The last time I dined at Il Terrazzo, I inadvertently picked up both copies of the credit card receipt, which would have meant they had been stiffed for, oh, a coupla hundred bucks. The waiter came running into the hotel lobby, a frantic look of anguish on his face. He was a study in single-mindedness as he searched the huge room for the woman in the fuschia jacket. Finally, he spotted me, sitting on a sofa. Visible relief spread across his features when he realized it had been a mistake, not a scam. With Gallic grace, he inquired obliquely as to the whereabouts of the piece of paper that would pay for my meal. I handed it to him; he performed a slight bow, turned on his heel and hastened back to the restaurant.
I remembered the incident as I sat in the restaurant once again, a similar waiter gently hovering over us, because it is one feature that makes Il Terrazzo so pleasant. The service is prompt, careful and considerate. Add to that an unusually spectacular setting and what is certainly far, far from ordinary hotel fare, and you've got a restaurant that people remember.
The eatery sits inside the new Tampa Marriott Waterside hotel downtown, overlooking the channel. (Il Terrazzo translates to "terrace," and that's what it is.) One whole wall faces the water; its pretty French doors swathed in great billowy drapes. The dining room itself is really gorgeous, done in varying shades of gold, white linen resting like fresh snow on the tables.
We started with homemade bread, bread sticks and foccacia, dipped in olive oil and balsamic vinegar, the way they do in Italy. The bread was fresh, the bread sticks a little stale — they didn't snap when you broke them. Both were better when washed down with a good Chianti wine, which the kind waiter helped me select from a large wine list. "I have something perfect for you," he said, and out came a big goblet of his favorite.
Though portobello mushrooms are the fat, elderly versions of regular mushrooms — they used to get thrown out because no one would eat them — I do like them and was glad to order one as an appetizer. The mushroom ($6) was a chestnut brown, thinly sliced and fanned out on the plate, with a delicate decoration of roasted red peppers. It had a soft texture and mild taste, which brought to mind a woody home in a thick forest somewhere; but let's not get romantically carried away — in all probability it came from some Texas hothouse instead. No matter, it was still good.
My favorite dish of the evening came out next: A five-onion soup ($6). It was smooth, a pale ivory color, as if it had been matched to the room, its broth just hot enough, and with a lovely pronounced flavor. I'm impressed with good soup. It's hard to make. It takes skill and patience and know-how. Many professional chefs can't do it; so when I contemplated the delightful concoction before me I considered it a distinct treat.
My dining companions weren't saying much at this juncture, as they were relishing Caesar salads ($6), which were so engrossing it took all they had to just mumble from time to time "Yes, please," or "No, thank you" to questions from the waiter. We chewed and slurped in silence, gazing at the splendid Christmas tree that lighted the whole room. We all ordered different entrees — one beef, one pasta and one veal. The beef dish was a filet mignon ($35) served with prosciutto and Gorgonzola cheese — cooked exactly to medium-rare and so tender that my No. 1 daughter hardly even used her knife. It was gone in a matter of minutes, as was the fusilli pasta ($12) ordered by No. 2 daughter. The fusilli, cooked with Ricotta, prosciutto and spinach, was a new-grass sort of green with a creamy finish. Extremely good.
I do think, however, that I got the best main dish. At Italian restaurants, I always want to try the classics, and on this night that meant veal scalloppine ($30). It had been awhile since I had eaten it, maybe even before I moved from Philadelphia to Tampa. We used to order it often at family-run restaurants in the Italian-American enclave of South Philly.
Toward the end of my time there, I was a newspaper reporter involved in covering the South Philly mob war. So I frequently found myself outside one of the neighborhood's great restaurants, contemplating some bullet-riddled corpse whose name had been Harry "The Hunchback" Riccobene or Phil "Chicken Man" Testa. It took a psychological toll on my palate.
Il Terrazzo was my chance to let it all go. Safely ensconced in Tampa, far from the gruesome events of the past, I suddenly remembered how good a dish of scalloppine can be. It consists of thin slices of meat, sauteed in butter, flavored with sage and a hint of lemon. It's crisp outside and yielding inside. Shaped in little medallions, set in a circle on the plate, they were cooked just enough (too much and they're tougher than buffalo).
Our side dishes were a plate of mashed potatoes ($4) and crunchy spears of asparagus ($4), but they were pretty average renditions. We practically forgot them, getting sidetracked with everything else.
One reason we forgot them was the veal. Another was dessert. Oh, there were all the usual items — tiramisu and tortes and whatnot — but we lucked out when we opted for a simple, homemade cheesecake ($6).
It was "more than fabulous," as one of my longtime friends likes to say — moist, thick, rich, with a real browned crust on top and thick layer of graham cracker crust below, sprinkled with real cherries. Not that horrible, pink goo that comes in a can but the real fruit of a cherry tree in its original state, slightly flattened with the heat of the oven, but still carrying the fresh taste you get when you pick the genuine article off the tree. This time, eyeing the poor waiter, I was careful to sign the pair of credit card slips, leaving one for the restaurant in a noticeable spot on the table with the bill. Then, I tucked my own copy away and left a big tip.
Contact Sara Kennedy at sara.kennedy@weeklyplanet.com or call 813-248-8888, ext. 116.
This article appears in Dec 20-26, 2002.
