its layers. Every other layer is marscapone, a sweet creamy cheese that tastes more like cool whip than Velveeta. Separating the marscapone are sheets of sponge cake, which have been saturated with a potion of coffee and Marsala, a Sicilian wine. The cake is then chilled and time is allowed for the flavors to intermix before chocolate shavings are added to the top. Little else is done to embellish the dish at Pisticci, because flavor and texture take center stage. The Tiramisu is light and airy, and rightly so--the English translation of tiramisu is "carry me up." More importantly, the temperature is perfect, the composition is delicate, and the coffee essence is subtle.

Other dishes at Pisticci are hit or miss. La Spaghettata ($8.95 with meatballs, $6.00 without), is forgettable because of its dry meatballs and bland tomato sauce. The Filet of Sole Lemon & Capers is only marginally better. While sole is a fish well complemented by sauces, the lemon-caper sauce was thick, gravy-like, and a bit overbearing. The silky-smooth mashed potatoes that accompanied it were outstanding, however, and were a welcome relief from the garlicky and gimmicky "smashed potatoes" found at many modern establishments.

Where Pisticci performs (on par with its luscious desserts) is with its appetizers. Call ahead to see if the appetizer Fig Salad ($9.95) is being served, as it was the star of the meal and sufficient reason to return to the restaurant. A pile of spinach, lightly tossed with a honey Dijon dressing and drizzled with a balsamic reduction, is accompanied by halved strawberries, hearts of palm, and figs. The figs are a far cry from the dehydrated variety sold in vacuum packs at grocery stores. Rather, they are soft, fleshy, and warm. Inside each is a dollop of goat cheese, which has absorbed some of the sweetness from the fig. Forkful after forkful, stacked with greens, strawberries, figs, and cheese, it is a miniature medieval feast and is not to be missed.

Pisticci is a charming destination; its whimsical decorations, Italian quotations on the red bathroom walls, and sturdy jars of table water lend themselves to the restaurant's ambience. Though the restaurant owner was temperamental, the handy wait staff made up for his foibles. Never before have I heard a waiter give such an exuberant pitch for the restaurant's food. He called it "wicked," and "mean," and when words came up short, he sighed and said something like, "the truffle oil ... oh my god." His boyish enthusiasm lent itself well to the evening and mirrored our enthusiasm at having found an enchanting new dinner destination just up the road.