Audio By Carbonatix
It’s similar to the regular chicken,” a server at Casa Toscana explained, describing a nightly special of sage-stuffed roast chicken breast with porcini cream sauce and gorgonzola. “But with more attitude.”
Attitude, at least in a restaurant, is not usually a good thing. And did an already rich sauce flavored with one of the most aromatic of mushrooms really need blue cheese crumbles? Surprisingly the combination worked. Which was fortunate, since chef Sandra Stefani is not about to tweak her creations according to diner whims, with one exception. “Unless there is a medical reason,” she explained firmly. “Then I will adjust. Otherwise no substitutions.”
As my dining companion and I hadn’t asked for any substitutions, we were rather taken aback by the unnecessary explanation. Though many diners seem to feel it’s their right to adjust a restaurant’s recipes, I’d personally no more ask a chef to use one ingredient instead of another than I’d suggest that a surgeon use a different scalpel. But to be fair, on that first visit we might have been projecting enough skepticism to elicit defensiveness. Like most food-wise travelers who’ve visited Italy often, I’ve pretty much given up on expecting even the most highly touted restaurants in this country to produce the kind of satisfying experience one can find in little mom-and-pop joints all over Italy. So when Casa Toscana opened earlier this year, I reacted accordingly. “Just what Miami needs — another so-called Italian restaurant,” I thought as I continued up Biscayne Boulevard to Quizno’s.
Surprise. Casa Toscana is just what Miami needs more of, and is very much like those fondly remembered trattorias. The food on three visits was often inspired, and always honest. The small, rustic room’s ambiance was warm and friendly enough to feel like a place you’d want to drop by often for a casual bite, but also romantic enough to bring a date. Trendy? No, thankfully, certainly not à la South Beach.
There is one trend, however, diners will find at Casa Toscana, one that more Miami eateries should emulate: Like a number of innovative New York and West Coast restaurants, wine is priced to draw diners in rather than to inflate profits. As well as serving meals, the Casa sells a small but savvy selection of Italian wines (plus some artisanal imported foods), and eat-in diners can enjoy a bottle for just a few dollars more than retail shoppers pay. At the high end, super Tuscans and Brunello di Montalcino ran $50 to $70. Vino Nobile Brunello di Montepulciano (a red wine produced in a neighboring town from the same sangiovese grape that many aficionados find just as intriguingly complex) went for $38, a price hard to beat at a discount chain.
But servers didn’t even push the priciest bottles. A $24 Castello di Poppiano Tosco Forte sangiovese highly recommended by Stefani (who works the room as well as the kitchen) had all the typical Tuscan balance of ripe fruit with refreshing acidity, and a taste that changed as it hit different parts of the mouth, like much more expensive reds. Even a $17 house Feudo di Santa Croce Negro Amaro was impressively powerful, with an intensely yeasty aroma, a smooth start, and sufficient tannins for a long finish. For white-wine fans, a $16 Coda di Volpe was a terrific summer wine, soft and fresh with floral hints but with a respectable 12 percent alcohol, not kid stuff despite its lightness.
The latter also went well with a special of penne with arugula, goat cheese, and roasted tomatoes. This was exactly the kind of preparation most American “Italian” restaurants screw up, because something that simple has to be perfect. It was. The pasta was al dente. The mild, slightly tangy, cheese had a fresh dairy taste and retained its structural integrity rather than dissolving into mush. The tomatoes projected the concentrated intensity sun-dried tomatoes are supposed to have yet had the texture of dried tomatoes, not dried-out leather. And the arugula, barely wilted by the penne, had the crunch arugula is supposed to have, not the limp sliminess arugula takes on when it’s not completely fresh and is subjected to heat.
Fiorentine crêpes were also terrific, though the pasta was not the thin crespelle expected. The layers were more elastic, like lasagna. Still they were nicely chewy. Spinach tasted fresh, as did the ricotta — mild but rich, not watery crapola. And the tomato sauce, though light as described, was full of flavor.
“Classica” spaghetti with meat sauce, on another visit, didn’t fare as well. Rather than the big, bold taste great central Italian meat sauces typically have, the stuff was bland — an undersalted, watery tomato gruel dotted with dry, near tasteless ground beef. What little flavor there was came from a sprinkling of fresh basil. And the spaghetti was overcooked.
Not as disappointing, but not quite what I’d expected, was ribollita. To be fair, it’s unreasonable to expect something specific when you order this Tuscan soup of vegetables and white beans. The name just means “recooked”– what a minestrone becomes after sitting on the back burner of a stove for a few days. It is supplemented by bread, and can consist of a variety of vegetables. In Italy, however, I’ve never encountered a version that didn’t include cavolo nero (Tuscan kale) or some other form of kale. It is traditionally, after all, a winter stew. In Italy I’ve also never had a ribollita that wasn’t thick enough to eat with a fork — and I’m talking about the broth. Casa Toscana’s version consisted of celery, carrots, onions, potatoes, and string beans, plus white beans and a few bread chunks. No tomato, no kale. It was certainly thick enough for a fork, but only because there were so many vegetables; none of the cannellini or bread had cooked down enough to give the thin, rosemary-tinged broth any substance.
Desserts at both dinners were outstanding. Panna cotta had its fifteen minutes of fame years ago but would still be going strong if most restaurants’ takes on “cooked cream” bore any resemblance to Casa Toscana’s. The whipped oval seemed as airy as merengue yet as rich as heavy cream. A custardy sabayon as skillfully made as any I’ve had in a French restaurant, plus crisply caramelized fresh figs, put the concoction right over the top. It so transcended cliché that next time I braved what’s usually the ultimate in clichés: double-chocolate cake. Originally invented by Mafiosi who ran out of cement while attempting to help an expired former associate swim with the fishes, this alleged cake is generally a two-ton sticky-sweet mess. At the Casa it was wonderful, with a dark-chocolate intensity and whipped cream to balance the fudginess.
At lunch only the eatery serves authentic panini, pressed and grilled. A prosciutto and mozzarella sandwich was wonderful, thanks to crusty, chewy ciabatta bread, particularly peppery extra-virgin olive oil, and excellent quality ham and whole-milk cheese. Even better was a tacchino sandwich: thin-sliced turkey breast (moist for a change, not dried out), spinach, caramelized onions, and fontina cheese. A sandwich with attitude? Yes, and it’s a good thing.
