The Barman: My Approach to Fine Dining at Prima Ristorante

I know what you’re going to say. “What qualifies you to review a fine dining place like ?” I don’t blame you seeing as I am simply a barman with a computer, which I use to type out slap-dash bar reviews. And you’re right, but in my defense, I did sit at the bar and for the most part I left people alone, observing the scene with the judgmental scowl I imagine alcoholics use when disapproving of happy people eating expensive meals.

I sauntered in on a Sunday night around 7:00 and found a semi-deserted restaurant with a single patron at the bar, a man cutting up a pork chop and dressed in a sweater that Ernie from Sesame Street might wear. 

The rumor of an out-of-this-world Manhattan is what lured me here in the first place. Manhattans are not my first choice when it comes to a cocktail, but at least a half-dozen people have sat at my bar and told me that once you drink a Manhattan at Prima you will be ruined for life when consuming any other Manhattan anywhere…EVER!

Located just across the street from 1515 Lounge on Main Street, Prima’s décor and ambiance certainly matched its fine dining reputation. To the right as you walk in is the entrance to their wine room, where they hold wine tastings and display fine wines.

To the left is the main dining room and bar. Just behind the hostess stand is a large wood-fired cooking oven, which I have always seen pizzas cooked in. But the only thing on the menu that claimed it was wood oven-roasted was the lamb. Nevertheless, it gave the place a warm, cozy feeling.

The dining tables were all dressed in stark white tablecloths with sparkling wine glasses on top. Overhead a soft light was filtering through a skylight, which had thin bamboo sticks running the length of the glass. Nice touch.

The young lady behind the bar had a warm, inviting smile. She was only too happy to mix me up a Manhattan, stirred, not shaken, as stirring leaves the liquor smooth and silky in the martini glass, the only way a Manhattan should be consumed. She strained a mixture of Bulleit bourbon, Carpano Antica Sweet Vermouth and a dash of Jerry Thomas bitters from her shaker and into a martini glass where two marinated morello cherries were waiting.

I hate to admit when something is better than anything I’ve made, but it’s true. Like I said, Manhattans aren’t my thing, but it was the best one I’d ever tasted. The only change I would make would to be to use Woodford Reserve instead of Bulleit, but that’s just me.  

I sipped my Manhattan, took in the scene and pretended I was waiting for someone in hopes of eliminating the “creepy guy at the bar leering at everything” persona some people exude. 

Because I sustain very little sophistication in my bones, the pretension associated with fine dining escapes me. I particularly have trouble with Italian places, as I need a cipher to decode the menus, which always contain foreign descriptions or ingredients of dishes that are 13 letters long. This leaves me clueless as to what I am ordering.

I understand that this is my own shortcoming, but while perusing Prima’s menu I was left wondering, what exactly is Finochionna? It’s described as Pork Salame with Fennel and cracked black pepper, so I get that it’s some sort of salami, but is the Finochionna served in the main ingredient of the dish or is it the dish itself?

It didn’t help matters that it was listed under the Salumeria section. This only furthered my confusion, and all it made me think of was salmonella. 

For me, fine dining places have menus containing a host of dishes that people describe as “something to amuse the palate,” meaning that as soon as I pay my bill and hit the sidewalk I begin searching for a hot dog cart so I can actually reach that pinnacle moment of feeling full. 

I could of course simply ask the server to explain what each of the dishes were exactly, but I don’t want to come off as a 5-year-old or some rube from Ohio.  After pointing to about the fifth dish on the menu and asking, “And this?  What’s this?” I imagine the server leaning over to one of my tablemates and whispering, “Maybe the chef could whip up a grilled cheese sandwich for this one.”

My lack of refinement is certainly not Prima’s fault. The truth is that, surveying the scene, I realized that no experience in life makes you feel or appear so suave as sitting in an elegant restaurant cutting up a filet mignon and sipping a robust glass of Petite Syrah.  

One man at a table nearby, dressed in a dark suit with slicked back hair and a neat, economical beard, was doing just that. Instead of scoffing and ridiculing his alleged conceit with the cynicism I'm used to bestowing upon the unaware, I sensed a pang of envy creeping up my neck and overtaking my scalp. It was like having Sean Connery eating 20 feet away.  

I couldn't quite hear him over the low chatter all around me, but I imagined he was entertaining his entourage with a smooth British accent while saying things like, "Do I detect hints of blackberry and currants in the Shiraz?" and "Unfortunately, existentialism is far too abstract and remote to answer the question of its effect on concrete human experience."

It was savior-faire at its best, and in a moment of lunacy I leaned toward their table and asked in a loud voice, “Pardon me, sir, but would you have any Grey Poupon?” Ok, I didn’t really, but I wanted to. Instead I observed them out of the corner of my eye, and even though I had no idea what their lifestyle consisted of, I imagined what it would be like to be invited to dinner parties at mansions with butlers and candelabras and a varnished oak table the size of a skating rink.

Luckily, I am in tune with my own intellectual and worldly limitations — not to mention I have the attention span of a Labrador puppy — so the feeling of envy was fleeting and I soon returned to my Manhattan and instead concentrated on the man next to me eating his pork chop with the gluttonous intent of a walrus.

I eventually finished my Manhattan, thanked the bartender and made my way out the front door. I’m a simpleton; I understand that.  I appreciate familiarity and when I go out to an Italian restaurant I want spaghetti or lasagna or maybe I’ll get crazy and go for the chicken Alfredo pasta. I guess I’m stuck in my ways. Viewing Prima’s menu, I would never think, “Mmmmm … Sardines in Conservato — just like mom used to make."

From my own guests, I’ve heard the food is quite good, if not a bit overpriced for what they offer ($39 for the rib-eye). Even my older regulars who have money have told me that it’s a bit too snobby for them and that they feel like if they don’t order the most expensive thing on the menu that they get “a look” from the servers like they’re accusing them of being cheap. I don’t know if this is true; it’s just what a few of them have told me. 

However, if you’re looking for a nice place to take the wife or girlfriend, and you like Manhattans, you could do a lot worse than Prima’s.  The wine list is unbelievable, with more than 1,300 wines to choose from and up to 50 wines by the glass. 

The people seem friendly and I did not get any impression of snobbishness the entire time I sat there. Again, this review is from a barman who prefers ribs and steaks and things with lots of gravy, so you can take my observations with a grain of salt. 

But seriously, try the Manhattan.

Cheers, until next time.

The Barman