HG/BSK drove into Albuquerque for dinner with old friends. Went to Scalo, a modestly upscale Italian restaurant in the lively, colorful Nob Hill section of town. Nice welcome. Pleasant decor. Acceptable noise level. While waiting for pals, HG looked over the wine by the glass carte and it was outstanding. A good pinot grigio from the Veneto for BSK and a tasty friulano from Friuli for HG. Both modestly priced. That is where the modesty ended however — Scalo serves well prepared, thoughtful food with the biggest problem being portion size. HG’s frito misto starter could have been the main dish for two persons. Slow roasted short ribs served with mushrooms, polenta and frizzled onions was a veritable mountain of meat. HG, a true clean plate ranger, had met his match. The frito misto had made a dent. The short ribs spelled defeat. Unconditional surrender for HG. (HG took solace with some glasses of hearty Montepulciano d’Abruzze). What is it with American restaurants? Who do they think they are feeding? Lumberjacks? Cowhands weary and famished from months on the range? In any case, it made HG long for a Paris bistro meal where portions are civilized, downsized for cultivated, semi-sedentary, and ultimately svelte urbanites.
