New Year Feasting II: Giacomo's in the North End

[...the second part in a trilogy of gluttony inspired by the New Year]

Personally, I don't care much for lines --especially those that form outside of an establishment more than thirty minutes before the doors open. It makes me think of going to the DMV, or perhaps worse, waiting with a clan of hipsters for the newest Apple product. For the record, I don't have to deal with the DMV again for several years, and the only iDevice I own is an outdated mp3 player that I bought with the convenience of my own internet access. I thought I'd graduated from this uncouth sort of behavior, so I was skeptical about waiting in a queue that formed outside of Giacomo's in the North End of Boston. Surely no pasta could redeem this inconvenience.

Perhaps I was still reeling from the satisfaction of eating two sandwiches from the birthplace of the hamburger. Whatever the reason, as soon as Megan and I got into Boston proper, I insisted that we attempt to dine at Giacomo's. I was promised an Italian meal that would make all others seem inferior. With twenty people ahead of us and thirty minutes before the doors opened, it felt like P.F. Chang's on any given Saturday night in the Raleigh-Durham area. For reasons I still don't understand, I ignored my cynicism and looked forward to something special. As my therapist tells me, when you open up to the Universe, the Universe usually responds. I can't confess to understand what that really means, but what I do know is that this turned out to be a meal to remember.

We were among the first wave of patrons allowed entry. This alone made the endeavor worthwhile, because given this place's tendency to throw food at you and then throw you to the street, it meant that we'd be out looking for our next adventure within the hour. I have a weakness for calamari, so that's how the meal began. I like calamari because it's fried. With many fried foods, the mark of exceptional quality is usually an entire lack of discernible flavor, and I've come to expect this squid experience to be nothing more than eating a particularly chewy funnel cake. First lesson of this meal: that's not how it has to be.

This fried squid was pretty spectacular. It wasn't painfully chewy, and it actually had flavor. It wasn't especially fishy, and it had a more chicken-like taste. Yes, we got the "family size" portion. Yes, the waitress tried to convey the gargantuan portion this entailed. And yes, we finished it. Quickly. At this point, the humiliation of waiting on the street had been entirely nullified, and I was already willing to recommend this place to anyone with a pulse. Pulse optional, really.

Of course, this was just the beginning. I played it safe and went for the Chicken Marsala, which a tiny cultural step up from my usual Chicken Parmigiana order. Megan ordered the Pumpkin Tortellini, which just looked to me like pasta with some type of white sauce. Opaque sauces are deal breakers for me. White sauce is an of unforgivable sin. I could try to compare my dish to a similar one served at Carrabba's, Olive Garden or even Macaroni Grill, using a bunch of adjectives that I'd have to look up in a thesaurus, but I think the best way to put it is as follows: this was so good that it gave me the courage to try a bite of her white sauce infused pasta. Damn if it wasn't delightful as well. The gravity of that last point might be lost on people who haven't had the pleasure of watching me squirm at stray mayonnaise, ranch dressing or tartar sauce that lands within six inches of my dinner plate. Really, that's a big deal... and yes, I'm still a child.

Full of chicken, pasta and squid, we excused ourselves from this establishment as soon as the check was dropped. Given the efficiency of the staff, I feared a guillotine awaited those that lingered for too long. Despite its significant initial depletion upon the restaurant's opening, the line of patrons on the sidewalk had somehow grown during our meal. For a place that is only open for several hours each day, this must be necessary to make ends meet. I wish I were cultured enough to offer some witty gem about why this was truly the best Italian meal I've ever had... but my expertise lies in trashy American food. So in that spirit, I distill all of this into two points: (1) go to this place, (2) get there early.