Enlarge this image

The Brooklyn Paper / Daniel Krieger

Enlarge this image

The Brooklyn Paper / Daniel Krieger

Hen house: Diners at Spirito, above, enjoy rustic Italian fare like the “galletto alla griglia con limone e rosmario,” or Cornish game hen with rosemary, top, which our critic Tina Barry said is better than a similar dish she had in Italy just a few weeks ago.

Print this story

Share this story

Email a friend

Your name

Your email address

Recipients’ email addresses (Up to ten, separated by commas.)

digg

del.icio.us

It’s possible to have too much of a good thing, and I had had enough of Florence.

I was there for a week in late June. At first, I loved the narrow streets crowded with hoards of tourists, the Vespa-riding locals and the restaurants that packed every square and alleyway. By day seven, I was fed up with the city for the same reasons.

People think of Italy and assume that every meal will be a masterpiece, but restaurant-wise, Florence is like most other cities: you can easily enjoy a great meal or stumble upon a restaurant that makes the Olive Garden seem like gourmet eating.

I was ready to go home.

Back in Brooklyn, I refueled on good old American fare: hamburgers and fries, grilled hot dogs, chocolate pudding. Then an itch for pasta took hold. I wanted to eat a bowl of it outdoors, possibly on the street under an umbrella, so I headed to Spirito Ristorante — the newest restaurant in a notoriously difficult space on Ninth Street between Fourth and Fifth avenues.

The restaurant plays the part of an Italian trattoria with rustic woods, a tiled floor and a front window that opens onto the street. Instead of sidewalk dining, owners Mariano Franzese, Giovanni Cavaggia and Pierluigi Palazzo have applied the concept to their roof terrace. In doing so, they’ve removed the honk and beep of street sounds. With enough imagination to block out the McDonalds next door, the setting could be Florence.

In a way, Spirito Ristorante is more Italian than some of the places I visited in Italy. Some restaurateurs there try to meet tourists’ needs by serving entree-sized portions of all courses, and dishes are often geared to the expectations of patrons raised on Italian-American cooking: think over-sauced, heavy and with too much cheese. Spirito’s goal is different. As Franzese told me, “We weren’t interested in serving veal Parmesan.”

Take the tomino, a cheese imported from the Piedmont region of Italy with the consistency of French Brie and the salty bite of Parmesan. The chef grills it briefly so it forms a crust and the center goes runny. It’s delectable with the tender Spanish white beans and truffle oil that come alongside it, or smeared across a slice of the brittle country bread.

My friend Rozanne and I split an order of the “paccheri allo Spirito di mare,” a lusty stew of shellfish in a spicy tomato sauce. The mussels, clams and octopus were tender and their briny bath served to amplify their sweetness. The pasta, though, was a touch too chewy for me.

I ordered the “galletto alla griglia con limone e rosmarino,” or Cornish hen with rosemary, to see how it compared with a crisp chicken grilled under a brick that I enjoyed on my trip. Spirito’s version was better.

The dark meat flavor of the bird was intense compared to the mildness of the Italian chicken. Its bronze skin, speckled with the fresh herb, crackled, and a brush of lemon juice added freshness. With the hen came broccoli rabe, its sauteed leaves and flowers adding a welcome bitter edge to the dish.

On the dessert round up is “tartina di mele con gelato alla mela verde,” a long name for warm apple tart with gelato. The dish takes 20 minutes to prepare, so mention it when the waiter takes your dinner order; you should order it. Thin slices of the fruit lay crisp-edged and soft-centered over a tender crust redolent of sweet butter. The lush, tart green apple gelato is like a bite of the just picked fruit at its crisp, perfect prime.

Something magical happened while we waited for dessert. Rozanne overheard our waiter, Paolo Buffagni, singing to himself downstairs. When he stopped at our table, Rozanne asked him to continue the song.

With little hesitation, he launched into the tenor aria “Nessun Dorma” from Puccini’s “Turandot,” turning the terrace into his stage. It was one of those moments, with the handsome Buffagni standing before us, his head thrown back and his supple voice soaring into the inky sky, that could only happen in Florence.

Or, thanks to Spirito, a summer evening on a rooftop in Brooklyn.

©2007 The Brooklyn Paper