Fabrizio's: Criticism and Response by Woody Allen
From the book Side Effects (Ballentine 1975)
Excerpt:
(Our most high-minded restaurant critic reviews Fabrizio's Villa Nova Restaurant on Second Avenue)
Pasta, as an expression of Italian Neo-Realistic starch, is well understood by Mario Spinelli, the chef at Fabrizio's. Spinelli kneads his pasta slowly. He allows a build-up of tension by the customers as they sit salivating. His fettucine, though wry and puckish in an almost mishievous way, owes a lot to Barzino, whose use of fettucine as an instrument of social change is well known. The difference is that at Barzino's, the patron is led to expect white fettucine and gets it. Here at Fabrizio's, he gets green fettucine.
Why? It all seems so gratuitous. As customers, we are not prepared for the change. Hence the green noodle does not amuse us. It's disconcerting in a way unintended by the chef. The linguine, on the other hand, is delicious and not at all didactic. True, there is a pervasive Marxist quality to it, but this is hidden by the sauce. Spinelli has been a devoted Italian Communist for years, and has had great success espousing his Marxism by subtly including it in the tortellini.
I began my meal with an antipasto, which at first appeared aimless, but as I focused more on the anchovies the point of it became clearer. Was Spinelli trying to say that all of life was represented here in the antipasto, with the black olives an unbearable reminder of mortality? If so, where was the celery? Was the ommision deliberate? At Jacobelli's, the antipasto consists soley of celery. But Jacobelli is an extremist. He wants to call our attention to the absurdity of life. Who can forget his scampi: four garlic-drenched shrimp arranged in a way that says more about our involvement in Vietnam than countless books on the subject. What an outrage in its time! Now it appears tame next to Gino Finochi's Soft Piccata, a startling six foot slice of veal with a piece of black chifon attached to it. (Finochi always works better in veal, and it was a shocking oversight by Time Magazine when reference to him was omitted in the cover story on Robert Rauschenberg).
Spinelli, unlike these avant-garde chefs, rarely goes all the way. He hesitates, as with his spumoni, and when it arrives, of course it is melted. There has always been a certain tentativeness about Spinelli's style---particularly in his treatment of Spaghetti Vongole. Before his psychoanalysis, clams held terror for Spinelli. He could not bear to open them. His early attempts at Vongole saw him dealing excusively with "clam substitutes". He used peanuts, olives and finally, before his breakdown, little rubber erasers.
One lovely touch at Fabrizio's is Spinelli's Boneless Chicken Parmigiana. The title is ironic, since he has filled the chicken with extra bones---as if to say life must not be ingested too quickly or without caution. The constant removal of bones from one's mouth and the depositing of them on the plate give the meal an eerie sound. One is reminded at once of Webern, who seems to crop up all the time in Spinelli's cooking. Robert Craft, writing about Stravinsky, makes an interesting point about Schoenberg's influence on Spinelli's salads and Spinelli's influence on Stravinsky's Concerto in D for Strings. In point of fact, the minestrone is a great example of atonality. Cluttered as it is with bits and pieces of food, the customer is forced to make noises with his mouth as he drinks it. These tones are arranged in a set pattern and repeat themselves in serial order. The first night I was at Fabrizio's, two patrons, a young boy and a fat man, were drinking soup simultaneously, and the excitement was such that they received a standing ovation. For dessert we had tortoni, and I was reminded of Leibniz's remarkable pronouncement: "The Monads have no windows." How appropos! Fabrizio's prices, as Hannah Arendt told me once, are "reasonable without being historically inevitable."
I agree
From the book Side Effects (Ballentine 1975)
Excerpt:
(Our most high-minded restaurant critic reviews Fabrizio's Villa Nova Restaurant on Second Avenue)
Pasta, as an expression of Italian Neo-Realistic starch, is well understood by Mario Spinelli, the chef at Fabrizio's. Spinelli kneads his pasta slowly. He allows a build-up of tension by the customers as they sit salivating. His fettucine, though wry and puckish in an almost mishievous way, owes a lot to Barzino, whose use of fettucine as an instrument of social change is well known. The difference is that at Barzino's, the patron is led to expect white fettucine and gets it. Here at Fabrizio's, he gets green fettucine.
Why? It all seems so gratuitous. As customers, we are not prepared for the change. Hence the green noodle does not amuse us. It's disconcerting in a way unintended by the chef. The linguine, on the other hand, is delicious and not at all didactic. True, there is a pervasive Marxist quality to it, but this is hidden by the sauce. Spinelli has been a devoted Italian Communist for years, and has had great success espousing his Marxism by subtly including it in the tortellini.
I began my meal with an antipasto, which at first appeared aimless, but as I focused more on the anchovies the point of it became clearer. Was Spinelli trying to say that all of life was represented here in the antipasto, with the black olives an unbearable reminder of mortality? If so, where was the celery? Was the ommision deliberate? At Jacobelli's, the antipasto consists soley of celery. But Jacobelli is an extremist. He wants to call our attention to the absurdity of life. Who can forget his scampi: four garlic-drenched shrimp arranged in a way that says more about our involvement in Vietnam than countless books on the subject. What an outrage in its time! Now it appears tame next to Gino Finochi's Soft Piccata, a startling six foot slice of veal with a piece of black chifon attached to it. (Finochi always works better in veal, and it was a shocking oversight by Time Magazine when reference to him was omitted in the cover story on Robert Rauschenberg).
Spinelli, unlike these avant-garde chefs, rarely goes all the way. He hesitates, as with his spumoni, and when it arrives, of course it is melted. There has always been a certain tentativeness about Spinelli's style---particularly in his treatment of Spaghetti Vongole. Before his psychoanalysis, clams held terror for Spinelli. He could not bear to open them. His early attempts at Vongole saw him dealing excusively with "clam substitutes". He used peanuts, olives and finally, before his breakdown, little rubber erasers.
One lovely touch at Fabrizio's is Spinelli's Boneless Chicken Parmigiana. The title is ironic, since he has filled the chicken with extra bones---as if to say life must not be ingested too quickly or without caution. The constant removal of bones from one's mouth and the depositing of them on the plate give the meal an eerie sound. One is reminded at once of Webern, who seems to crop up all the time in Spinelli's cooking. Robert Craft, writing about Stravinsky, makes an interesting point about Schoenberg's influence on Spinelli's salads and Spinelli's influence on Stravinsky's Concerto in D for Strings. In point of fact, the minestrone is a great example of atonality. Cluttered as it is with bits and pieces of food, the customer is forced to make noises with his mouth as he drinks it. These tones are arranged in a set pattern and repeat themselves in serial order. The first night I was at Fabrizio's, two patrons, a young boy and a fat man, were drinking soup simultaneously, and the excitement was such that they received a standing ovation. For dessert we had tortoni, and I was reminded of Leibniz's remarkable pronouncement: "The Monads have no windows." How appropos! Fabrizio's prices, as Hannah Arendt told me once, are "reasonable without being historically inevitable."
I agree
Last edited:
