Giornalista Gastronomica (just back from Italian fact-finding mission): “Aha. You mean the nuova cucina. Why should the Italians be immune? The kiwi is everywhere.”

         C.E.: “Kiwi tart, I suppose, and kiwi sorbet.”

         G.G.: Kiwi risotto, dear buongustaio. Linguine with kiwi. Sage sorbet – I mean, sorbetto. Licorice ice cream. Pasta with porcini and blueberries. Tuna salad with caviar and rose petals. But radicchio is already the kiwi of the year. And when radicchio falters, they’ve got nettles in the wings.”

         C.E.: “Nettles?”

         G.G.: “A spiky green thistle, ortica… in the cannelloni today, tomorrow who knows where? Happily, most Italians are bemused — and rather embarrassed – by the whole thing. They’ll tell you, ‘It isn’t new, it’s now – a rediscovery of ancient dishes.’ And if it tastes good… who cares?”

         Back from a gourmand’s passionate pilgrimage to Italy (northward from Rome) – the second serious sybaritic quest in eighteen months – I bring mixed tidings. Simple, straightforward joys are undiminished. Regional cooking still flowers. In Florence, the home folks thrive on the classics of Tuscany. On a weekend outing in Parma, the locals don’t look for Chinese food… they expect to find the most delicate prosciutto and butter-drenched tortelli alla parmigiana. In Rome, venerable trattorias honor the local hunger for tripe and artichokes in the Roman style.

         There was never a noonday or an evening in one of Italy’s highly sung temples of nuova cucina when I did not think longingly of France. At its best, this brand of haute cuisine is not sufficiently Italian, and it’s a shadow of the very best French. But I never spent an hour in a great trattoria when I did not feel again the dizzying enchantment of Italy – the striking regional reminders, the sense of history and passion for preservation, the candor and contentment of the people, all reflected in the way they eat. Even though spring and summer are not the seasons for fresh white truffles and porcini mushrooms and their mystical power to make a gourmand weep, fortunately the sensualist in Italy does not need a sea of sublime beurre blanc or mysterious fungi for a supernal high. There are seventh-century stones to touch on Torcello, ghosts in the Coliseum, the magical light of Venice, Michelangelo’s David to be seen from every angle and compared with Donatello’s, the marketplace in every city and town, the butcher who looks like Clark Gable, red peppers big as a child’s forearm, bambini watching in the Piazza Della Rotunda, beside the Pantheon, the music of the language, the smell of money on Via Condottti, the naughty boys on the Spanish steps, the innocent girls, the beautiful men.

         A note on strategy: The dollar is strong – worth about 1,400 lire in May – but inflation has swallowed any saving in hotels and restaurants. Prices were up in all the restaurants I revisited but one. “Red or white?” the waiter will ask almost everywhere. House wines in a pitcher or inexpensive local wines are almost always good. If they’re not, it will cost only a few dollars to find out. Mineral water is naturale (still) or gassosa (sparkling). Most restaurants charge a cover (coperto), plus 12 to 20 percent for service. Assume it’s included. If it isn’t, they’ll let you know. A few hundred lire extra are expected. We usually left 1,000 lire (71 cents) per person.

         Now it is warm enough to sit on the cobblestoned turf claimed by the giant canvas umbrellas of Vecchia Roma, in the Piazza Campitelli – but step inside first to feed all the senses on the house’s temptations in the still life of the day. Tiled cubbyholes indoors are cozy and rustic, with one very romantic alcove holding a lone table for two. Who knows if Giuseppe and Toninno have ever heard of Paul Bocuse and is “cuisine of the marketplace”? Well, that’s exactly what we have here, with a special finesse for creatures of the sea.

         There’s a dazzling parade of antipasti marini (varying always): fresh sardines with raisins and pine nuts in a delicate vinaigrette; fresh anchovies dotted with yolk and white of egg and a mince of parsley; shrimp and mussels with olive and celery; Lilliputian octopus, still warm, in a shallot-flecked citrus dress; tiny sea snails in oil and garlic and tomato shreds. In winter, the vegetable-antipasto parade is splendid, too. In spring, squash flowers and artichokes “guidia” – in the Jewish style – are batter-dipped and deep-fried, one flower filled with a melt of cheese, the other with ham touched with anchovy.

