Beyond toast, the nightly selection includes “Bowls,” “Snacks,” and a daily fresh sheet called “Plates,” all recalling lost weekends in Tuscany or Provence or Andalucia. Housemade ricotta gnocchi with braised beef short-rib ragu was appropriately robust. A butter lettuce salad combined fava beans, shallot frizzles, and pecorino Toscana in a briskly refreshing mint-lemon créme-fraîche vinaigrette. A wedge of tortilla Española dolloped with smoky paprika aioli went nicely with a glass of La Bardonne Bordeaux off a well-chosen European-heavy list. (A short -selection of cocktails lent color and no shortage of exuberance to one visit—particularly a lemony little number crafted with vodka and flecked with rosemary. But let’s be clear: This is red wine food.)
Even most of Nyffeler’s more complex stretches worked, including a beautifully proportioned romp of a roasted lamb and bread salad, and a rustic plate of pan-seared scallops, cleverly served over lemon risotto. An admirable compilation of pepper piperade, marinated leeks, and thick chickpea crepes were marred only by their star player, an undercooked hunk of black cod. The only other misstep was one curt server who did not possess, alas, the “hospitality personality” evinced by virtually everyone else.
Desserts are predictably strong from this pastry aficionado, particularly one lush almond pastry—I get all bothered just recalling it. Indeed Dinette’s the sort of place that tends to draw emotionally exaggerated responses. “Someone really cared about this lentil soup!” I scrawled purply in my notes, which would later recall an ingenuous remark Nyffeler shared when I phoned: “People tell us they can taste the love in the food.”
Anywhere else, that would sound hokey. At Dinette it just sounds true.
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Published: August 2006
