Future Super Bowls and past papal visits aside, we probably couldn't have picked a busier night to visit Frascati Ristorante at Centerpoint in Tempe. That's right, faithful dining accomplice Goat and I visit Frascati on the evening of the Paul McCartney concert at Sun Devil Stadium.
It is a night to see and be seen. To dress up in weird costumes. To celebrate while spending big bucks on babysitters at home. We are along simply to observe--and to eat, of course.
Frascati's informally attired maitre d' is amazingly gracious. Due to parking snafus, we arrive late but our reservation still is honored. He promises to seat us promptly. Under the circumstances, we are happy to wait.
From the crush at the door, you'd think the restaurant was serving the Last Supper. Both maitre d' and assistant deal effectively with the horde. People without reservations are turned away politely but firmly. "There is a two-hour wait, minimum," the assistant announces at intervals. "You're welcome to wait, but you won't make it to the concert."
Sure, there's grumbling, but this kind of honesty earns my respect. As a potential diner, I would much rather know my chances up-front than be duped into staying through management greed.
Ten minutes later, Goat and I are seated in the restaurant's rectangular dining room. Quite appropriately, the Beatles' "Long and Winding Road" plays on the radio. I am surprised that three large tables are still empty. It is after six; the show starts at eight.
Typical is one nearby table filled with fortysomething types. They are dressed in embroidered denim, Afros, granny glasses and headbands. I mistake one woman for Uncle Sam, but Goat corrects me. "That's Sgt. Pepper," he whispers. The service at Frascati is excellent under these extreme circumstances--it is the epitome of grace under pressure. We receive menus, water and bread in timely fashion. Our waiter comes over shortly and we ask him a few questions. "Tell us about the cold antipasto," we say.
"It's prosciutto, provolone, ham, salami and pineapple."
"Pineapple?"
Our waiter rolls his eyes. "I don't know," he shrugs. "They've been putting it on there lately."
We place our usual large order. We also let our waiter know we're not going to the concert. This information appears to please him. Brightly colored artwork fills the white walls of Frascati's dining room. All of it is for sale. I like the red-and-blue neon heart that colors the room from behind a wall obscuring the wait station. The neon and tonight's bustle give Frascati's the feel of a trendy trattoria.
Our waiter returns to tell us the kitchen is out of calamari. "Out? Completely out?" I ask. He nods solemnly. He's lucky I'm not the Squid Queen. We order shrimp scampi as a replacement.
As warned, antipasto misto alla Romagnola is simply thin slices of meat and cheese on a lettuce-leaf bed. One hard-boiled egg dumped with paprika serves as diversion. There are no tomatoes, no olives, no pineapple. There is also no dressing. I ask for oil and vinegar; a splash or two greatly helps.
Actually, the cold cuts are pleasant enough. The prosciutto is smoky and slightly spicy; the salami pale but wonderfully greasy; the provolone suitably bland. The only disappointment is the ham--which looks and tastes like presliced, packaged Danish product.
The grilled scampi alla Frascati is no bargain at $5.95. Four shrimp of medium size are brought to us in a pool of garlic butter. While they have a nice grilled taste, they are not garlic-y enough. I would not order them again.
The big tables are filled now. Men in Levi's Dockers and women in Liz Claiborne are ordering pasta and toasting each other with glasses of champagne. Everyone is celebrating Paul's arrival in Phoenix. Wine buckets litter the restaurant.
A leggy coed twitches through the dining room en route to powder her nose. Four men at a neighboring table turn in unison as she passes. Their violent head-snapping is not missed by their female tablemates. "You nearly fell out of your chair," one woman admonishes her companion.
Our soup and salad arrive. The minestrone is heated to a perfect temperature. It's a lovely mix of shell pasta, garbanzo beans, carrots, tomato, pepper and celery.
On any other night, the chef's caesar salad is probably decent. Ours, however, is constructed of the tough, outer leaves of romaine lettuce--the kind I throw away. Some leaves make it to the table without being torn at all. The dressing is dry and tastes mostly of Parmesan cheese and herbed croutons.
The time is 7:30. The natives grow restless. One late-arriving table tries to cancel its orders. Another begs for anything that's ready. Our waiter appears at our table. "It's going to be ten minutes on the food," he advises. "May I bring you something to drink?"
It is nearly eight o'clock when our entrees arrive. Most of the restaurant has cleared out. We don't mind. We can hear the radio again. Unfortunately, the station has adopted an all-McCartney, all-the-time format.
I like the grilled chicken breast alla Marsala. Served with lovely, fresh mushrooms, the chicken is tender; the Marsala sweet but not overpowering. A grilled tomato half with Parmesan is a tasty accompaniment.
Scaloppine piccante, on the other hand, disappoints. Where are the capers in the lemon-butter, capers and wine sauce? When I mention the omission to our waiter, he offers to bring me some, but discovers the kitchen has run out. Too bad. Two slices of lemon are just not piquant enough to save the rapidly graying veal. I begin thinking of those calf-abuse ads and wish we'd ordered something else.
Straw-and-hay pasta saves the day. Though we requested a half order, our waiter brings a full order at no extra cost. The green and white noodles are wider and more fettuccine-like than expected, but the cream sauce, speckled with bits of prosciutto and fresh mushrooms, is pleasant enough. This dish begs for some fresh black pepper, but we settle for grated Parmesan supplied by our waiter.