         Vecchia Roma does risotto with spinach and with greens known and unknown, or with pescatore, or an intense essence of scampi boldly peppered, almost always al dente and soupily divine. Grilled scampi, rombo (turbot), and the prawn-like mazzancolle are all too cooked for my taste, but highly esculent even so. Veal seems to have been reinvented for this veal chop, so juicy, so full of flavor. Kidneys are not rare, as ordered, but moist and fresh, fiery with whole green peppercorns. In winter, minestrone in a giant bowl is a meal by itself, a homey and delicious fortification of beans and vegetables and pasta to chase the chill. Roasted goat is another triumph. And a never-before-encountered special of the day – perhaps a whimsy of the kitchen – firm white beans on pillows of soft fried polenta, with strips of crisp raw radicchio and a kick of vinegar, is a lusty and primitive treat.

         Desserts are primitive, too: warm apple tart in a puddle of zabaglione, cheesecake that tastes of boiled milk, great almond biscotti (a bit soggy when it rains). Even tasting more than most mortals dare, two of us never spend above $55 here.

         Vecchia Roma, Piazza Campitelli, 18 (06-6564604). Closed Wednesdays and August 3 to 18. No credit cards.

***

         Remember Mamma Leone’s in our childhood, when we were green and it was wonderful? Remember those platters of cheese and perfect vegetables and lavish antipasti, that unbidden cavalcade of goodies? Ambasciata d’Abruzzo is like that only better – and no statues to speak of. It’s a taxi trek ($3.50 in the daytime) from tourist Rome, but utterly worth it. Stop to survey the vast cold appetizer display, of course, but as soon as you are seated, a great basket of sausage and salami arrives with a wooden board, a sharp knife, slabs of country bread. The prosciutto of the house may arrive on the haunch – if not, ask: The waiter simply forgot. Soon he will return with soft, fresh white cheese (casatella), or just-made mozzarella, then with ricotta, perhaps later with ricotta al forno (baked).

         What looks like a neighborhood crowd seems content to move on to pasta mista: three pastas of the house — lasagna baked to a tasty but tough chew, bombolotti (fat ziti) in a peppery tomato amatriciana sauce, and fettucine with mushrooms … nothing extraordinary. It’s best to forage at the antipasto table of else move directly to wonderful roast pig with potatoes – simple, crusty, and splendid – perhaps a pleasant sweet-and-sour stew of wild boar, and then, most prudently, to salad… a perfection of textures and taste.

         Dessert is a lost cause here: macedoine of fruit with too many apples, a monte bianco with a stinginess of chestnuts. Be brave. When the waiter sets down five or six liqueurs without asking, try the 70-proof bright-green Centerbe. It stings only a little. Having ordered enough food for a Boy Scout troop, we ask for il conto (the check) and are presented with a scrap of paper on which the waiter has written “326,000 lire” for our two. When we press for a breakdown, he scribbles a bit and says that it comes to 48,000. So we pay the man 36,000 plus the usual extra – the total, $27.

         Ambasciata d’Abruzzo, Via Pietro Tacchini, 26 (06-878256). Closed Sundays. No credit cards.

***

         Checchino dal 1887 celebrates the Roman passion for offal, and the menu is a mysterious tapestry of words rarely if ever encountered. “Animelle,” of course, are sweetbreads; “cervelli,” brains; “lingua” is tongue. “Trippa” cannot be misunderstood, but “pajata” is new to us. It’s the duodenum of a calf. Bravely we plunge. Bring on the coratella con carciofi – “all the insides of a baby lamb,” I translate for the Rocky Mountain Sybarite. By this time we’ve been lulled into the trattoria’s spirit. Have we stumbled upon a country villa in an opera stage set? Sadly, the exterior charm gives way indoors to a Quonset-hut feel and staggering wattage, “as if someone just discovered electricity.”

