Continuing our tradition of hitting hearty Italian restaurants after a long day spent drinking and playing Two-up at the Harbord Hilton, this year we tottered pie-eyed into Fiasco. We had no booking. Hell, we had no sobriety, but the staff here put us up at the big ol' marquis 10-seater, despite our disheveled appearance and our inability to form complex sentences. Fine, any sentences.
Wine, my good fellows, and lots of it. Bam, here it was, chilled and tart and refreshingly alocoholic.
And food, my fine chaps, a table full.
The more, shall we say, conventional among us (snoring!) got pizza - which I love, btw, don't think I'm anti-'za, I just crave something a little more eclectic when I'm shitfaced, that's all - and here was some penne - good, solid, safe - but then my end of the table (buggered if can remember who was actually at my end) then cranked it up a notch and got the seafood platter, and I ordered something with chili before a wonderful epiphany where my eyes focused just enough to read the Specials Board, and there I saw a classic San Francisco-style Cioppino and hastily change my order, which it turns out I'd given ten minutes prior, having lost all sense of time by this point. But the kitchen were more than happy - ecstatic, even - to switch it up and farrrrrr outttttt the Cioppino was glorious, jammed fulla seafood and thick, rich and spicy dip-your-whole-head-in goodness. Hands, dozens of them, appeared from all over the table and all of a sudden there were 9 people dipping and dunking and spooning and just generally raping and pillaging my innocent meal, defiling it with their lecherous food envy. Off, vile fiends! Away! Leave me to my food and drunken mutterings.
Someone jagged an incredible affogato too, creamy strong coffee served in a martini glass with a ton of vanilla bean ice cream, man it looked good.
A riotous 4 stars. read more