Being Here

Christ, I've exhausted that title about 16 times, maybe.

But: Filippo's. It's a little place on College Avenue in Oakland in the Rockridge district and Brigitte and I were in desperation to escape this house and the smoke, so I remembered it from like, three years back.

You haven't lived till you've been to a restaurant-not-fat-food in the Bay Area.

I'm speaking to you Montrealers. All others can parse as you wish. But number one, you have to expect lineups. Okay, okay, no reservations at L'Express might leave you dining at the bar on a Monday night, but dinner at some buttfuck Italian place in Oakland having a lineup?

It be so. But y'know, we walked in there and there was a tiresome lineup for, maybe 12 tables, but these people REALLY knew what they were doing. At the bar: harried staff but she took the time out, completely unasked, to pour a glass of ice water. Not even a conversation. Me: "House white?" No conversation. Just move, pour, deliver.

Then while we wait we see the House do its stuff. These guys are on display and not a one of them has ever been anywhere near Napoli. I'm guessing, but the two line cooks were probably Ecuadorean or El Salvadorean and the waitresses were from Taiwan. I swear.

I watched them. Two little motherfuckers half my age, spinning pans, tossing shrimp, sprinkling basil . . . in approximately 1/8th the time it would take me.

So then we were seated, but it was like a concerted team pored over us: the El Salvadorean Maitre D' laughed appropriately at my joking but in an appropriate manner and service was whipped out. No Restaurant Makeover for this place.

This place is wired tight, locked and loaded, they might be 20-somethings from Guanaco but the food they put out was amazing. Ravioli in cream sauce, gamberi with capellini . . . hey, you expected Dean Martin to poke in and say "Who's on next?"

But it was not only delectable, with a little personal setup of garlic and spices in olive oil for your sourdough slices, but an amazingly creamy ravioli, really, really expertly done (Brigitte and I were deconstructing the recipe) and it was extremely reasonably priced so we went there TWO NIGHTS IN A ROW.

Christ, in a town where any ass one-horse restaurant could lead to a mugging or maybe just a friendly punch in the face, this was really, really nice.

Leftovers, even.

But there was a glitch. I know that customers are supposed to come and go, Table Four are assholes, but I walked into the kitchen and asked to speak to whoever was in charge. Well, the Ecuadorean dude shoves his mug in mine. And I say" Just how did you make the cream sauce for the ravioli? What, heavy cream, onion, garlic, what? Did you do a roux? Cheese?"

"Parmesan" was what came out of his mouth. At that point I kinda left it, as four line cooks were staring at me and "Manuel", as I'll label him was directing his beady gaze into my eyes.

"Parmesan . . . so that's the secret! Good stuff guys, more parmesan, just hope it ain't Kraft" and I was hustling out of there. The knives they use are very sharp.

Next time I'll tell you about the guy who REALLY wants to open a poutine place in the Bay Area.