         Now, seated next to a crate of laurel, we are warmed by the welcome, the seriousness of our host as he sniffs and sips our wine, a thick, ruby Vigna Due Santi, perfect against the richness of the food. Antipasto misto brings a sampler of hams and sausages – peppery, sweet, salty – olives and thick slabs of country bread, a bit dry. Coda alla vaccinara is the house’s famous prizewinning dish (the menu boasts its glory), and it is good oxtail stew. Tender oddments of tripe are served in a winning tomato sauce on pasta with a sprinkling of Parmesan, and though the fresh spring artichokes have turned the sauce of my coratella black, the varied textures are lush, and the taste is wonderful. The insalata (undressed) is mâche, red-tinged and lettuce of Treviso, and radicchio. We must ask for oil and vinegar. There are good-looking cheeses in the plastic keeper, and rich, creamy, warmed Gorgonzola slathered with a graininess of honey is an oddly wonderful mating. A shot glass of Marsala comes with it. Most entrées here are under $5; the house white costs $1.40, our lusty red a few dollars more. Even tasting wantonly in the interest of research, our dinner for two is under $50.

         Checchino dal 1887, Via Monte Testaccio, 30(06-576318). Closed Sundays and Mondays and all of August. No credit cards.

***

         And then with the bill, the shock. The house aperitivo, presented without our asking, as if it were a gift, is not. A request for half-portions of pasta (“Of course,” the waiter said earlier) has been ignored (“We don’t serve half-portions,” he says now when questioned). Certainly we should pay for the second truffling, even though he assured our Roman guest that it came with the dish. Nowhere in Italy has our waiter ever selected a wine costing more than $5 or $6. This waiter’s selection is $18. Our Roman friend is amazed.

         Am I mad to return? Wiser on the second visit, I send I send back the automatic aperitivo. A springtime lunch begins with fresh peas, limas, asparagus, and cimarole (Rome’s unique chokeless artichoke) in a buttered broth, everything full of flavor but overcooked – that is, alas, the Italian way with vegetables. Vermicelli, cacio e pepe is now cluttered with a fresh tomato sauce that dilutes its bold impact. Coffee-and-chestnut-flavored fettucine with sage-and-nut sauce must be a joke – truly inedible. “If Mussolini had had the backbone of this pasta, he’d still be running Italy,” the Rocky Mountain Sybarite rages.

         But then we return again for dinner. Our last night in Italy. Everywhere we try is booked. My friend wants luxury… or music. I remember Papa Giovanni’s guitarist. Of course, I’ve forgotten how close the tables are. One guest must rise to let another pass by. An attempt to speak English has the waitress so tense she knocks over my friend’s scotch. His lap is soaked. But he is charming. “I can drink my sleeve,” he offers.

         Somehow, a determination to be happy overcomes everything. We are grateful for the house’s splendid bread, a zesty primavera soup, a wonderful salad of tuna and intense field greens dotted with red and black caviar and sharp pecorino (sheep’s milk cheese). But it’s clear the panzerotti are clumsy now. And both the beef stew and vignarola (a vegetable stew with bits of ham) are somewhat bland. From a far table I hear an American voice complaining, “I supposed dessert will be chocolate-covered strawberries with mushroom sauce.: At an easy $65 to $75 for a full dinner for two, consider that fair warning.

         Papa Giovanni, Via dei Sediari 4/5 (06-6565308). Closed Sundays and all of August. No credit cards.

***

        The big bear of a man asking us how to say cece in English (“chick-pea,” we write out for him) is Gianpiero, amiable lieutenant of Renato Sentuti, padrone here as well as at Papa Giovanni. But, happily, Ristorante GB has the charm without the larceny of its cousin. Pleasant – not handsome, but comfortable, no crowding – GB draws a savvy clientele dining latish on soup both hearty and elegant (minestra di broccoli all’Arzilla) and exquisite salad (baby artichoke and raw-mushroom thins, celery, celeriac, and carrots, marinated in Asti Spumante, then tossed at the last minute with pungent field greens and grana in lemon and oil).

       Tagliolini, the thin-ribboned pasta, is topped with red and black caviar, parsley flecks, and a kick of pepper. Stuffed breast of veal is a strikeout, its bouncily firm stuffing of no interest at all. But thin slices of breaded and sautéed mozzarella are delicious, as is a mating of brains and baby artichoke perfumed with cinnamon and crisped under the salamander. A 1981 Nebbiolo Ochetti goes well with everything. Lemon sorbetto is icy and very tart, and the lush custard on moist sponge cake dusted with cocoa and sprinkled with cracked coffee beans (GB’s version of tiramisu) has no peer. The bill, with two if us tasting more than enough, as usual, and two bottles of wine: $64.

