Heart doesn’t
belong to daddy

Italian eatery Babbo is modern and simple,
but underwhelming

by BARTEK KOMOROWSKI

I have never had a noteworthy dining experience in Montreal’s Little Italy and, I’m sorry to say, I had lost interest in exploring restaurants in the area. But after having read a few positive reviews in other papers, I decided to give a relatively new player on the scene, Ristorante Babbo, a shot.

Babbo, which is another way of saying “papa,” is a modestly sized restaurant at the corner of St-Dominique and Bélanger, a stone’s throw from the Jean Talon Market. I met my friend Emily there for a Tuesday night dinner in late January. As we entered the modern but by no means aseptic restaurant around eight in the evening, the majority of the eye-catching, translucent Philippe Starck chairs stood empty.

From the decidedly simple menu, we requested the mixed antipasti and the salmon and avocado tartare for starters ($12 and $14 respectively). The former consisted of a selection of different salumi (Italian for charcuterie) accompanied by marinated artichokes, a leafy salad and a few herb-sprinkled tomato wedges. The meats included slices of cappicolo, prosciutto, salami genovese and cured duck breast. The duck breast, cured in-house, really stood out with its slightly gamy, sweet and salty flavour. I didn’t mind that the remaining salumi seemed to be of the standard, industrially made variety. I did however mind that they didn’t taste very fresh.

Most charcuterie, Italian or otherwise, is best when freshly sliced, before it has had a chance to oxidize. Clearly, what we got at Babbo was sliced earlier—perhaps much earlier. And yet, I noticed that there was a beautiful, fire-engine-red meat slicer prominently displayed on the counter by the bar. What a shame they didn’t use that gorgeous machine to slice our salumi on order. By doing so, they would have given us something that most of us can’t experience at home.

The other appetizer, the tartare, was also underwhelming. Though attractively presented in a martini glass lined with leafy greens, the greenish mince was dominated by the avocado not only in colour but also in flavour and texture. The delicate, raw salmon was barely noticeable. This was more a salmon-tinged guacamole than salmon tartare.

For mains, Emily and I both got pasta dishes, of which there were six or seven to choose from ($12–$20). She requested the spaghetti alla carbonara—a classic dressing made of eggs, fatty cured pork (pancetta or guanciale), cheese (traditionally pecorino romano), and in some cases cream. The large pork lardons looked appealing but lacked a much-needed salty bite. Another problem was the pasta itself: the dry spaghetti was so undercooked that it was almost crunchy. It didn’t help that the dish wasn’t very warm.

I ordered pappardelle with porcini mushrooms and sage. The restaurant was out of this broad, ribbon-shaped pasta and, in lieu, I was offered a choice of linguine or spaghetti—morphologically speaking, both quite unlike pappardelle. I chose the former because at least it was flat. Despite this inauspicious beginning, the dish turned out to be enjoyable. The pasta was topped with a generous portion of fresh, plump porcini, and was nicely coated with an aromatic mushroom- and herb-infused butter without being greasy. Still, it’s a shame about the pappardelle; they would have carried that flavourful coating so much better than the linguine.

When I requested the dessert menu, I was promptly told that none of the regular dessert items were available that day, but the amicable chef offered to whip up a duck egg zabaglione for two. The idea of having the classic alcohol-infused whipped custard made with rich, gamy duck eggs intrigued me; I took him up on the offer. I’m glad I did because it was lovely—delicate and airy and yet somehow rich and unctuous, a gastronomic oxymoron of sorts.

Delicious as it was, the dessert did not make us forget the earlier disappointments. Alas, my sentiments about dining in Little Italy remain unchanged.