Style Over Substance

The chef needs to have his salt shaker put under lock and key until he learns to taste his food before sending it out to the dining room. One night, dish after dish was sabotaged by an excess of sodium, starting with a bowl of chicken broth bathing meat-filled tortellini. Separated from their broth, the dime-size bites of pasta were fine. But the liquid prompted a colleague to put down his spoon in disappointment. "Lot's wife in a bowl," he declared, nailing the appetizer. The sauteed veal with artichokes that followed could have been Lot's wife's twin.

The room can't decide what it wants to be. Wrought-iron chandeliers, tapestries on the walls and a single fresh rose at each table signal that you're not eating at Olive Garden. But an enormous display of fruit, wine and more in the center of the main room is out of place, as if an Italian grocer had dropped by with a forklift's worth of product. Adding to the genteel hokiness is a soundtrack that occasionally serenades guests with the theme from "The Godfather."

I can understand why some people gravitate here. If the ever-smiling maitre d' got a dollar for every kiss and hug he doled out at the door, he could probably ditch his tuxedo and retire by now. Il Mulino's staff works hard to please. When a woman with bare shoulders complained about being chilly one night, a waiter returned with a table linen he had fashioned into a stylish shawl; only those of us who had witnessed the gesture knew it wasn't part of her ensemble. That's the point of truly good service: You don't notice it.

But good intentions sometimes go too far here. Four people in succession might ask you if you want pepper; the guy who brushes crumbs from the table spends long minutes doing so; and I had both a bottle of olive oil and a lemon half plucked from my fingers (!) when I tried to use them for my bread and calamari, respectively. I can squeeze my own lemon, thank you very much. (The tame fried calamari needs every drop, too.)

For the sake of comparison, I visited the original Il Mulino in Greenwich Village last month. I walked in to find the captain still dressing for the lunch shift at 12:30 ("Want me to come back? I teased as he adjusted his tie and put on his jacket. "What can I do for you?" he barked). The small, rather ordinary dining room featured wallpaper that could have been hung in 1981, the year the place set sail; a bunch of potted plants did their best to dress up the generic interior.

Just as in Washington, my table was soon overloaded with freebies, and just like back home, a gratis flavored grappa was dispensed from an iced vase at the meal's conclusion. New York's waiters looked bored and weren't nearly as engaging, however -- mine avoided all eye contact as he recited the endless menu -- and, while oversalting wasn't a problem, the sodden squash blossoms, listless Dover sole and oily vegetables had me wondering where I might head for lunch afterward.

As far as looks and spirit go, Washington's Il Mulino has its older sibling beat. But the restaurants share some unfortunate traits: prices that aren't justified by the cooking and posturing in the dining room at the expense of substance on the plate.

To chat with Tom Sietsema online, go to washingtonpost.com on Wednesdays at 11 a.m.