Restaurant Review - Mediterranean, Mr. C.’s way
Impassioned oration and lovable overkill at Roswell’s new Sugo
Is he here tonight? I don’t seem him when we walk through the door into the smiling, clearly sated crowd. We’re seated by a sunny woman whom I bet throws a mean open house at Christmas. My friends peruse the menu, commenting on how unexpectedly low the prices are. But I’m distracted, on the lookout for my favorite part of a meal at Sugo.
And here he comes around the corner from the kitchen, clad in a red sweater.
Frederico Castellucci approaches the table and greets us in a bosso profundo voice: “How are ya this evening, folks?” My chums look up, slightly alarmed. I grin to myself.
“Good,” someone answers politely. “How are you?”
“Better — now that you’re here,” he answers, and winks at us in acknowledgement of his cheesy shtick.
Then, in a delivery that’s more soliloquy than spiel, Castellucci begins: “Let me tell you a little bit about what we do here. This isn’t Italian, per se. My father was Italian, my mother was Greek. I like to think of this food as Mediterranean.” His hands churn operatically as he recounts highlights from the menu, rattling off ingredients so fast in his Mafioso-lite brogue (more New Jersey than New York to my ears) that you can barely follow. “The eggplant Montasio is loved even by those who usually hate eggplant.
“We don’t fry our calamari. Did my grandmother have an electric deep-fat fryer? No! So we bake it.
“Our dressed breads just emerged from the oven. We change them every day. Tonight we’ve stuffed the focaccia with chicken, artichoke hearts, caramelized onions, two kinds of cheese ...”
We sit quietly, taking it all in. Now my tablemates are grinning, too. What could come off as an annoying sales pitch is instead an earnest introduction to this guy’s world: He loves what he does and wants you to enjoy yourself. There’s a momentary pause in conversation when he moves on from our table, like the instant of appreciation at the end of a good movie before everyone jumps up from their seats to file out.
I remember Castellucci from his days as co-owner of the Roasted Garlic restaurants. And as with those ventures, once you’ve heard his ebullient preamble, the show really kicks into motion.
A friendly soul (and I’m betting that there are lots of family or friends of family on staff) soon sidles up to ask for a drink order. When glasses of wine cost between $3 and $8, it’s hard to resist a little vino even on a school night. If you have any indecision about your choice, you’re happily plied with several samples until you find a selection that suits your taste. “Oh, that Chianti is one of Mr. C.’s favorites,” beams a young server one night. I suddenly feel as though I’m in an episode of “Happy Days.”
Also reminiscent of the Roasted Garlic, Castellucci follows no current culinary trends: His food is neither simple, nor does it focus on, say, the cooking of a single village in the heart of Liguria. It’s busy, it’s plentiful and it’s meant for sharing. Many of the offerings fall into the categories of tapas or contori (side dishes), and, as with the wine, are almost dubiously cheap — like $3 to $4.50 apiece cheap. Over-ordering is practically mandatory.
Much of it is enjoyable in that Americanized overkill sort of way. The aforementioned eggplant is so buried in mozzarella, basil and artichokes that it only has a supporting role anyway — what’s for eggplant dissenters to dislike? The dressed (read: stuffed) breads are alive with chunks of meats and vegetables oozing out in a volcanic river of cheese.
I’m most enamored of the small plates with less going on: delicious, unctuous wild boar sausage; a bowl of truly crisp potatoes tossed with a flurry of pecorino; austere roasted peppers barely charred but meaty and sweet.
Pizzas are even gloppier than you might have expected them to be, but someone in the kitchen did a commendable job of engineering a crust that manages to be both tender and sturdy enough to support the weight of bountiful toppings. And there are some fun combinations available. Try the Bolognese with caramelized onions (a favored ingredient in this restaurant, to be certain) and sausage or the broccoli rabe number with peppers and piquant Montasio cheese.
By the time you polish off tapas and a pizza, you probably aren’t going to want a whole entree to yourself, particularly when you see the gigando platters whizzing through the room. I recommend two options: the Pasta Duetto with fluffy, billiard ball-sized meatballs, or the pork tenderloin layered with basil and mozzarella and served with a side of — say it with me — caramelized onions. Less successful are tortellini submerged in a Davy Jones’ locker of innocuous pink cream sauce. And salmon, with its tomato sauce and cheese and myriad of other elements, never adds up to a satisfying cohesion.
But even if you don’t fall in love with every dish you order here, it’s hard not to settle in to Sugo’s rhythm and wallow in the affordable feast, particularly with Mr. C.’s paternal, vaudevillian presence. It’s rare these days to have such a charmer working the room. If Maggiano’s could only clone him.