I could do better than these Italians

When you are raised in a household that prides itself on connecting to culture of it’s ancestors, you get familiar with tastes and cooking rhythms. More than most you know how Chicken Tikka should taste, why a mole takes hours to perfect, and how great effort goes into a broth for minestrone soup. You get labeled a snob and in your pauses for self-reflection, you wear that blue ribbon of cultural criticism with honor, never taking substitutes with the mantra “I can do better than these…(insert your respective ethnic group).

In Highwood, Illinois stands a long running Italian steakhouse named Bertucci’s. My Grandparents use to frequent this establishment which I swore as a child was run by mobsters with the way I caught a glimpse of slick dealings in back rooms on the way to the toilet. Getting older, I realized those squeaky wheels could have been greased but it was likely a façade that Bertucci’s had any interesting décor outside of bland green and red carpets and posters of The Godfather. These are the places where heritage takes slips in identity and devolves into the idealized culture that doesn’t exist and perhaps never did. I say this because most Italians that I met in Rome and in Europe actually took pride in their service and quality of food. Ally and I, with another couple waiting behind us, waited close to five minutes at the host table before the late-sixties slick-haired Italian owner in an off-colored jacket just paraded us around the restaurant to find any seat.

 I’d say the clientele of Bertucci’s had been collecting Social Security and using Medicare for over five years. Most of the old Italians in my Mom’s side of the family are irritable, making me wonder why no one bothered to make a stink. Our waitress had a dead look in her eye akin to the in-flight hostess doing the seat belt demonstration. She didn’t care to read off specials or show much effort in appearing throughout the meal, an aspect of service I’ve heard more than once about Bertucci’s. Later on she was helpful, only after I dialed up the niceties. With our LivingSocial coupon, there shouldn’t have been an automatic 18% gratuity.  

The coupon was bought as a $41 for $80 deal where the couple gets a shared appetizer, two entrees up to $31 each and a shared dessert. The bland artichoke fritters came out far too quickly, making me think they had previously made them and warmed them in the microwave considering their temperature. Oh and do you ever remember ordering a side of béarnaise sauce and instead was happy with having your fritters a patty of Velveeta cheese? Yeah, me neither! The bland repeated itself in a boring side salad and a minestrone soup that was so boring and tasteless; I only had about four to five spoonfuls. My Great-Grandma would be ashamed of them! 

Ally and I both ordered the 16 oz NY strip with an alforno crust of Parmesan and garlic, both to be cooked at medium. The edges were certainly medium but the insides were medium rare to rare, and without the crust. The waitress explained that we didn’t request the crust – how the hell are we supposed to know if you don’t write it on the menu and do not take the extra two seconds out of your rounds to explain? When returned, the cheese and garlic crust more resembled a skin flap on top, adding a bit more flavor. The roasted zucchini and squash on the side and sliced bell peppers needed salt, butter, balsamic – anything! Thankfully, we got to take most of the dinner home. 

The one redeeming factor of the night was a chocolate shell that encased a smooth hazelnut moose with an amaretto sponge bottom. I’d order that again if in fact I was dragged back to Bertucci’s. What use to be an establishment with a name in downtown Highwood in a shell where the lackluster effort and execution in each stage is visible. Why people keep returning is beyond me.