Before we paid and departed, before we were halfway through our "entress" I apprised my dining companion that I was planning on stiffing the waitstaff as I never tip generously when planning on never returning to a joint. But forgive me, I am getting ahead of myself.
There was a time long ago when Teradactyls and Do Do Birds roamed the Earth, and when a certain orange haired, Crox-wearing, ponytailed empressario had, in addition to big hands, a show on Food Network called Molto Mario. Alas, Food Network is no more, and "Molto Mario" degenerated into a vortex of lawsuits and allegations, forced sales and divestitures, and a long slow deline into the ignomy of disgrace.
But prior to that, a trendy little joint in Fairfield following a time-honored formula, simply stole (misapporpriated, to be kind) what was trendy in one place and installed it in another.
Early on it was apparant that Molto was both popular (as was evidenced by lines out the door) as well as trendy, as evidenced by the young and attractive customers visible through the large front windows and, in temperate weather, seated on the front sidewalk itself.
Fast forward fifteen years. Molto Mario has receded into distant memory, but Molto Pizzaria in Fairfield still goes strong, with caveats: The food sucks. The crowds are still there, many of whom probably came as children in the twenty-teens, or perhaps as young adults. The crowd is a little less young, and a little less hip, a transformation only completed the moment my tragically unhip girlfriend and I darkened their doorway, crossing over the threshold.
The first issue was the reservation, although they had told her over the phone that they overbook and not to expect the res time to be honored, and it wasn't.
Then came the food. She ordered a salad that appearad as an enourmous pile of green chopped mush mounded up on a plate, as unappetizing looking as could possibly be. So much so that I didn't even try a taste. She said it was pretty bad.
Then came her ravioli in a red sauce, which contained off-putting weird flavors along with, or instead of the expected ones.
My sausage pizza arrived, not crispy as requested but floppy and undercooked, a situation only ememdied the following day by scorching it at five hundred degrees for fifteen minutes on a pan, which machinations made the pizza at least edible.
Her Tiramisu sucked, and she would feel I was remiss not to mention that the Fellini movie playing large against the back wall contained a simulated rape scene including forced kissing and other weird stuff which I found amusing, my GF found abhorrent, and which turned on the blonde standing behind us to a surprising and disturbing degree. This was interesting and ironic considering that the imagery mirrored well the misdeeds of the original "Molto" guy, the Crox wearing one, presaging his downfall and perhaps theirs, especially if they continue hiring nice bartenders who have utterly no idea what they are doing, but who are charming as they are not doing it.
So in short, Molto is still there although you'd be crazy to go there. Especially when there are real and far better options nearby. read more