Somehow we manage to have room for dessert and capuccino. (Well, we don't really have room, but this is my job, after all.)
The white chocolate tartuffo is sinfully good. Rolled in white chocolate shavings, it looks like an arctic hedgehog and tastes slightly lemon-y. The St. Honore is a forgettable cakelike dessert constructed of pastry crust, whipped cream, chocolate and cinnamon. Surprisingly, it has a tutti-frutti taste.
After working so hard all night, our poor waiter apologizes for the service. "I'll completely understand if you don't tip me," he says.
We ignore his suggestion. Nothing about the evening was his fault--or the restaurant's. It was simply a killer night.
Frascati's is definitely worth a try. But if you go, don't wait until the Super Bowl to do it. And don't order the veal.
Compared to the frenzy at Frascati's, dining at DiFabio's in Mesa is like visiting a ghost town. DiFabio's is newly opened. No celebrities are slated to appear across the street at Fiesta Mall the evening Goat and I stop in for dinner. Furthermore, it is a Monday--traditionally not a busy night.
Frank Sinatra croons "Please Be Kind" over the sound system as the hostess seats us. The restaurant, formerly J. Muncey's, has a turn-of-the-century barroom look: lots of dark wood and forest-green paint, beveled mirrors, a pressed-tin ceiling.
Our waiter greets us cheerfully. He tells us our arrival has released him from cleaning duty. We place our order and munch on some interesting, but highly seasoned bread. Looking around, we note only one other party in the restaurant--five silver-haired winter visitors.
We give our waiter permission to bring soup and salad first. (Something about the timing of the appetizers.) DiFabio's pasta e fagioli (bean and pasta) soup is piping hot. Thick with pinto beans, the soup is a tad salty from the bits of smoky ham in it, but I like it.
In contrast, the dinner salad is pretty ordinary. Goat describes the salad dressing as "zesty fluid." This is close to the truth. It tastes like better bottled dressing to me.
Two more tables are occupied when our appetizers arrive. Eartha Kitt growls through "C'est Si Bon" on the sound system.
The fried ravioli is better than the appetizer combination--but it's still not great. Though the pasta pouches are fried to a golden brown, the herbed cheese inside isn't melted. The marinara sauce is similarly cool, though chunky and flavorful.
The combination appetizer is a joke. We receive one stuffed mushroom, one shrimp and one clam oreganato and some stuffed eggplant. Try splitting a clam! Then again, don't bother. The small bivalve is buried under oregano bread crumbs; the shrimp is likewise coated in this boring stuff.
Fortunately, the small, sausage-stuffed mushroom cap is yummy. Sweet with a fennel-anise flavor, our only regret is its miniscule size.
The stuffed eggplant is the only item that's even vaguely warm. Layered with ricotta, mozzarella, breading and tomatoes, it has a perceptible wine taste. I like it.
Our waiter asks if we're ready for dinner. We are. Dean Martin warbles a tune we don't recognize. Goat (a.k.a. Mr. Vocal Music) expresses an interest in obtaining a tape of tonight's music at DiFabio's.
The stuffed chicken breast reminds me of a grilled ham steak, minus the pineapple. The round, thick breast must come from an industrial-size chicken. I am not surprised when it tastes dry and slightly tough. Even the fontina-mozzarella stuffing laced with slivers of prosciutto isn't sufficient to moisturize this bird.
A half order of capellini Luciano features gray calamari and tiny, frozen shrimp. I can't find any mussels or clams--unless they are the unidentifiable dark-gray bits floating about. The fresh tomato, basil and oregano sauce smells lovely, but the dish doesn't measure up in the taste test.
The most successful entree is mostaccioli al pesto y prosciutto. Though DiFabio's is stingy with the pesto, I like this dish. Light green-colored tube macaroni is bathed in a cream sauce with a hint of pesto in it. Maybe a little boring for one's dinner--but a sound half order. We ask our waiter to package up our entrees. He does so at a serving tray next to our table. We won't have to worry later that the leftovers are really ours. Now we have plenty of room (well, some) for dessert.
The chocolate tartuffo with rum resembles a spherical Eskimo Pie. The chocolate ice cream inside has an odd stretchy texture--maybe it's the rum. I don't know. I do know I prefer Frascati's white chocolate version.
Chocolate mousse cake is a densely chocolate affair. Crowned with a mohawk of dark chocolate, the solid chocolate cake has a chocolate-graham crust. I'm pretty hard-core about chocolate, but this thing is daunting. Even the two of us as a team can't finish it.
There's no doubt that Gino DiFabio is an experienced chef. While his restaurant is reasonably priced, at present the food is strictly mediocre. If you do go, stick with the pasta.
Frascati Ristorante, 640 South Mill, Suite 118, Tempe, 968-8888. Hours: Monday through Friday, 11:30 a.m. to 10 p.m.; Saturday, noon to 11 p.m.; Sunday, 5 to 9 p.m.
DiFabio's, 1356 West Southern, Mesa, 464-2222. Hours: 11 a.m. to 11 p.m., seven days a week.
RECORDINGS... v4-25-90