         Ristorante, GB, Via Delle Carceri, 6 (06-6569336). Closed Sundays. No credit cards.

***

         Trattoria Toscano al Girarrosto, better known as Pietro Bruni, is a real find – good Tuscan cooking at bargain prices. Alas, the Romans have already found it.  Families crowd the place at noon. Evening brings out a chic-er crowd: fashionable blue-haired ladies, even Fellini himself. Granted a space, try fagioli al fiasco, the oil-scented white beans; wide pappardelle noodles with a mock-hare sauce (it’s real hare in late fall) or bombolotti with mushrooms and ham; ravioli filled with ricotta and spinach; crisp-fried brains or a mixed fry; lamb on the bone, swizzled with oil and vinegar and perfumed with rosemary; oxtails or sausage with lentils, when the kitchen has it. Four hungry people sharing rich profiteroles spend lass than $50 for lunch.

         Trattoria Toscano at Girarrosto (Pietro Bruni), Via Germanico, 58 (06-314718), Closed Mondays and all of August. No credit cards.

***

         Fleeing the torture of mediocrity at Hostaria Dell’Orso in its fabled thirteenth-century palazzo, we come full circle, winding up at the Pizzeria Moroni, on the Viale Trastavere, its iron tables jammed with young people clear to the curb lined with motorcycles. Bargain bliss: Big fat supplì (deliciously greasy rice croquettes filled with stringy melted cheese, 35 cents). Even greasier baccalà (batter-fried cod). And calzone or pizza ($1.75 to $2.50), thin-edged, crisped, brown, even singed. Pizza Napoletana has a good anchovy bite. Capricciosa wears everything but the kitchen sink. Beer seems to be the thirst quencher of choice, but you can have the house white wine at $1.40 in carafe.

         Pizzeria Moroni, Viale Trastavere, 53-57. No phone.

***

         Count flavors if you must. I’d rather taste. Giolitti is Rome’s gelati temple, home of fig, date, torrone, Grand Marnier, After Eight mint cream…One Wednesday, when the Giolitti, at Via Uffici del Vicario, 40, is shuttered, we are forced to take our ice-cream passion to Gelateria Della Palma, Via Della Maddalena, 23: one cup of mixed fruit flavors, one cup of mixed velvet – chocolate, run raisin, gianduja, coffee, zabaglione. Both samplings are so celestial, I can only say don’t choose – wallow…Romans think the best espresso in town is served at Sant’Eustachio, on the Piazza S. Eustachio. Giolitti, Gelateria Della Palma, and Sant’ Eustachio are all just a few steps from the great nighttime bambini-watching scene at the Panteheon… Long ago the tartufo at Tre Scalini seemed the ultimate beatification of chocolate – dense, dark, serious ice cream slathered in chocolate, with a cherry at its heart. Today the tartufo is still magnificent (making New York’s commercial imitation seem pitiful indeed), and the stunning Piazza Navona, with its splendid fountains, is the perfect Byzantine backdrop for a serious tartufo tasting.

***

         Brightly lit and spotless, Coco Lezzone is a tiny hole-in-the-wall with communal tables and backless stools to speed the turnover and feed the hungry queued up outside in the narrow alleyway. But the noblest Florentines are happy to play it Coco Lezzone’s way for a chance to eat simple, old-fashioned Tuscan food – whatever the kitchen is doing that day. The genial general here is the man in the red-and-orange T-shirt, the owner. He speaks just enough English to discern that we are dedicated gourmands determined to taste everything. There is no tripe tonight, none of the house’s mythic arista (garlicky, rosemary-scented pork loin), but leaning through the low cutout into the kitchen he commands the last half-order of croquette – tasty beef rolled in a sausage shape and topped with a basil-perfumed tomato sauce.

