By David Minsky
By Nicole Danna
By Sara Ventiera
By Candace West
By Emily Dabau
By Doug Fairall
By Candace West
By Laine Doss
Ladies, watch your backs. Three-quarters of the single adult American male population is suddenly out there perfecting the magic art of seduction. They've learned their foolproof pickup techniques courtesy of a Boy George clone and erstwhile magician who calls himself "Mystery." The guy, whose sartorial style runs to black fingernail polish, eyeliner, fluffy hats, and Eskimo glasses, runs boot camps around the country and has his own reality TV show, The Pick Up Artist, on VH1. He claims he can provide the tools (the "opener," the "gambit," the "neg," etc.) to turn any common toad into Lord Rochester.
You'd think a girl would at least be safe from this assault when she's sitting down to a restaurant meal, but apparently some waiters have come to recognize a fantastic opportunity when they see one: three women trapped in a booth surrounded by plates of appetizers, with no potential exit. What better opportunity to hone your sexy-time skills, right? Practice, practice, practice!
At least, I guess that's what was going on during our meal at Tulio's a couple of weeks ago; I have no other explanation for it. But if our waiter had been a competitor on The Pick Up Artist, it would have been game over in the first round. There were times during our two-hour dinner when I was left gaping, my forkful of noodles hanging in midair; surely we'd been made the butt of a practical joke? Were those hidden cameras behind the potted palms?
Our service at Tulio's, the 5-month-old "Italian fusion" restaurant recently moved to Royal Palm Place in Boca, was what you'd politely call eccentric. Oh hell, why be polite? Our waiter was a madman. He insulted us, bored us, and made us feel fat. He interrupted conversations, tendered and inexplicably withdrew offers of ground pepper, placed our bread out of reach while offering the opinion that he was doing us "a favor," misidentified berries, turned his back and drifted away as we were midsentence in ordering our entrées. He was too much with us and never there when we needed him, like a classic Peter Pan boyfriend. His jokes fell flat; his compliments showered down on us like so much acid rain.
And still, he didn't manage to ruin our meal.
Because the food at Tulio's is pretty good, overall. Owner Tulio Castilla Jr., a marketing man whose family originates in Colombia, taught himself to cook, acquired an Italian girlfriend, and decided to change careers and open himself up a restaurant. After a decade in Chicago, he relocated to Boca Raton, and now here he is, serving pasta alla amatriciana, cioppino, and osso buco in a setting he hopes will attract the young, the restless, and the on-the-make for one gigantic, parm-and-basil-scented bacchanal. Tulio's means to offer not just food but fun, with live music Wednesday through Saturday (half-price drinks for the gals on Wednesday), speed-dating for the over-45 set, and a late-night bar menu. A pretty outdoor bar attracts the afterwork crowd; a dark, tile-floored interior hung with tasteful paintings appeals to well-heeled retirees.
We lucked out with a different waiter on our second visit, a dignified, white-haired Italian who never set down a saucer in the wrong place. Our previous server was on the floor that night too; he appeared considerably subdued. Busboys cleared tables with alacrity (can somebody remind them not to stack plates?); the food runners strode from the kitchen hefting trays trailing clouds of steam. If I had to assign Tulio's a number, I'd say it gets everything exactly right about 60 percent of the time.
Still, for a place charging up to $50 for an entrée (the fillet of Dover sole, the filet mignon Rossini with black truffles), 60 percent may fall short of one's rightful expectations. Neither waiter offered us the new prix-fixe dinner touted in their P.R. (supposedly $24.95 for four courses), but the regular menu at Tulio's is fairly compact — a handful of appetizers and salads; a half-dozen pasta dishes (reasonably priced from $18 to $22); four veal dishes; four chicken, including chicken cacciatore; steaks; and seafood (on the fancier end, lobster francese). This minimalist menu offers enough variety, from fennel, watercress, and lobster salad to grilled veal chop, to please both the fat-free Boca birds and their portly, pink-jowled hubbies.
We loved our polenta cup appetizer ($9), buttery cornmeal cakes topped with artichokes, goat cheese, and lots and lots of fresh basil, set off in a bracing marinara sauce. That marinara conjured up absurd, pseudo-nostalgic longings — I had no Italian grandmamma, but my fantasy nona would have put together a sauce much like this one. We snagged back our out-of-reach bread basket and wiped up every drop.
An attractively vertical duo of grilled eggplant slices ($11) — wrapped around chopped prosciutto with goat cheese, walnuts, and olive tapenade; spiked with asparagus spears; set on a few leaves of arugula; and drizzled with balsamic — was eminently edible. Asparagus must be chef Tulio's favorite vegetable. Its fat green heads poke up everywhere — with the Dover sole, in the salads, as one of many ingredients in the duck parpardelle, strewn liberally through the appetizers. The chef has a heavy hand with artichokes too. So forget about tasting that gavi di gavi or sauvignon blanc: No wine is going to stand up to the cynarin in the chokes or the methionine in the asparagus (yes, that's the sulfurous compound that makes your pee smell funny). A shame, since Tulio's wine list is small but attractive, with a particularly nice selection of boutique reds from California, Washington, and Oregon. He might want to lighten up on those palate-corrupting veggies. After just two meals at Tulio's, I'm content to wait until spring for my next spear of asparagus.