Carrying around a huge chunk of Mortadella with a carving knife is a giant of a man, wearing breeches, and chatting in a low volume, gravely voice to each of the guests he carves thin slice of the pinkish white polka dotted meat for. He’s presence (and his moustache hidden smile) is as heart-warming as the aura of Cafe Bacco. There are plenty of Alora! and Bongiornos thrown around in the dark-wooded place. The plate and cutlery you’d find at that elegant grandmother’s place – you know, the one that wears gloves and a scarf whenever she leaves the house. Wine bottles live the shelves like little soldiers and the chairs squeak with every little movement you make.
There is no menu here. Alberto Stefanelli, the big personality of the place, is your menu. Just tell him what you feel like and he’ll take care of the rest, and while the thought of leaving the fate of our dish in somebody else’s hands scares the hell out of us at first, our nerves ease as we see the delight on the other guests faces when trying the random dishes he’s served them. He serves us a plate of thin homemade tagliatelle, which when it arrives, doesn’t look like much. Alberto manoeuvres a pile of it onto our plate from the serving plate and tells us to eat it straight away – ‘ It must be eaten as soon as it’s served,’ he tells us. We do as we’re told and immediately the taste of the lemon zest the plain-looking pasta has been infused with, brings our mouth to life. Wowsah! This has to be the freshest pasta that’s ever been slurped up by our lips. Alberto even seasons the pasta for you so all you have to worry about here is eating. Well, they certainly make you feel like that here, anyway.
Fun fact… Cafe Bacco used to be Bacco Tabacco e Venere which Alberto used to run across the road. And while they’ve moved across the road to their new location, nothing else has changed. The wine and the food and the laughs are still just as good.
