The Italian Joint

There’s a lot to be said for the local Italian joint.

Not the Carlton Crew type, with pasta on Mondays and shootouts on Saturdays.

I’m talking about the backstreet bistros where nonna churns out delicious, home-style fare for less than 20 bucks.

When we started our family five years ago, we promised to have monthly ‘date nights’ to reconnect.

Guess how often it’s happened?

Once.

Pretty pathetic, hey?

So, last week, we booked a babysitter and ran out the door.

Because we were so excited about going out without the kids, we felt overwhelmed by choices.

Dinner or a show? Movie or a live band?

The local cinema was showing the kind of American dross where you remove your brain from your skull and place it on the seat next to you.

I forgot to do my hair and make-up, or wear anything fashionable, so a groovy bar was out of the question.

And due to a recent bout of hay fever, Christmas had come early to my face.

Frankly, I resembled Rudolph.

What we needed was somewhere simple and unpretentious, with low lighting.

Driving aimlessly around the northern beaches, we stumbled upon the perfect place.

Well, almost perfect.

The lighting was so bright you could perform s0urgery.

The only scalpels we wanted were the kind that cuts piccata al limone.

Our table was next to the ubiquitous sunflower painting.

I reckon if Vincent Van Gogh was alive to see this, he’d cut out his eyes as well as his ear.

We asked for the wine list and the menu, but the waitress threw back her head and laughed.

“Oh, we have a couple of wines from Griffith,” she said cheerfully, “and Silvio just cooks what he feels like on the night!”

I didn’t know whether to be terrified or relieved.

What followed was the best dining experience outside Italy.

The courses kept coming – pumpkin and sage agnolotti (ravioli) that melts on your tongue, risotto al radicchio, proper Italian meatloaf, chicken Toscana and tiramisu.

Then the homemade wild berry liqueur, poured unceremoniously from a two-litre plastic container.

I felt like hugging Silvo when he finally emerged from the kitchen, glistening with sweat.

Striding confidently to our table, he embarked on a half-hour dissertation on what was wrong with Italian cooking in Australia.

“Everything I cook, I learned from my nonna in Verona, in the north of Italy,” he began, rising to a crescendo on the subject of pasta alla carbonara.

“Cream!” he bellowed, slamming his fist on the table. “Once, I saw mushrooms!!!” he shouted, appalled at the crimes committed by cooks in this country.

Apparently a proper spaghetti carbonara is simply pasta, eggs, cheese, Italian bacon, black pepper and no garlic.

We left feeling fat, happy and rich: the bill came to less than $80.

So next time you want a fun night out that won’t break the bank, pop in to the backstreet bistro near your place.

You won’t be disappointed.