By David Minsky
By Nicole Danna
By Sara Ventiera
By Candace West
By Emily Dabau
By Doug Fairall
By Candace West
By Laine Doss
A restaurant must meet only one requirement in order to qualify for the title of "neighborhood restaurant" -- it has to match said neighborhood. That means the fare should appeal to the locals, the décor should neither disgust nor intimidate them, and the prices should be geared to reflect their economic status.
In Hallandale Beach, just before the Miami-Dade County line, the Little Italian Tavern is the crown prince of neighborhood restaurants. The 40-seat eatery fronts a trailer park and to some degree looks like a trailer itself, but it doesn't appear transient. Though it's been open only a couple of years, the joint has settled so comfortably into its surroundings it'd take another Andrew to dislodge it.
Long and narrow with a low roof, the restaurant features two tiny dining rooms separated by a hallway, along with a takeout counter and a busy kitchen. Tables, covered with Plexiglas (all the better to see the menus that are trapped beneath it), are close enough together to give folks a good, close view of your buttocks as you squeeze past -- not that many of the people who dine here, mostly regulars, actually care. Curtains on the small windows and paneling on the walls give the eatery a feel of the small-town diner, and waitresses who seem suspicious of, not to mention a little perplexed by, first-timers ordering more than one course -- let alone three -- cement that perception.
800 S. Federal Highway
Hallandale Beach, FL 33009
Region: Hallandale Beach
Owned by Juan and Diana Rubin, the Little Italian Tavern's motto seems to be, given the rhetoric printed on the front of the menu, that it's cheaper to sup at the restaurant than it is to eat at home. And if you order the house specialty, and only the house specialty, that's pretty much true. The Tavern offers spaghettini cooked al dente with a choice of 21 different sauces, ranging from eggplant with roasted tomatoes and black olives to walnuts with Parmesan and parsley to calamari with white wine and garlic. The bowl of spaghettini will run you $4.95 plus an additional amount, which depends on the sauce you select. Marinara's the cheapest, priced at a buck, and sherry-flavored lobster sauce is the priciest, at $4.25. Even so, for a hearty portion of pasta with lobster sauce, $9.20 seems like a steal. (If you want noodles other than spaghettini with one of these sauces, it could push you over the sawbuck mark with an additional dollar fee. Ask the server for the daily selection.)
The printed menu also lists a couple of thin-crust pizzas and a few pleasant crostini and focaccia sandwiches, which appeal most at lunch. But the real finds are generally the erasable kind, marked in chalk on the blackboard. Much more sophisticated in style than the printed menu items, these run from appetizers like the portobello pizzettes we consumed one night at dinner to main courses of roast boneless duck with rosemary and gnocchi, beef braised with leeks and endive, or veal stew with fresh vegetables. The pizzettes, mushroom caps stuffed with diced summer squash and zucchini and topped with mozzarella, had been broiled to a succulent juiciness, and they were the perfect precursor to a hearty bowl of pasta.
An artichoke special starter, a whole vegetable that had been steamed and presented naked, was equally light, designed for a summer evening. But the simple artichoke, served with a mediocre vinaigrette that tasted more like mayonnaise than anything else, was rather boring. The leaves, though tender, were flavored with nothing more exciting than tap water; steaming this vegetable with garlic and wine or dusting it with some Parmesan and bread crumbs would go a long way toward improving matters.
If you like to begin your meals with the salads posted on the written menu, share one. The tuna salad, for example, was utterly huge. Like salade Niçoise, the chopped romaine came laden with white tuna, green beans, white potatoes, and pungent olives. The addition of roasted peppers, an anchovy or two, and a tasty olive oil/basil vinaigrette gave the salad an Italian bent.
Or skip the greens altogether and go for the fried mozzarella, one of two hot appetizers that is a staple. (Fried calamari is the other.) The four triangles of mozzarella were deep-fried with a touch of garlic and presented oozing on a puddle of marinara. The mozzarella tasted like it had been topped with a little ricotta, giving it a softer feel, which compensated for the overly browned exterior of the cheese.
If the Little Italian Tavern suffers from any one fault, it's the overuse of garlic, particularly in the special main courses. Chunks of the pungent stuff floated in the marinara, the sauce we consumed on entrées ranging from spinach ravioli stuffed with ricotta to spaghetti with veal meatballs. We were disappointed in the green-hued ravioli, a commercial brand that lacked suppleness and had probably been frozen as long as Walt Disney, but were delighted by the moist veal meatballs, falling apart at the touch of a fork.
But the real vampire-killer was the rack of pork. Several pork loins had been roasted and dressed with so many cloves of garlic the kitchen staff must have somehow known I was pissed off at my husband that evening. A congealing brown sauce, overwhelmingly fragrant with rosemary, was another turnoff, and a side dish of something unidentifiably orange and pasty (carrots? sweet potatoes? Play-Doh?) was inedible.