Split Decision

In every critic's life a moment emerges when she realizes that her carefully refined opinions — judicious and elegant as they may be — aren't worth doo-doo. The revelation hits with the force of a piano shoved off a third-floor balcony; you look down at those shiny, grand preconceptions in smithereens on the sidewalk, all the music gone out of them, and understand that something has ended. This critic (let's for the sake of argument call her a food writer) might as well toss in the tea towel at this point. She could be rebuilding shotgun shacks in the Ninth Ward or mowing down poppies in Afghanistan or teaching deaf children to sign the lyrics to "We Are Family"; instead, she realizes, she's spent the best years of her life fussing about whether the artichokes on her flounder francese came from a can.

To wit: I don't think Limoncello Trattoria, a little trattoria and pizzeria wedged into the bustle and brawl of Himmarshee in downtown Fort Lauderdale, is a very good restaurant. I have reasons. But it doesn't matter what I think. Limoncello is hopping along just fine without me; it will continue to hop along and make lots of people happy. Bloggers and other restaurant writers have called the place charming and quaint and delicious and romantic. In fact, the pro- voices are running against the anti- at about 10-to-1. So where does that leave me and my fancy expertise?

The two young men who joined me for dinner at Limoncello last week, palates corrupted by cigarettes and brains fine-tuned to lofty interpretations of French postmodernism, mouthing beautiful sentences structured on the rhythms of Marcus (Greil, not Aurelius) and Lester (Bangs, not Brown), two handsome kids with a few illusions still intact and, even more disturbing, terribly in love — well, they liked Limoncello a lot. They thought it was delicious! They would even spend their own money instead of mine to go back again, although maybe they'd opt for the veal rather than the flounder next time.

Limoncello has found its target audience, a semi-exclusive club of ravenous youngsters who hang out at Himmarshee and don't want to spend a penny more than $14.95 for a plate of spaghetti carbonara; people who expect to slope in earlyish for happy hour or at the stroke of midnight for a tomato pie and then be off, moving with a newly energized, Limoncello-fueled step through a world that is bright and noisy and open — to the book-club meeting next door or to see whatever's showing at Sunrise Theater; to do body shots at Coyote Ugly or lose a bar fight; to run home to check in on MySpace or to trawl for rough trade in the nearest public bathroom — whatever. I am not one of them.

And you? Maybe you are and maybe you aren't a Limoncello Trattoria person. I here offer a few details about the place to help you gauge where you fit in the greater scheme:

The service is jolly. Walter Oliva, the barrel-shaped proprietor, appears to be a genuinely kind and caring man with nearly infinite patience for the way certain people can place an order, backtrack, dither, ask 100 questions, and finally decide they're not in the mood for chicken after all. He also has a superhuman tolerance for large families with young children. He cares enough to ask if the music is too loud (it is) and if the mozzarella is good (it isn't). He'll cheerfully turn down the music, but there's not much he can do with the cheese.

The menu is inexpensive Italian. Italian as in: veal Marsala, gnocchi with pesto, lobster ravioli, pizza, fettuccine Alfredo. As in, the most familiar and undistinguished Italian-American dishes anybody could ask for, and ask they do. Limoncello is as far from the Italian of crudo, pork fat on toast, fried zucchini flowers, fruit mostarda, or squid ink tagliolini as Batali is from Boyardee.

The place is wet. The air-conditioning vent emits a steady, slow drip, sometimes upon the top of your head, sometimes just barely missing the top of your head. Every water or tea or cocktail glass set down on your bare wooden table sweats as desperately as Marion Bartoli in her final set at Wimbledon. By the end of the meal, your spread looks like a map of the Everglades, and your humid coif is curled like a poodle's. Those who are madly in love will hardly notice, since they're likely to be damp anyway. Otherwise, bring your snorkel.