Bibiana

Conviviality and hospitality are two words tied unconditionally to Italian food. The emphasis on friend-creating wine, cheeses meant to be shared, pasta dishes that invite forks aggressively sampling foods across the table, and heart-gladdening olive oil in Italian food usually complements the rapport between two friends. In my gastronomical world, friends and diners enjoying Italian cuisine should feel enveloped by metaphorical Italian grandmother's arms and her nagging insistence at how welcome they are to her hospitality.

My friend Dotti and I last night went to Bibiana, the 99th best restaurant in DC. After taking a series of one-way streets going in the opposite direction of the restaurant and realizing the restaurant was on the total opposite corner of where we were in relation to the monolithic building to which the restaurant was attached, we desperately wanted a warm seat and a drink when we arrived.

The bar, lounge and dining room are all beautiful: sophisticated, full of clean lines and luxury. We took a seat at the bar, which somehow had a delightfully warm counter top where we defrosted our hands. But that was the most sincere attention we got for the approximately 30 minutes we were there while we waited for our table.

We asked the bartender why the wine servings beyond glasses were oddly labelled QT and BTG. "Is it Italian?" we asked. He responded that was just how they were labelled, then wandered off and bursted out like a small child who just mastered a curse word, bottiglia. (I had to google that.) After asking if he would take our wine order, we ordered a bottiglia, which he set down before us without uncorking it and with two glasses, not returning for another five minutes. He finally returned, uncorked the wine and poured it; then our table became available and I huffily took the bottle. A manager had the attentiveness to notice I was awkwardly carrying an open bottle of wine to our table and relieved me of it. That was a welcome gesture, but the bewildering inattentiveness of the waiter was alarming.

The menu was beautiful and we didn't put our finger on it then, but it was sort of cold and a reflection of the restaurant. The descriptions lacked voluptuousness, the font was tiny and austere, and Dotti even asked, crestfallen, "where's the lasagna?" This didn't bother us any: we were raucous and loud with a hint of vulgarity, but not because the restaurant encouraged that type of celebration over food.

Ah well: the bread was delicious, porous but tender, with a delicate olive oil.

Dotti and I both had antipasti. She ordered the datteri, a sentimental favorite of us both: here the roasted dates were stuff with Crescenza cheese and pancetta and covered with probably honey and candied pistachios. It was a hint too sweet, but still flavorful and rustically textured.

I ordered the burrata, one bite of which I've only ever had at Acqua al 2 and I've been haunted by its flavor and texture since then. Last night, it was Pugliese burrata (Puglia being a region in southeastern Italy) with picked beets and mint. It was exceptional in its simplicity.

Not surprisingly, it took inordinately long for our dinners to come. And having been a waitress, I always worry when a hot plate arrives (as it did), as that usually indicates it's been sitting under the heat lamp for too long. I'm not sure if this is a heat lamp type of place, but the pacing was still decidedly off. Dotti ordered the braised lamb ravioli with almonds, espelette, mint, and pecorino. True to form, that's what I was considering ordering too.

Instead, I got the burnt wheat cavatelli, a delightful pasta that seemed full of kinetic energy with its tight spirals. It was served with espresso sausage, broccoli rabe, and pecorino. The broccoli rabe was rich, coupled with the cheese, and the sausage was broken into small pieces so it paired up more easily with bites of pasta. It could has used more pecorino, but it was a cleverly-constructed dish.

Despite the uninspired and mildly frosty service, I still had an appetite to keep going as the food was delicious. I ordered the Study in Chocolate/Hazelnut, which was exquisite: at the base, crushed hazelnuts composed into a sort of unhealthy but appropriately-desserty granola, surrounded by a pool of hazelnut cream, girded by a Viennese cookie (delicate exterior with a chocolate/hazelnut filling inside), hazelnut chocolate atop it all, with a smear of Nutella on the side. Seriously.

The food was admirable: beautifully plated, delicately arranged, classically constructed, but it all lacked the requisite Italian gregariousness that makes food that should be bursting with character remain as lifeless as the disengaged service. Molto triste.