Colorado Springs isn't exactly a haven for foodies, but there are many good restaurants here, Antonio's among them. Their menu is extensive, authentic, and will even make the vegetarians among us happy. The staff is friendly and attentive, and the desserts are to die for. (Antonio's pastry chef makes the most amazing cannoli I've ever tasted.) And if you're lucky, you might even be treated to the strains of live opera as you dine. So when my partner suggested Italian food for dinner, I immediately said "Antonio's". He quickly agreed, and we were off.
Walking in the door at Antonio's is a lovely thing...We're always greeted by a smiling face, intriguing aromas wafting from the kitchen, and the buzz of happy people enjoying their food. As soon as we were seated, we ordered the mussel appetizer, which appeared promptly, steaming and swimming in a garlicky wine sauce. The mussels were tender and delicious, and served with hot, homemade garlic bread to soak up the sauce. When we had finished every last one, the waiter whisked away the bowl of empty shells, and delivered our entrees.
I had ordered the Gnocchi di Patate, and we each took a bite as soon as the plate hit the table. (Gnocchi is bite sized and therefore easily purloined by one's dining partner...) We exchanged puzzled glances. "Isn't gnocchi supposed to be kind of...fluffy...or puffy?" he asked. I acknowledged my companion's astute assessment with the saddest face I could muster, hoping to score a bite of his Veal Saltimbocca. "Yes dear, gnocchi should be "fluffy...
and puffy!" Gnocchi are dumplings, and properly made, are imponderous, cloud like bites of heaven. But the Gnocchi di Patate (usually one of my favorites) that sat before me was neither imponderous nor cloud like. These were heavy, gummy lumps of dough, tough to the tooth and difficult to chew. Now, I know that the literal translation of gnocco
is "lump", but as a rule, the Italians are not that literal when it comes to food. I also found the taste of "patate" to be decidedly absent. In fact, unless you count raw flour as a flavor, there was really no taste at all. They remained on my plate, pushed to one side as I sopped up the sumptuous Gorgonzola cream with the remaining bread, and pondered the incongruity of how sauce and bread this good could have come from the same kitchen as that gnocchi...
The sad face didn't affect my partner, but the waiter, obviously moved by my sighs and remaining bread-to-sauce ratio, asked if he could bring me something different. I opted for the Veal Saltimbocca, the scent of which had been dancing across the table and tickling at my olfactory receptors not unlike those ethereal cartoon arms of aroma that beckon one to the food from which they originate. This time, I was not disappointed. The veal was perfect, topped with a crisp, salty slice of prosciutto, and drizzled with a sauce that was winey, buttery rich and heavy with sage (and just a hint of lemon). With my first bite, the "lumps" were all but forgotten.
When the check arrived, I found that I had not been charged for the veal...only for the gnocchi, which was considerably less in price. When asked about the omission, the waiter smiled and said "The chef sends his apologies, and hopes that your experience this evening will not discourage future visits." As I nibble at the remains of my cannoli, I'm thinking it won't...
Java's Sunday Supper
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