Silvestros

A few weeks ago, I had pasta for the first time.

In one of those sublime moments when the eternal past melds seamlessly with the transient present, I was transported back to my grandmother Chichetti's cramped kitchen, slurping fettucine from a chipped cereal bowl. Tossed in olive oil and grated parmesan, it didn't look like anything special - just her idea of an afternoon snack - but to me there was nothing better. I asked her why my friends' parents' pasta was so terrible; after all, you just throw it in boiling water for a few minutes, right? "What you had was limp Anglo-Saxon noodles in ketchup," she said sternly. "They don't know al dente from a hole in the ground."

When I opened my eyes, I was 30 years older and hundreds of miles away in Silvestro's eating farfalle ai funghi (bowtie pasta in crimini mushroom sauce) cooked to al dente perfection. Cooking pasta al dente, which roughly translated means "to the tooth" or "to the bite," is an acquired skill, earned from years of preparation and consumption, and like any skill, informed by an ineffable artistic sensibility. Al dente pasta has a barely perceptible resistance in its texture; one second less in the water, and it would be too firm; a half-second more and it would turn rubbery. It's ready when it reaches a stage no digital timer can signal. You either know it, or you don't.

Silvestro Antonioli knows it.

Forget that under Silvestro's guidance, Savannah's Il Pasticcio restaurant earned many nationally recognized awards or that he's cooked for a host of celebrities. Forget that Zagat gave the trattoria one of their highest ratings and that USA Today named it one of the top ten Italian restaurants in the country. That he's opened a restaurant in Cocoa Beach is all that matters now, and that the native Roman was once a successful grocer and learned to cook from watching his mother as a boy are probably his best qualifications.

The true soul of Italian food is neither the rococo facade of St. Peter's basilica nor is it the imposing cupola of the Duomo. At its heart, it's the pitted stucco of a peasant's home, and simplicity flows through its veins. But miraculously, what's good for the Holy Pope is good for the lowly shepherd, and therein lies the brilliance of its universal appeal - a distinction not lost on Silvestro.

In the subtle difference between art and artifice, there's a sort of nakedness to good Italian cuisine, in which flavors are gently coaxed to the surface and left unmasked, as evinced by Silvestro's revelatory penne al pomodoro seco. Pesto, often served as a lumpy paste, is really a delicate synthesis of chopped basil leaves, pine nuts, olive oil, and parmesan cheese, and should be treated as such. Infused with sun-dried tomatoes, Silvestro's liltingly spicy version respects each ingredient equally, and we could simultaneously taste their flavors individually and collectively. In successive washes of color, each component introduced itself modestly, then resumed its place in the delicious crowd.

There seems to be a trend among chefs these days to whip their ingredients into submission. We see their type on television: brash, stressed out, frenetically throwing ingredients into angrily sizzling pans. More than likely, that aggression comes out in the food. Silvestro, like any good chef, knows the value of restraint and humility. Like a nurturing father, he gives his ingredients a small lesson in discipline then gives them room to spread their wings, and his love shines through in every dish.

This love also came out in his fettucine alla Bolognese con besciamella (fettucine pasta in a tomato meat sauce and lightly creamy béchamel). In lesser hands this could have been a confused mess of oiliness, but again, it's a testament to Silvestro's genius that it was both hearty and delicate - a balance only patience and care can render.

With samplings of these three amazing pastas, arranged like the Italian tricolor - the muted green of the pesto penne, the ivory of the mushroom farfalle, and the deep red of the fettucine Bolognese - we began our meal in Silvestro's dining room, an homage to the marriage of sophistication and simplicity that is dining all'italiano. In another stroke of genius, one can see the cooks at work in the open kitchen off to the side. The resultant ambience achieves a sense of democratic inclusiveness. The cooks and the patrons become one, and all are part of the feast. Though I'm sure it must get tense back there (each dish is cooked to order and pasta cooked on the spot), their calm demeanor is an infectious, concentrated passion. Both elegant and cozily understated, Silvestro's interior welcomes you in warmly like family and leaves you dreading your
eventual departure.

Though we were pretty full, other items on the extensive menu were too enticing to ignore. Making our choice was a bit frustrating with so many of our favorite dishes making appearances, but took we took a bottle of earthy red Barbaresco and split the scaloppine di vitello al limone, impossibly tender veal glazed with a whisper of fresh lemon.

It was absolutely excellent, yet we yearned for a larger appetite to try ravioli di aragosta (lobster ravioli), gnocchi (freshly made potato dumplings), zuppa di pesce (mussels, clams, shrimp, scallops, grouper, and sea bass in seafood broth), a large variety of salads, fettucine alla carbonara, and the carpaccio (thinly sliced marinated filet mignon). The menu, to say nothing of the wonderful wine list, reads like a dream, and I could create a monthly column here dedicated solely to each future meal.

For dessert, we sampled the dolce di ricotta con frutta (ricotta cheesecake with fruit topping), a torta al cioccolato (rich chocolate torte with fruit and pistachio garnish), and a phenomenal tiramisu. Along with their bread, each dessert is baked fresh in-house, lending them a slight warmth and lightness.

By the time we'd sipped our espressos, we realized nearly four hours had passed. My wife and I are used to taking our time and resent being rushed. The unaffected, bouyant atmosphere of Silvestro's rounded out with bona fide Italian food and impeccably attentive, yet seemingly invisible service are what made the time pass so slowly and enjoyably. It should be said that Silvestro's is expensive, but frankly, you can't put a monetary value on food this good.

As we left, we exchanged "ciaos" with Silvestro and his staff through the kitchen, and I couldn't help but give my grandmother an inquisitive heavenward look. Every time I eat Italian, she's there in the back of my mind, giving either her nod of approval or her disgusted grimace. She'd been grimacing a lot lately, and I was getting a bit worried. In the grand scheme of things, five "palms," five "stars," even seven "stars" mean little. Silvestro's food transcends all earthly accolades. The highest compliment I can bestow on Silvestro's is that Mary Chichetti nodded that night...and even gave a generous smile.

Silvestro's (2039 N. Atlantic Ave.) is located in Banana River Square in Cocoa Beach. They're open for dinner Sunday through Thursday from 5 to 10 p.m. and from 5 to 11 p.m. Friday and Saturday. Lunch (a separate listing of lower-priced items) is served everyday from 11 to 2 p.m. Stop by to peruse their delectable menu or visit www.silvestros.com to see their complete listing of dishes and wines. There, you'll also read about weekly features and specials. The website is also a great place to read other reviews and learn the origins of Silvestro's brilliant career. Their per-couple $195 prix fixe Valentine's Day menu includes a traditional five-course meal (with your choice of many dishes), a glass of champagne, and a bottle of wine. Make your reservations early by calling 783-4853. Normal reservations are recommended, and Silvestro's is able to accomodate wedding receptions, parties, business luncheons, and other special occasions and can provide catering service as well.