Dining in Providence: New Rivers for New Year's, Loie Fuller for brunch and Bacaro for dinner

One of the finest "Italian" restaurants in Providence, Bacaro's on South Water Street is almost a stone's throw from that other fine Italian restaurant, Al Forno -- in fact the chef-owner of the former cut his culinary teeth at the latter (and his recipes occasionally show it).

Oddly, though, Bacaro's is often missed by those folks still hung up on Atwell's Avenue, those who love queuing up on a Saturday night waiting 30 minutes to crawl along "historic' Federal Hill looking for parking. Not at Bacaro's -- parking is free and plentiful, the view of the Providence River clean and open, and that's just the beginning.

Bacaro boasts an on-site cheese shop and their own saluminaria, and with seating on two floors we've never had to wait, although they are almost always busy -- indeed, only once in the several times we've gone there have we been turned away without a reservation.

The food is very good, tasty and well-prepared, leaning toward Italian of course but without any specific regional orientation. The portions are generous, and the service spot on: attentive, friendly and helpful. (Monica was our server and she gets a big thumbs up.) An extensive wine list with several options for quaffing a tasty wine. Bacaro is expensive, however (troppo caro) so bear that in mind, and it lacks that cozy atmosphere we appreciate so much of Chez Pascal or Broadway Bistro.

 

orrechiette with roasted brussell srpouts and pancetta

grilled sausages with roasted spaetzel and red wine braised red cabbage

The Van Halsema Sisters in 1944

Front, left to right: Betsy, Helen and Marian; rear, left to right: Bernice and Willemina; circa 1944.

Croissant

Here's a test for you: compare the look of this croissant -- just one of the French Tarte specialities -- to a croissant sold in Starbucks or just about any other chain "pastry" shop (if "pastry" is even the right word) and see what you think.

Racing to Paris

We're going back. It's that simple. We just have to,  and no, I don't know why; we just have to go. Perhaps the answer lies somewhere between what we have and what we want, between what we need and what we feel, between stumbling through a life unimagined and one with limitless moments of imaginative opportunities.

For my part, I think it's as simple as simply wanting to be a flaneur -- and Paris is the one place that not only allows such behavior but in fact encourages it. To be a flaneur in Paris is a badge of honor, something worn with a smile amidst a stroll through the dark alleys of a darker past and along the boulevards of the bright lights of Manet, Morisot and Degas. 

So we'll fly into Paris, rent a car at the airport, drive somewhere south where we'll spend the night.  As we creep up on the Pyrenees we'll  meet up with Richard and Pauline and enjoy several nights of finding our way into the very, very dark past of humankind and, with any luck, get a chance to see the oldest art scribbled by a human hand.  And along the way we'll pay our respects to those men and women who suffered for their beliefs in the 13th century. We then say arrivaderci to R and P who will make their way back to the United Kingdom while we find our way north, spending a night somewhere yet to be determined. 

After arriving in Paris we drive straight to the Gare Austerlitz where we'll drop the car off. It's onto the Metro (the 5 to the 1), alight at Saint Paint  and then find our way to our apartment on the rue de Sevigne, in a building wedged somewhere between Saint Paul and the Musee de Carnavalet, in the midst of the glorious Jewish quarter. What an incredible place for a flaneur!

Life is short. Go to Paris. We are.

Wish you were there. . . 

Steve

The French Tarte starts a New Year!