Restaurant Review: Fiaschetteria Pistoia
The social buzz of the East Village was humming in the distance. The smell of the Mediterranean diet, herbaceous digestifs, and Anthropologie perfumes, lingered as Angie and I traversed Tompkins Square Park, headed for pasta nirvana at Fiaschetteria Pistoia.
A cozy Tuscan joint at 11th and Avenue C, set back on a secluded corner, you hear and feel the place first. Overflowing chit chatter and warm yellow hues inside where wooden décor soaks up the dinner conversation so all dialects, languages, and accents become a soothing drumbeat of human back-and-forth.
Due to our eagerly early arrival, we were seated at an imposter of a table, that was really a disguised gerbil hutch. Wedged between, and to some degree within, cardboard boxes at a table cornered behind the bar, our candid but courteous server managed to get us moved to another spot. To that enviable table in a restaurant where two people can look out and both feast equitably on the visuals of the room, safely and soundly from a slightly hidden vantage point. Private, yes, but also involved.
As my buttocks began to numb from the hard, wooden chairs, I took in the busy resto vibe. Family bickering between bartender and server, server and host, perhaps concerning the correct proportion of gin in a Negroni, or a crisis of confidence in their chosen Parmigiano. Or regular family matters, like what to do about Uncle Massimo’s latest infidelity, an update on dad’s beard, or Mama Gloria’s diabetic diagnosis. At any rate, it felt endearing and true to spectate on these little, loving tiffs.
We perused the menu under faded posters of Pistoia hung on the sandy walls of this intimate eatery, just about treading the fine line between authentic and contrived. All the classics were on the menu. Of course, there was a burrata, and cacio e pepe. And of course, I chose both. While mulling over other dishes, our server plonked a genuine milk crate of vino down and strolled away to tend to a table of belligerent early-stage millennials. We were left with this milk crate to pick out a wine for ourselves, each wine tagged to show varietal and price, but all pretty middle of the road. And that’s how they tasted. The presentation of the bottles, the casual nature of how they were dumped down, resonated with the very much “table wine” wine taste. Fun to swig, easy lashings. We had a white.
I padded my stomach with wondrous ciabatta, served to us as we inspected the milk crate and chatted about pasta choices. Crunchy, salty, and perfectly complemented by drizzles of zesty EVOO. A strong foundation for the carb cholesterol fest to come.
Burrata came next, proudly dispatched by our candid server chap. Now once the burrata arrives at your table, wherever you are, it’s imperative to assess for specific characteristics:
- How much are you getting? Are they doing that cheap thing of breaking it up for you and placing it over spinach, as if it were nothing but store-bought Mozzarella plastic? Or, do you get a solid log of milky cheesy wonderland?
- How’s the creaminess and nuttiness? Does it have decent flavor depth?
- To what extent is it drenched in Balsam or EVOO, therefore making it shit?
Well, Pistoia’s burrata rocked. Nestled between some semi-sweet, balsam-glazed cherry tomatoes, it was fluffy in the mouth, with nutty notes lingering after each swallow. Bit petite though, could have done with a few extra curves, and greater girth.
Following our bread and dairy gluttony, it was time for cacio and his good friend pep. However, when a meagre plate of pasta plopped down between my arms, I was underwhelmed. “Where is all of it?! There’s maybe 8 pieces of thick doughy linguine here in cheesy, pepper water!? Do they have a decent tiramisu on the menu, ‘cos I’m a gonna need it!?”
But I didn’t. By the sixth sublime mouthful I had not only been transported to Pistoia and the plentiful source of cacio e pepe, I was getting stuffed. The pasta was thick, al dente, almost chewy, but mellowed by the sauce. And such a taste to the pasta, subtly nutty and rich. Truly sublime pasta. Could there have been more? Sure. Should there have been more? Okay, maybe a few more.
Meanwhile, Ang had unsurprisingly shot for her usual Bolognese, and was duly ploughing her way through a slight serving, made to look all the more vulnerable by being served in a deceptively large soup bowl. Uninspiring quantity notwithstanding, the I-95-wide, hand cut tagliatelle had this perfect bit of chew to it, providing smooth, unspoilt highway for the rich sauce to drive down and instill happiness and hugs on the palate. No great surprises here, just a hearty mini plate of wide-lane warmth.
As my acids contemplated how to breakdown the thick noodles and emulsify an astonishing amount of pecorino, Ang moved on to sip an underwhelming espresso. The poor cup required a lot of milk and sugar to cover the taste of musty storage spaces, and delays at different ports around the world. A somewhat mediocre conclusion to a promising array of Italian classics.
Thankfully, we were full. Our cousins Tirami and Sue were not needed. We slumped back, and continued necking the table wine while looking out on the crowd. Somewhat out of leftfield, the hosts decided to play The Doors, perhaps seeking to add an effortlessly cool background sound? And to be fair, Riders on the Storm, plus well-curated carbs was a pretty winning combo. Just like a summer long weekend away with your closest friend or amorous associate, where you’re sitting on a beach in a deckchair with your favorite cat nearby game for a stroke and tickle. Winning.
Verdict: Here’s the thing. If you’re looking for great house made pasta and fun-swigging vino in a homey hipster setting, try Fiaschetteria. You’ll have a fun night.