Amber light spills out from the little house with the hydrangeas. The sign attached to it glows softly, reading, “L’Orcio, Italian Food and Drink.” Simple enough. It’s 8:30. I’ve convinced a friend to dress up and join me for some fine dining. I’ve promised to pay. I’ve promised that it’ll be good. Sleep already clouds our eyes and our feet hurt from walking all this way in loafers. Thankfully, it’s only a single step from the front door to the hostess stand. From the stand, we are led past the bar to one of the nine tables in the back.
White tablecloths, white napkins, white plates. There’s scattered rustic artwork on the walls. Conversation bubbles around me. Waiters in black flicker in and out of the dining room.
They can see we’re tired. They know we’re hungry. They take our order quickly. We have to start with the burrata. Cheese, arugula, and sundried tomatoes is not much of a test for a kitchen, but it’s nice to see it pass with flying colors anyways. The burrata came with a surprise: four little wedges of focaccia with blistered cherry tomatoes laying atop. The bread is crisp on the outside and it crackles as I pull it apart, but it’s soft and spongy on the inside. I drape a wedge in arugula and burrata and bathe it in the birdbath of olive oil that accompanies the bread. The acidic tinge of the tomatoes and the mild bitterness at the edge of the arugula and olive oil enlivens the tasty, but innocent, bread and burrata.
It’s not long before the entrées arrive. Saltimbocca di Vitello is placed before me, and for my friend, the Pappardelle al Ragú. My knife slices the veal, blanketed in pancetta and fontina cheese, with ease. It melts in the mouth—chewing is a mere suggestion. While the fontina dominates the plate, each bite is a sensuous delight. The sautéed spinach and roasted potatoes on the side luxuriate in the white wine sauce, becoming rich and indulgent.
The ragú is a familiar dish done unfamiliarly well. The thick pappardelle noodles fold over each other and get tangled up in each other’s arms. The sauce covers it all. Tender and hearty pockets of ground beef, veal, and pork hide beneath every noodle. Though the setting of L’Orcio invites long and languorous meals, our entrées are gone in an instant.
For dessert, I have the “Charlotte,” a thick cut slab of chocolate mousse crusted in amaretto-soaked cookies with a lean-to of hand-whipped cream piled against it. While the texture of the mousse could be smoother, the taste is larger than life. The bitterness of the dark chocolate lingers on the tongue, waiting to be counteracted by the sheer sweetness of the amaretto cookies, the whipped cream, or a stolen bite of my tablemate’s vanilla gelato. All of this I wash down with a macchiato, staving off an impending food coma.
As I walk back to campus, my stomach is full, but my pockets empty. L’Orcio comes at a price—not one I’d pay for just anyone. L’Orcio is a place you take good friends or lovers. The interior is warm and inviting. The food lets you forget yourself for a while. The experience is best shared with those who, too, are warm and inviting, who let you forget yourself for a little while.