         Soup thick as porridge is the only sane prologue  here: papa al pomodoro (a zesty swamp of Tuscan bread in tangy tomato) and ribollita (a minestrone – mostly celery, cabbage, and firm white beans thickened with bread). Rigartoni with meat sauce is rash overkill after such soup. Best to concentrate on steak fiorentina – a giant T-bone, rare, of course (they’d be horrified if you wanted it any other way), sliced and graced with a swizzle of the best olive oil… rich and justly famous. Florentines do honor their contorni (vegetables) – white beans with oil, or fresh peas, or string beans, tasty though much too cooked (that’s Italian).

        We find the chocolate Bavarian gone. Only those unappealing little biscotti are left. What a surprise. Dip the nut-hard cookie into your glass of Morellino. It’s lovely. A most distinguished man is exiting with a great brown paper sack of biscotti. The two of us spend only $42, having had much too much tasting and steak for three or four, along with a carafe of drinkable red and a fine Chianti.

         Coco Lezzone, Via del Parioncino, 26 r (055-287178). Closed Sundays, holidays, and all of August. No credit cards.

***

         Finding the Trattoria Sostanza shuttered at lunch one day, we trudge sadly down the street and fall into Tredicigobbi with no expectation at all. “Specialita Ungheresi,” the menu offers. “Hungarian Specialties,”…in Florence, for goodness’ sake. So a tasty mixed antipasto and slithery broad noodles aromatic with fresh porcini and a triumphant T-bone steak seem double wowing. The room is smoky and full of bad painting, but the waiter is swift and friendly. Stewed fruit is lush, and there’s an orange tart made with sliced blood oranges still in their rind – primitive and good. With a house wine, service, and tip, the bill comes to about $50.

         Tredicigobbi, Via del Porcellana, 9 r (055-298769)

***

         The gourmand’s guide to Florence makes a visit to the mercato centrale obligatory, if only to inhale. Outside the southeastern corner entrance is a pushcart that sells trippa on a crusty roll and the even darker, stronger lampredotto (from the cow’s first stomach). Ask for a bagno (a bit of the broth) and salt and pepper too… Rivoire, on the Piazza Della Signoria, brews the most extraordinary hot chocolate, a must… Ice cream needn’t be any better than Vivoli does it at Via Isola Delle Stinche, 7. Try chocolate, rum crunch, coffee, gianduja. Then go back again and give the fruit flavors a chance.

***

 

         The militant workers, the unemployed, the left-wing rabble of Imola seem more bewildered than outraged by the classic haute decadence of San Domenico, with its transient claque of pampered internationals. With the rare two stars of Michelin providing a gastronomic beacon, San Domenico plays out grand-cuisine theater in nineteenth-century style, the fantasy of its onetime-banker creator, Gianluigi Morini. The silent stone house across from the cloister’s gardens scarcely hints of the eclectic elegance inside; the glorious flowers; the rich cave with its treasure-house of Burgundies; the antique silver candelabra and footed platters; the silver service plates, fragile crystal, and vermeil dessert spoons; the cherry-tinted napery; the host, whose ankle swivels and ramrod spine invoke images of a Nazi general in a fifties Hollywood flick; the waitresses in the ruffly caps and aprons of Victorian parlor rmaids, cherubic busboys so adorable no one is surprised when the kitchen door swings open to see a young couple kissing.

         And chef Valentino Marcattili is the protégé of Italy’s legendary private chef Nino Bergese, who sent him off to France, where he prepped with the Troisgros brothers in Roanne, at Auberge de l’Ill, with Vergé at Moulin de Mougins, and even at La Pyramide in Vienne. (Valentino’s padrone, Morini, showed up there with a nineteenth-century silver tray under one arm to plead with the great Fernand Point’s widow to take his boy in.) The pastry chef is similarly pedigreed. Gourmand groupies will recognize the French accent of San Domenico: The silken mousse of foie gras in a slice of homemade brioche, à la Point. The salmon thins in herb-tossed sauce (here, basil), à la Troisgros. Duck breast in red wine. Frogs’ legs in saffron cream. Exquisite miniature tartlets with Gallic finesse. Some of this is wonderful, though flaws persist. Still, it’s a lark to fund such luxury and ambition just seventeen miles southeast of Bologna. Happily, Valentino has not forsaken pasta, and that is the kitchen’s triumph. An ethereal lasagna with meltingly tender noodles and mushrooms in gossamer béchamel. Spinach-greened crêpes with cheese and a savor of smoked ham. Plump sage-haunted tortelloni of ricotta and spinach. Rice brewed with Parmesan, butter, a hint of demi-glace.

