DC Does Florence

When a man refers to me as a bon vivant the very first time we have dinner together, I'm inclined to accept his subsequent dinner invitation, even when it means my fourth road trip in seven days. It's true what they say about me: Will drive for the right kind of compliment.

Our destination was Acqua Al 2 on Capital Hill, a four-week old Italian restaurant already drawing capacity crowds. What he didn't mention until we were at the bar sipping and swapping two very different roses was that the restaurant was part of a chain.

Mamma Mia! I don't patronize chain restaurants, I told my friend. Not to worry he assured me, it's a Florentine chain. Well, that certainly made me feel better; apparently it's only American chains I have an issue with (although they do have a California location also now).

The purpose of the evening was twofold: to talk non-stop again and to taste as much as possible. We started with the Insalata Caprese (tomatoes more than tolerable but not great yet), followed by the Assaggio di Primi, a consecutively served sampler of five vegetarian pastas, all Chef's choices (bow tie pasta with zucchini, garlic, rosemary and Parmesan was probably my favorite), then a hand cut veal chop grilled and served on a bed of arugula (one of two veal chop offerings), and Topini al Radicchio Rosso (gnocchi with house made tomato sauce, Italian red cabbage, mascarpone and Parmesan) because who doesn't love gnocchi? Don't look at me.

The girl at the table next to us was there because she'd been to the original in Florence and confirmed that the menu was the same, although the bread here was much better. I asked her how the rustic atmosphere, with its exposed brick and tin ceiling, compared and she said it was similar, although the lighting was lower in Italy. One thing I did like was the view out the window behind my friend's head; painted on the facing wall was a shuttered window, a sign and a plant-filled window. A charming view for a wall.

By the time we called it quits after endless courses, a walk was in order. It had rained during the multiple hours we were in the crowded, noisy restaurant (lip-reading would have been an asset at times, although the din also assured privacy of conversational topics), so the air was heavy and humid, expectant even. We strolled through the thickness with the same languor with which we'd eaten through all those courses before I had to hit the highway.

Tonight I was called a truth-teller and complimented for my fierce intelligence, practically guaranteeing that I'll be accepting a subsequent dinner invitation. The soul-sucking I-95 aside, what's a hundred miles between new found friends?