BISCHERO

By Allison Tonini
Bischero
Find Me

“Buona sera,” I greeted the hostess at Bischero Specialita Italiane restaurant. She was puzzled but kept a smile. “It means good evening in Italian,” I cleared up as she walked us to our unblemished white-clothed table. Small votives in the middle of each table flickered in the amorous setting, like stars in a midnight blue sky. A few colorful paintings dressed the casual brick walls, mirroring the dining ambience with the warm and visible brick pizza oven. We sat at a small private corner table. The hostess must have recognized the legendary Italian family name, Tonini. “Looks like a nice place,” my mom said. What she really meant was, “I hope Frankie wasn’t the hostess’s brudda;” we’d iced the kid a week ago for snitching. Godfather’s orders.

The wine list looked phenomenal. There were over 75 wines imported from every region of Italy, including Montepulciano, Venice, and Tuscany. In addition to the star lineup of traditional red and white wines, Bischero also offered frizzanti and dessert wines, imported beers and liquor. We went with a bottle of the Chardonnay Del Friuli, the server’s recommendation.

The thickly sliced complimentary bread was served in wicker baskets, accompanied with small dishes and a cruet of olive oil. Flour dirtied the soft crust of the fresh, fragrant rosemary bread, which was completely different from the traditional chewy bread that I remember from the summer I spent in Tuscany. Traditional Italian bread has a very rubbery crust and is made salt-free to balance out the tastes of the meal’s dishes. Although it was upsetting in our quest for authenticity, it wasn’t enough to clip the waitress for.

Next came the insalate, which the menu promised would be classic and fresh. The Insalata Cesare, a traditional Caesar salad, was light and hinted bold flavors. The saltiness of the anchovy and nuttiness of the Parmigiano reggiano were the only aspects that made Bischero’s Caesar salad better than a chain restaurant’s. The Caprese, buffalo mozzarella, tomatoes, and basil with extra virgin olive oil and black pepper, was nothing compared to the old country. Basil greatly overpowered the dish, making the contents on the plate look more like a conventional green salad than a Caprese. The menu did not specify that balsamic vinaigrette would be glazed on the insalate. Disappointingly, the chef drowned the dish in the sticky substance, dying brown the only two small pieces of mozzarella that I was given. After a few sour faced bites, it was inedible.

Even though the pasta dishes were outrageously expensive, $16-$19, I ordered the Tortelli Alle Mele e Salsiccia, tortelli filled with sausage, apple and ricotta cheese then completed with a sage brown butter sauce. What can I say; it was an offer I couldn’t refuse. Our server reassured me explaining that the pasta is handcrafted in la cucina every morning. I was excited, thinking back to the mouth watering pear ravioli that had won my heart at La Giostra, a small trattoria in Florence.

Our server brought the Godfather’s dinner first, a heaping plate of the Mafalde Alla Napoletana, a homemade mafalde with tomato, ricotta, basil and handmade meatballs. The deconstructed lasagna dish was not impressive in presentation or taste. I was looking for a stand out element, but everything remained ordinary. Every so-so Italian restaurant in the phone book can serve that same sauce, meatballs, and top it off with ricotta and basil. The only difference is that most don’t charge 19 cannolis for it. Next came my mom’s piping hot Vegetariana Pizza Nepolitana. Tomato, mozzarella, eggplant, mushrooms, spinach and roasted peppers covered the flour dusted crust, which was substantially thicker than authentic Italian brick oven pizzas. My eyes ate the pie first, the dangerously bubbling cheese, the rolled crust hanging off one end of the plate, the generously cut vegetables lying on top. After a few minutes of torture, longing for the taste I remembered, I took a bite. It reminded me more of California Pizza Kitchen then Italy. It tasted good, but nothing to write Great Grandma Leone in Sicily about.

As mom and the Godfather were digging in, at my insistence, the server approached with some horrible news. They had run out of tortelli. Before I could comment, she insisted the Lasagne could be made pretty quickly. I was ravenous so I agreed. Halfway through my parents’ meals, the lasagna came out. The server failed to mention that this lasagna was vegetarian. She also failed to mention that it was the worst tasting dish on the menu. Crisp, barely cooked vegetables sat between two not-quite-al dente index card sized noodles, topped with an Alfredo sauce that was running all over the plate. There was no binding, no evidence that this was a piece cut from a pan of traditional lasagna. I looked at my parents, who were also very disappointed with this version of lasagna. Lasagna in the Tonini family is a tradition that started in a small town in southern Italy. The dish takes two days, and is assembled with several layers of noodles, Bolognese sauce, and mozzarella cheese. This wasn’t lasagna. For the second time in my life, I sent the dish back. When the server apologetically asked if I wanted anything else, I refused. A sandwich from Quiznos next door sounded more appetizing.

I have dined here before and thoroughly enjoyed my meal, but this time was different. It is important to note that the restaurant, originally founded by Stefano Volpi and Salvatore Bianco, has suffered greatly under its new owners, Anthony and Thomas Encrapera. The two cousins took over the restaurant in late January 2008, and plan to slowly evolve the menu with more French, Spanish and Mediterranean influence. Although the restaurant still bears the name and association with Bischero, the duo is in the process of renaming the place 237 Prince Ave.

This meal didn’t please the family. The Godfather said he prefers Bertoli’s frozen pasta to Bischero’s stab at neo-Italian any day. This threat is directed to you, 237 Prince Ave: Don’t mess wit my dinner again, or you’ll be swimmin’ wit da fishes.