         This first Sunday in May, Imola is crowded for the Grand Prix auto race of San Marino. Morini wisely offers a fixed dinner ($105 for two, wines included), each menu numbered and signed, to best preserve sanity in the crush. First false note is the amuse-bouche – just a giveaway to sip with fine dry Spumante Ferrari (the winner that afternoon) – two little canapés of salmon mousse, dry and grainy, anchored with a toothpick. If you’ve never tasted Point’s mousse of foie gras in brioche (or André Soltner’s), you’d not notice the nuances, that the brioche is not as rich, nor as fresh, the port jelly less than sublime. By the time salmon scallops reach the table, the hot plate has overcooked them. The lamb is close to overdone too, its thyme sauce unexciting. The evening’s high: that wondrous lasagna, a mint-and-sage ice in a puddle of grappa between courses, and the gemlike “piccola pasticceria” – lemon-curd tartlets, little banana doodads, fondant-dipped strawberries, and sheer hazelnut mousse in a chocolate cup.

         An earlier visit to San Domenico brought similar pleasures: the same air of luxury, appreciation for the upstairs-downstairs Victoriana (spoiled only by busboys’ insistence on scraping and stacking plates at table), and the sense of a passion for perfection not yet reached. Valentino can be a skilled technician. He proved that at the Rainbow Room late in May when he and his visiting kitchen crew produced astonishing uovo ai tartufi for 120 guests, wrapping spinach-and-ricotta puree, topped with an egg, in pasta, nuzzling it with a forest of white truffle. A fork releasing the runny egg yolk creates a sauce. His performance in  strange kitchen was impressive, yet at home he wobbles. Don’t go to San Domenico for genis. Go for a very special adventure, a night of unique theatre in Italy.

         San Domenico, Via Gaspare Sacchi, 1. Imola (0542-2900). Closed Mondays. American Express. Visa.

***

         My friend the expatriate of Manhattan drawn seasonally to Venice tells me that Henry III of France visited the island stronghold in 1392, tasted Prosecco, Italy’s sparkling white wine, and went home demanding that his alchemists invent champagne. If true, the story stands as further proof that in matters affecting the palate the French have a way of doing it better. But the house Prosecco seems perfect, sipped in the bay window of Gambrinus, over-looking the late-spring greening of a fairy-tale garden with a covered bridge, roses, swans, and peacocks that pose as if choreographed by Diana Vreeland.

         “We are friends of Tony May, of the Rainbow Room,” we have announced. “We want to taste what you do best.” And with that the razzle-dazzle begins. An exceptional Pinot Grigio with an apricot blush and the house label. Fresh lemon-and-oil-dressed anchovies dotted with parsley, and toast. The sweet flesh and roe of granceola (the spiny crab), served in its shell. Scallops steamed in buttery herbed broth. Cannocchia in camisa (the long white beady-eyed squill), its barely cooked bacon wrap obliterating the sea creature’s delicate sweetness, alas – a miscalculation overcome by peeling the bacon away. Field greens in an odd almost-soup of the local cheese called montasio. “That was antipasto,” the waitress announces at the point where we guess that is lunch. Contentedly we move on to pasta – a crisped crepe wrapped around a spear of asparagus, then exquisite lasagna, all its parts meltingly gossamer. A platter of mixed fried delicacies follows – deep-fried batter-covered ribbons of eel, frogs’ legs, and astonishing soft-shell crabs with fat full tummies. With this, possibly the best polenta ever encountered: crisp, freshly grilled white core cornmeal patties, soft within.

         Lemon makes sense at the climax of excess. Here there is lemon ice in a hollow lemon shell, and a too sweet lemon cake. Then, most pleasing of all, a tartness of mirtilli (bilberries), hot and syrupy on vanilla ice cream. As we sit sipping coffee, chef-owner Adriano Zabotto arrives, insisting we sample his invention, licorice-scented lemon mousse (try it, by all means, if you like milk of magnesia). “If my friends come and mention Tony May, you will feed them like this?” I ask as Zanotto whistles for his peacocks in farewell. “Assolutamente,” he promises. Our duo’s bill for an amazing lunch in the handsome rustic charm of this white stucco inn is a modest $52.50, wines and service included.

