By Kaitlin Steinberg
By Minh T Truong
By Molly Dunn
By Brooke Viggiano
By Kaitlin Steinberg
By Molly Dunn
By Molly Dunn
By Eating Our Words
Patrenella's Cafe is an adorable puppy of a restaurant, which is to say there is no way not to love it. So what if it chews on your shoe or has a moment of indiscretion in the corner? You cluck indulgently and go on doting.
There is plenty to dote on in this snug 1938 cottage, from the vastly reassuring eau de tomato-and-garlic that perfumes its two front rooms to service so endearingly familial that first-time visitors start imagining they've been coming here for years. Taste Patrenella's gamberoni alla sorrentina or its homey rum cake and the deal is sealed: you will be coming here for years, whenever you need a dose of the simpler, sweeter world that obtained before slick marketing plans ruled restaurant land.
Patrenella's is nothing if not a world unto itself, perched on a handkerchief-sized lawn in a sleepy, Sixth Ward backwater that seems like a secret place. Oddball statuary lions welcome visitors to this arugula-free zone, along with a blackboard list of the day's specials that has been hauled right out to the curb. An unnervingly luxuriant vine crawls over an arbor on the tiny front porch, where a few semi-secluded tables meet fat velvety leaves and skinny three-foot-long squashes. Unnerving in their own right, from time to time these pale celadon objects are wrenched from their moorings and paraded through the miniature dining rooms on their way to the kitchen -- and their fate.
It all feels very cozy and convivial and unassuming. The food tastes much the same way. Eating here is like having the folks down the street cook for you -- which in Italy, after all, is what trattorias are all about. Proprietor Sammy Patrenella, whose parents built the house, beams shyly when he shows off the weird squashes (cuccuzzas, he calls them) that he planted "on St. Joseph's Day." His Sardinian chef, Andre Pintus, breezes forth to consult with patrons on their dinner. "I'll do whatever you want," he vows, and as proof he offers a description of the dish one customer requested: a pasta creation involving anchovies, cream, pine nuts and a meatball on top.
Fine for her. I'd rather have Pintus' gamberoni alla sorrentina -- thin, springy spaghetti with fat, springy shrimp, all bathed in a garlicky white-wine sauce that jumps with lemon. In a world full of disappointing pasta-and-shrimp dishes, this one comes through. So do Pintus' various tomato sauces, which have verve to spare. The basic edition spread over a simple bowl of spaghetti with fennel-seeded Italian sausage is good and garlicky. A version brightened and fluffed out with sharp, finely grated cheese is even better -- so much so that the gummy little potato gnocchi it covered on one day's special seemed far less objectionable than they would have in their naked state. Any excuse will do to eat that charismatic sauce -- including the toasty garlic bread that is flung about with such abandon here.
A stalwart marinara does much to atone for whatever slight rubberiness a school of fried squidlets may have acquired during their swim through a pan of hot fat. The calamari are the delicate, spidery kind, but the timing's off. No excuses are necessary, though, for penne boscaiola with meaty, woodsy-tasting mushrooms in a tomato sauce smoothed with cream. Such a dish can be boring and stultifyingly rich; this one is neither. A single person would be hard put to finish off an entire order of these luxuriously sauced quills, however, so it would be prudent for two or three diners to split one as a first course.
Pintus prides himself on his seafood, and his fish specials in particular can have an elemental appeal. A fillet of snapper, filmed in flour and pan-sauteed, actually tastes of the sea (remember real, pre-orange roughy fish?); a gilding of lemon and wine and garlic aids and abets without stealing the show. But why, oh why is this otherwise blameless fish reposing on a large leaf of lettuce? Maybe it's a Sardinian thing. But I hope not.
One night's fresh baby clams in a winy bath were a good idea -- but the fettuccine they sit on were not, their heft seeming to drag the shellfish down rather than buoying them up. Skinnier, sprightlier noodles would have been more apropos. And a more distinctive vinaigrette would help the house salads, which are unobjectionable but just sort of there.
Two curiosities demand trying here. Involtini of wafery fried eggplant pinwheeled around prosciutto and provolone cheese is like an Antone's poor boy that has kicked off its breadly bonds and gone to heaven. And the antipasto plate has designs on the third dimension. Off-the-menu cuccuzza squash melted down with olive oil and onion and garlic sounds good if you stop right there. So why does Patrenella's then give it a tomato sauce fleshed out with crumbles of beef and sausage? Because it brings these odd, vaguely zucchini-like vegetable specimens into the realm of the familiar, that's why. Sammy Patrenella says that cuccuzza in this light but meaty sauce tastes great on spaghetti, and I believe him. While squash hang on the vine, ask and ye shall receive.