After some missteps, Fiola finds its footing
Chef Trabocchi offers affordable luxury
By Tom Sietsema
Sunday, March 18, 2012

Here's a sample of what I love about the year-old Fiola in Penn Quarter: You can order a life-affirming grilled cheese sandwich with tomato soup at lunch, and a clutch of spaghetti bejeweled with Santa Barbara-fresh sea urchin and gorgeous prawns at dinner.

It took him some time, but chef Fabio Trabocchi has figured out what, and how, his audience wants to eat at his eagerly awaited restaurant. Fiola marked Trabocchi's return to Washington and the chef's first attempt at running his own show, but it misstepped a few times out of the gate.

"There were challenges," the chef says of what was initially planned as a trattoria. It took a while for his staff to move in concert ("we all need to breathe the same air," Trabocchi puts it poetically) and for the boss to let go of the past, chiefly his starry turns in the deluxe dining rooms, now dark, that made him a foodie favorite: Maestro in Tysons Corner followed by Fiamma in New York. The chef compares the birth of a restaurant to that of a child: No matter how well you plan, he says, "you never know what the restaurant is going to become, an athlete or a student."

My recent visits have convinced me that Fiola has matured into a smooth-running dining room offering affordable luxury and masterly attention to the fine points. A salad of blood oranges, baby artichokes and capers breaks from the expected with its spoonful of cream-enriched fresh sorrel, while venison transcends the routine when gently cooked over pine needles and paired with foie gras and savoy cabbage. Even the way Trabocchi puts together an appetizer of red peppers, arugula and white anchovies - sweet, sharp, intoxicating - makes its ingredients taste new.

What made Fiola special from Day 1 remains in place. Meals still commence with buttery, sea-salted rolls (a cross between focaccia and croissants, they're like crack, only legal). Lunch and dinner still end with sweet somethings, typically house-made chocolates and near-weightless macarons. Pastas continue to seduce me, as do libations.

The cocktail list is more like a novella, and the name of its author on the opening page underscores how far we've come on the drinks front. Jeff Faile was recruited from the beloved Palena in Cleveland Park to work his magic at Fiola, and there's not a cocktail I've tried that doesn't do exactly what the mix master promises. Flip through the choices (bound in the same irritatingly floppy leather covers as the food menu), and you'll find a drink to match your mood. Everything is Faile-safe. My most recent detours have been the rye-fueled Coventry, which goes down like a Manhattan, only more intriguing; and the refreshing Ain't That a Daisy? coaxed from high-end tequila, lime, grapefruit and hibiscus cordial.

Temples of haute cuisine can be gilded cages for chefs and diners alike. Would Trabocchi have dared to serve meatballs at Maestro in the Ritz-Carlton? "Like my mother's!" says the Italian American son at my table about the appetizer, soft orbs shaped from pork, beef and veal and topped with a trembling organic egg and a dusting of pecorino. As for that classic soup-and-sandwich lunch combination, the chef gives it a lofty Italian spin. The bread, brioche baked in-house, is served crustless; bite down, and fresh ricotta and buffalo mozzarella ooze from inside. The soup, vivid orange and bold with garlic, smacks of a peasant cooking for a prince: simple ingredients combined with flair.

A Michelin richness imbues many dishes. Not much on the menu comes without a truffle, a scallop or a froth of sauce as embellishment. Branzino, for example, is dressed with plump belon oysters and sweet minced leeks, then sent to the table in a rich foam of prosecco and lemony fish stock. "The first time I ate this, I giggled," says Faile as he presents a generous plate of tortellini stuffed with shredded baby lamb to me at the bar. It's easy to explain his merriment: The fat hats of pasta, are joined by tender medallions of the same lamb, a shower of crushed black walnuts, shaved black truffles and kerchiefs of prosciutto. Sage makes its presence known in the composition, too, and when the puff of Parmesan-infused milk hovering over the entree collapses on everything, the pleasure borders on the sybaritic.

A few dishes play second-string. Fresh octopus is cooked to a tender state and framed with prized Controne beans that absorb the tang of the entree's tomato sauce. The dish might be a hit in a lesser place; at Fiola, however, the combination is merely pleasant.

The rich and powerful appear to have made this Italian retreat their home away from home. The Milan-based movie "I Am Love" wasn't shot here, but it could have been. At night in particular, with the lights dimmed, the restaurant takes on the air of a fizzy cocktail party. Fiola is Cafe Milano for VIPs who care what's on their plate. It's also more democratic. John Doe can play John Rockfeller if he sticks to the menu deals.

The beautiful people have a suitable setting in which to twirl their pasta. The dining room's curved ceiling appears to glow with gold leaf. The rosewood tables are linen-free but so smooth and polished they could double as mirrors. The bar isn't just a great place to taste the restaurant's Presto! lunch menu ($15 buys you an entree and a glass of vino). Sit at a corner stool or on the purple banquette overlooking the dining room, and you're privy to the dance of cooks captured in the kitchen windows.

Spend any time with the chef's wife and helpmate Maria Trabocchi - and odds are, you will, because she's a Grade-A greeter - and you might hear about her favorite perch: Table 62, a studio-size booth on the right side of the main dining room that allows its occupants to see and be scene. She's so charming, I forget to mention that our entrees are taking forever to reach us (lags between courses are one of Fiola's less desirable traits).

When he's asked now about his restaurant's development, the chef returns to a relative comparison. "Fiola is Maestro's son," says Trabocchi - a charming chip off the old block.