I'm Still Asking Myself, "What The Hell Happened, Bar Rosso?"

What the hell did I just eat?

When it comes to dining out, your taste buds can either soar to new heights of culinary delight as you experience cuisine of the utmost decadence, or your spirits can sink to an all-time low depth of gastronomic despair. While not quite the morose characteristics of the latter, a recent meal that I had at a local restaurant left me baffled, confused and on the wrong side of disappointment.

What made it equally bad was that particular day was meant to be a special one for me. Unlike most mothers and mother figures across the country, I didn’t really get to celebrate Mother’s Day on the day of because my husband, Maarten, who is normally traipsing across the globe on business, was home in bed sick with an illness that befell him the night before. Mother’s Day for me was spent taking care of Maarten (not that I minded, mind you; it was the wonderful wifey thing to do), doing laundry and being forced to listen to the revelry of my next door neighbors during their raucous backyard cookout.

So, one week later, when the perfect weather made a repeat performance, Maarten had his feet once again planted firmly on American soil and, thankfully, neither of us were suffering from a mystery illness, I celebrated being stepmommy by dining al fresco for lunch. Unfortunately, the memory of the near-perfect day was besmirched by the surprisingly inedible meal.

What the hell happened, Bar Rosso?

And before anyone begins lamenting the fact that any chef can have a bad day, I am one of the last people that needs to be reminded of this. Typically, I don’t even write about my dining impressions—you see, I don’t call them ‘restaurant reviews’ because I don’t consider myself a critic, per se; I am but one person doling out my personal impressions on my particular dining experience—if the experience is far less than favorable specifically for that reason: anyone can have an off day in the kitchen, even the best of culinary wizards.

What I do, however, is look for and expect consistency when eating out. Point me in the direction of the person who thrives on returning to the same restaurant time and time again and actually looks forward to the unknown: Will the food be good this visit? Will it be mediocre? Will I get food poisoning? Will I enjoy it?

Sorry, but Culinary Russian Roulette is not my forte.

Now while I’m in the throes of this food rant, I will issue credit where credit is due and give Bar Rosso their props: the complimentary bread and olive oil given to every table was fabulous as was the Twistini (one of the signature cocktails that I imbibed), a curiously sweet-tart martini fashioned with Stoli O, Stoli Raspberry and pineapple juice. Sad to say, this is about where the accolades end for me; however, Maarten did have some degree of success with his starter.

Salmon Carpaccio

The Salmon Carpaccio with fennel, lemon and pepper from the lunch small plates menu was obviously to Maarten’s liking as he cleaned his plate just as moms the world over have been gently goading their offspring to do for centuries. The presentation was gorgeous and there was plenty of it for sharing, however, carpaccio is not my cup o’ tea, therefore I fail at authenticating the veracity of Maarten’s palate on this occasion (although I do trust him implicitly).

The Bruschetta, attempting to hide most of the burn

My starter, the Bruschetta, was a mid-level disappointment which began when the plate was placed in front of me. I looked up at Maarten in surprise.

“No they did not just have the audacity to give me this plate with all three pieces of bruschetta burnt at the ends!”

Oh yes they did.

When the waitress came over and asked sweetly with doe-eyed innocence, “So how is everything?”, I tried to remain on somewhat neutral ground.

“Well, the bruschetta is a little burnt, but I can live with that. I’ll just eat around it.”

And I did. I was a trooper. As soon as my taste buds came near the charred tips, signals and alarm bells went off in my mouth. I couldn’t eat the ends even if I wanted to. It was like chewing on kindling. But the overall flavor profile of the bruschetta itself was nondescript and weak . . . not at all what I was expecting. There was absolutely no punch or panache to it.

By the time our entrées arrived, my tummy was growling. Maarten had the Prosciutto Panini with mozzarella, tomatoes and arugula while I ordered the Steak Panini with caramelized onions, arugula and asiago.  Both paninis were served with shoestring fries. 

Rut-roh….for the fair sake of disclosure, here goes another positive nod to Bar Rosso: the fries were really good; almost like Lay’s potato chips – you can’t eat just one.

As for the paninis . . .

Prosciutto Panini . . .

While not inspiring enough to make you lose your mind and hear the angels sing in harmony, the prosciutto panini didn’t dip into the dangerous depths of the world of lucifer either. It straddled the line of mediocrity—not really being that bad but not being that phenomenal either.

The steak panini was, well, it was, um er uh, well, it was like this . . .

. . . and the Steak Panini

Do note that looks can be deceiving. I will say that I take the initial blame for the steak panini as I failed to ask that it be prepared well-done. So, of course, the swirl of the universe being what it is and all, when it initially arrived, blood was practically dripping from the center of the meat which, right away, was a complete turn-off for me. I requested a re-do, this time well-done.

If you regularly follow this blog, you know my thoughts on well cooked cuisine. I was so hoping Bar Rosso didn’t fall into the dreaded chasm of despair.

They did.

I’ll be damned if, when the steak panini returned to the table, it was as tough as Jason Statham even on his worst day. It almost walked to the table by itself. When I bit into the thing, it stayed with me. I mean, it would not let go of my teeth. Eventually, sawing away at it with a knife won out over my cosmetically enhanced chompers, and even then it just wasn’t worth the effort and I wasn’t in the mood to give my jaw a major workout. Ultimately, the dish was taken off the bill, and rightfully so, considering I had barely consumed one-fourth of the panini.

And now I ask once again: What the hell happened, Bar Rosso?

Total bill (minus the steak panini): $49.99. And after it was all said and done, I was still hungry. So we trotted next door to Volta and I had myself a nice, cold, refreshing double . . . dulce de leche gelato, that is.

Happy Mother’s Day celebration to me.

*     *     *

Bar Rosso recently celebrated their one year anniversary. Way back when, I had high hopes for them when I wrote about their grand opening. Since the opening, there have been some major changes along the way and, as a diner, you always hope that change is for the better. This was my third visit to Bar Rosso and I’m not sure what to make of this recent let down. I only hope it is not a barometer for the way things will continue to be.

Despite this hiccup, I’m rootin’ for ya, Bar Rosso. There's always the possibility of a fourth visit.