         Gambrinus, San polo di Piave, 12 ½ miles from Treviso, 31 miles north of Venice on the autostrada (0422-742-43). Closed Mondays and January 6 to 31. American Express.

***

         What seems like audacity at Scaletta is not simply nuova cucina or ancient ideas in high-fashion dress. As Italian cookbook writer and critic Vincenzo Buonassisi observes, “Pina Bellini is a magician in the kitchen.” And arch-rival gastronomer Luigi Veronelli calls Scaletta “perhaps the best kitchen in Italy.” It’s rare when food critics agree, especially these two. And though not all Signora’ Bellini’s ideas and resurrections work, when she’s good, the food is sheer bliss. And mishaps seem less infuriating in the unpretentious setting of this wine bar, up a few steps and almost hidden in a neighborhood across from the Stazione Porta Genova, a scruffy nowhere corner of Milan.

         Son Aldo runs the dining room in four languages. The glasses are etched. The wine list is impressive. And a hungry or adventurous couple can easily spend $70 for lunch. Even so, somehow the mood is cozy. With Buonassisi as host, the kitchen is clearly showing off, but the impact matches that of a totally anonymous lunch eighteen months earlier. Snail terrine makes no more taste sense to me now than it did before. Veal-stuffed cabbage rolls are merely good, not lyrical. And not every spice makes sublime gelato – cinnamon, yes, but not basil or sage. Sorry. Salt cod is not a favorite, although this washed cod, marinated in lemon and oil with black beans to absorb salt too, served with ribbons of radicchio and chicory on a giant black plate, is masterly. The spectacular risotto, served on the first visit with strawberries and nuts, now comes with bilberries, their tartness a lively accent to the voluptuous earthiness of the porcini mushrooms, the rice itself perfectly cooked. Tender little ravioli stuffed and sauced with fresh asparagus  are springtime incarnate, and delicate rounds of gnocchi carrying bits of clam and branzino (sea bass) with a dab of fresh tomato are sublime. Kidneys come not rare, but juicy and delicate nevertheless, again with porcini. And steak tartare, “an old recipe from Piedmont,” observes Buonassisi, is seasoned with oil, lemon, red peppers, and parsley – no egg, no anchovy.

         The lunch would go on all day if we did not call a halt, a signal for dessert and a glass of sweet Moscato wine. Melon mousse with a foamllike texture and sauce in three colors – kiwi, strawberry, and orange – is eye-pleasing, but the mouth loves Scaletta’s mixed-fruit tart.

         Scaletta, Pizziale Stazione Porta Genova, 3 (02-8350290). Closed Sundays and Mondays at lunch. No credit cards.

         Savini is a grand old institution of Milan, installed in that city’s glorious soaring steel-and-glass Galleria. Imagining it a weary war-horse in the tourist sweepstakes, I would have ignored it except for the recommendation of journalist-gastronome Vincenzo Buonassisi. Two of us spend a ransom – $97 – for lunch, tasting as we do (though, in fact, I unknowingly order a la carte the $28 menu of the day, and therefore pay more than double for it). And though the vast rooms are almost empty, the service is all bilingual snap in the concourse café, with its eye on the passing promenade.. And the food is surprisingly good.

         We share sparklingly fresh and tasty antipasti – terrines, seafood salads, grilled eggplant, salt-cured tomatoes, and zucchini – from not one but two rolling carts. A seafood taglierini has an intense sea nip. – pleasing to me, less so to my companion, but we are both wild about risotto al salto (celestial crisp fried-rice pancake). Scampi giganti arrive from the grill – miraculously – at the instant of just-cooked perfection. Only the rack of veal, which looks so tempting as it rolls by on the wagon, is disappointing, dry, rather bland, though its attendant potatoes are wonderful. A salad balancing sweet and bitter greens is heady with assertive olive oil. And two more trolleys of dessert offer something to please almost everyone. I like the giant poached pear.

