Siroc

I think it's possible that I'm starting to think like a real food critic now. I went to the Italian restaurant Siroc last night, ironically just across from Georgia Brown's when you cross McPherson square. There, I noticed that instead of trying to convince myself that I should like everything or excusing its tepidity as my own fault, I decided not to actively try and find value in everything I tasted to justify my going out.

This novel (but fairly obvious) conclusion was drawn after having received the amuse bouche. It was delicious--one solitary piece of pasta, stuffed with mild cheese and covered in a butter sauce--but it wasn't hot. At first, I assumed it was because I was busy arranging my silverware at right angles prior to my partaking, or overly preoccupied killing spiders on my table with the butt of my knife (ok ok, big knife, one small spider), or taking too much time to photograph it. But, I think it was just cold.

This philosophy, however, is why I get drunk at wine tastings. I assume wine purveyors wouldn't give me a bad wine and only under very limited circumstances would I not like a wine. By extension, I feel I should like all of them and finish every glass. This philosophy is also driven by a conservative propensity to waste nothing. But tonight I metaphorically swirled wines, smelled their bouquet, and ruthlessly dumped their contents if they weren't to my liking.

Ok, I didn't really do that--at all--but since I knew I had four dishes coming, I paced myself and three out of my four dishes were half-eaten, only because I had sufficiently tasted them. It's sort of less fun that way but certainly more analytically illuminating. Sorry, polysyllabic digressing.

I got the rabbit sausage which was stellar: two rabbit sausages on a hill of diced potatoes threaded with mild, melted cheese (montasio) and a homey, brothy, red wine sauce haloing it.

The salad was the only plate I finished off and it was surprisingly the most satisfying. I ordered the endive and watercress salad with avocado, crispy bacon and candied pecans dressed with a vanilla vinaigrette. I may have overdone citrus last night so the vanilla vinaigrette--delicately parfumed and not too strong--was a welcome touch. The avocado wasn't ripe and snobby food critic like, I had to pick out some of the endive since the salad quickly became disproporiately endiveful, but the flavors harmonized well.

I couldn't decide between pastas and my waitress helpfully offered that I could order two halves to try both. On the left, house-made black pepper tagliatelle with sweet garlic, olive oil, red pepper flakes and seared scallops. I liked the tagliatelle because it undulated like ramen. Maybe that suggests I have no food writer street cred. I didn't taste much else besides the pepper. The scallops were good but here, they could have used a little more than a quick sear.

On the right were cappelacci (raviolis that looked like sunny-side up eggs) filled with roasted butternut squash, mascarpone and amaretti, tossed in sage butter with smoked prosciutto. I would have loved more filling and to taste the amaretti. In Little Italy in Boston or New York, I had this dish with crushed amaretti on top. Maybe that's the Italian culinary equivalent to Mickey Mouse butters, but it tasted better and the flavors were better identifiable individually yet worked well together.

I had no right to order dessert after dismissing half my dinner to the busboy in what felt a very regal brushing-of-the-hand-way of saying I was all done by cracking open my book again. But I ordered the ice cream trio: passionfruit at the top left, mango clockwise, and blackberry at the bottom. And each one was adorned with a raspberry and surrounded by blackberries and blueberries.

Akin to last night, I didn't get my limoncello like other tables, which was fine because I was driving home. But, no more Miss Nice Girl.