Word: pasta
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It’s a shame that Lynch feels she has to pander to her patrons. One waiter told me that she rarely serves pasta, for which she is justifiably famous, because diners do not feel they should be eating pasta in such a fine restaurant. It’s a double shame, because this restaurant has so much to offer, even aside from the food: a fantastic and highly personal wine list selected by reigning Boston wine queen Cat Silirie, a passionate and brilliant service staff that not only can describe every minute detail of a dish, from farm...
...while her husband jovially greets customers out front and the grandkids wash plates and bus tables. But Boston is a far cry from Italy, and save a few notable exceptions, these restaurants are tourist traps, offering identical menus with adulterated American creations such as Veal Parmesan, Chicken Marsala, and Pasta Primavera. Baked ziti, anyone...
...flavor unfold with each bite. The Oxtail Risotto ($16) is nearly as good, enriched with unctuous marrow and sprinkled with black truffles. It was perfectly al dente, each grain of rice still resistant in the center, although perhaps a little too much so for American tastes accustomed to overcooked pasta. The Crispy Sweetbreads ($15) were the only misstep from a kitchen that is usually strong with offal. The accompanying lentils were toothsome, the mustard greens offering a bitter counterpoint to the dish. The sweetbreads had the proper creamy texture but were surprisingly tasteless; I wonder if this lack of flavor...
...cooking behind the open grill were an entirely different story. Pumped up by their testosterone-fueled reaction to open fire (hot! dangerous!), and buoyed by the fact that they were causing diners to cry in pain, they were a rowdy, and extremely cheerful, bunch. As I ordered the Infamous Pasta from Hell ($8.50) with habañero sausage and oil-pickled chili peppers, at seven bombs the hottest dish on the menu, they laughed in glee. “When you eat it,” cackled the chef closest to my table, “don?...
After the pasta, my ability to taste was temporarily suspended; I have no idea if the rest of the food on offer could compare. I have my doubts, though. There’s little consolation in the fact that I outlasted most other diners, even the masochistic, thrill-seeking types that frequent Hell Night. My world is shattered—I am no longer the undisputed queen of heat...