         Savini, Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II (02-8058343). Closed Sundays and all of August. Amnerican Express, Diners CDlub, Visa.

***

         The Rocky Mountain Sybarite is justly despondent after three courses of mediocre cooking at the vaunted Gualtiere Marchesi. He remembers a wonderful meal long ago at a trattoria named La Tampa. We jump into a taxi. It’s almost eleven now. La Tampa is empty, not exactly a mood elevator. Around the corner, though, Osteria Già Francesco is lively – at outdoor tables and inside too. Incurable gourmands that we are, we have appetite left to share spaghetti puttanesca – scantily sauced by our standards, properly sauced by Italian measure, very firm noodles, incredibly savory – and fabulous crisp-roasted baby goat with marvelous potatoes. Simple, salty and delicious. Rustico, the house red wine, is faintly effervescent and suits our now bubbling spirits. Brightly lit, tiled with lots of photos and a clientele the waitresses seem to know, Francesco is promising – worth exploring again. Pasta, goat, wine, dessert, and coffee — supper for two  totals $24 plus tip.

         Osteria Gia Francesco, Via Festa del Pardono, 4.

***

         If a flying saucer whisked you blindfolded to a table in the muted seriousness of Gualtiero Marchesi and fed you ragout of boned frogs’ legs, lobster claw, and steamed pigeon bread on ravioli pillows stuffed with puree of pea, not to mention a rainbow of sorbets, you might think you were in France. And a first visit, eighteen months ago, was exhilarating in its splendor, even though here and there a bird or beast was somewhat too cooked. (“You could be a gemologist,” the Rocky Mountain Sybarite suggested. “You’re so good at fault coud be a gemologist,”finding.”)

         But now, this spring, something is sadly amiss here. Prices are stabilized (in the stratosphere). Tasting more than most travelers would, finding a Barolo worthy of the chef’s ambition, we two spend, then and now, about $175 (though there’s a daily special menu for two at $52 per person). And it’s the same somber setting – deep-brown carpet underfoot, floating arc lamps overhead, a scattering of American businessmen, an artwork on every table. (One looks like a giant butter curler in orange plastic; behind us is apiece of wood that looks likes a diseased hippopotamus.) And there is the chef himself, lurking in the distance. From his pained smile I imagine he guesses how bad he is tonight.

         Granted, the prologue giveaway – a small cut of melting-rich spinach-and-prosciutto custard pie – is glorious. But then it’s a depressing downhill skid. Impeccably cooked scampi lying near transclucent disks of cucumber are as uninvolved as a couple in a Reverend Moon marriage. A tennis ball of foie gras studded with chips of truffle is strangely without taste. Joyless. Overcooked lobster swims in a glazed zabaglione. Orata, a fish Waverley Root calls “chrysophrys,” is bizarre in oil flecked with fresh and dried herbs. Steamed pigeon – rare, as requested – is served in yellow skin that is both ugly and inedible. And sweetbreads and kidney, in bits tossed with spinach, haven’t an ounce of pizzazz. At this point, a decent tart, one splendid sorbet (three others are infinitely less splendid), and homemade chocolates cannot possibly distract from a pitiful performance. Another meal or two would tell that tale here, but I’m not sure I want to risk it.

         Gualtiero Marchesi, Via Bonvesin de la Riva, 9. Closed Sundays and Mondays at lunch. American Express.

***

         Peck is the Fauchon of Milan – not one, but a sprinkling of shops: the Gastronomica (haute deli), at Via Spadari, 9; the Bottega del Maiale, at Via Hugo, 3, for charcuterie in dizzying array; the Rosticceria, around the corner at Via Cesare Canu, 3, for spit-roasted ham and homemade potato chips (not very good – sorry). A decade ago, before Dean & Deluca, before Zabar’s, before Balducci’s took on cosmopolitan airs, Peck seemed very grand. Today it pales by comparison, but is still a must in the Gourmand’s Guide to Milan… Il Salumaio, at Via Monte Napoleone, 12, is more concentrated than Peck, and more thrilling… For comely cookies and celestial country tarts – especially pear and chocolate – do not miss L’Angolo Della Gastronomica, the bakery of cooking teacher Ada Parasiliti, Via Borgospesso, 22.