Bacaro

Back to the Future - What’s old is new again at chef Brian Kingsford’s Bacaro. But has the Al Forno alum created his own culinary identity?

Bacaro

1/2
262 South Water Street, Providence,
751-3700
bacarorestaurant.net

Fair
Good
Very Good
Excellent

GENERAL INFO Open for dinner Tues.–Fri. 5–10 p.m. and Sat. 4–10 p.m. All major credit cards. First-floor wheelchair accessible. Parking lot. Reservations not accepted for parties under six.

ATMOSPHERE A space that was once dark and exotic is now bright and sophisticated. The lower level is cozy, though somewhat exposed to the meteorological elements as patrons come and go.

SOUND LEVEL The upstairs is a large, square room without nooks; sound consequently travels, though tables are far enough apart to avoid conversation overlap. Despite the bar downstairs, tables remain relatively intimate.

RECOMMENDED DISHES Assorted tapas from the salumeria, grilled pizza, taglietelle fungi, veal porterhouse, ice cream bombe.

WINE LIST Kingsford’s concept is a “res-taurant and wine bar” highlighting some intriguing Italian (and international) wines by the bottle (most $45–$65), several (eleven, including sparkling) by the glass and eight quartinos (250 ml., which translates to a glass and a half).

PRICE RANGE Appetizers $4.50–$10.95, entrees $14.50–$25.95 (specials may be more), desserts $7.50.

Let’s get something straight: Bacaro is not a “first restaurant.” When chefs make the initial leap into ownership, it’s generally marked by cramped quarters, an imperfect aesthetic and a cap of two dozen dishes that a chef can turn out with the help of a sous-chef-cum-patissier-cum-dishwasher. Bacaro is the perfectly coiffed exception, willing and able to serve two hundred people on opening night. Surprising? Not really. Nearly twenty years at the city’s most established restaurant seems to breed a certain financial conviction that renders a chef unable (or unwilling) to start from scratch with a barebones staff and an unadorned space.

For those in need of a history lesson: Bacaro’s chef/owner, Brian Kingsford, ruled both the kitchen and office at Al Forno while owners Johanne Killeen and George Germon journeyed between Providence and Europe, ultimately spending seventeen of his thirty-odd years under their tutelage. Alas, chefs typically crave independence, and eventually Kingsford set out on his own, securing a locale that sits only a long stone’s throw from his old stomping ground. (Cue dramatic score.)

It’s always interesting to see how, in their own domain, chefs choose to assert their autonomy. Do you continue to follow the rules as they’ve been dictated or utilize your new surroundings to reveal unexpressed creativity? I must admit that I’m a little disappointed to see Kingsford taking the former route in such a big way. There may be some dissension as to who influenced whom after so many years, but it’s difficult to claim self-sufficiency when the menus read like carbon copies (particularly given the fact that Al Forno’s menu has remained close to its roots for all of its multi-decade tenure).

Bacaro’s physical space, on the other hand, has gone through some noteworthy renovations. Gone are the brightly sponged saffron walls and bold red kitchen of Neath’s, replaced by soothing sage and a deep, moody blue kitchen. The downstairs bar has been shifted from stage right to left, its original spot filled with heavy wooden tables and a carved banquette.

In addition, Kingsford can wholeheartedly take credit for the restaurant’s salumeria, an Italian tapas selection ($4 to $10) that’s ordered sushi-style, marking off your selections on disposable sheets with tiny pencils. The salumeria hub is a slightly unsightly deli case on the first floor (the large netted prosciutto beckons me to take a number), though the concept itself works well in a bar-driven environment. It’s gratifying to order small bites — deep-fried, Bolognese-stuffed olives, samplings of Italian salami or ham-draped crostini drizzled with honey — as you wind your way from a Chianti to a Barolo on toward a Porto. I just wish that some of the more basic items, such as knots of salty Parmesan, were available with complementary partners — a thimbleful of heavily aged balsamic, for instance.

Bacaro also has a formal menu, one dotted with many of the trademark flourishes of Al Forno. The list of Italian wines is exceedingly recognizable as are the $20 pasta dishes that cannot be split as appetizers. “They’re the same size as an Al Forno dish, right?” prodded one diner, not only expecting but apparently desiring familiarity. The nonplussed server responded, “I’ve never been there, but Chef Kingsford could surely speak to his own style.” (Oh, the gastronomic tension is thick.)

Our server recommended the tagliatelle fungi ($19) with good reason; you’d never guess that the toothsome dough’s not homemade. Tagliatelle is topped with a heady duxelles, freshly shaved Parmesan and a quivering poached egg that is tossed at the table, creating a rich and perfectly seasoned sauce. Like Al Forno (it’s an inescapable cycle of comparison), the pastas are earthy and delightful, full of both simplicity and great nuance. Other offerings (a rigatoni with Bolognese and a baked risotto) were enjoyably al dente though not nearly as compelling.

The grilled pizzas that have become Providence’s most enduring culinary creation are here as well, served on “Bacaro” etched paddles rather than white platters. Varieties include Italian salami, white and four-cheese, but none are as captivatingly crispy and refreshing as the margharita ($18) with its bright tomatoes and tiny pools of olive oil. The crust crackles, and while the recipe may not be new, it’s the deftness of hand that prevails over ingenuity.

Meats are somewhat uneven, though simple grilling (Bacaro’s trademark preparation) is almost always successful. A veal porterhouse was near flawless: salted just right, drizzled with olive oil and served with a heaping pile of Kingsford’s cream and butter-laden smashed potatoes (at $33, not the cheapest grill in town). The same goes for a bistro steak ($29) — once again the popular teres major cut — which was full of flavor yet more tender than a strip.

Dishes that require more refinement seem to struggle with the constraints of composition. Though I embrace the rus-tic cuisine, certain presentations are still too rough. Duck confit (why the sudden homage to southeastern French cooking?) seemed less than promising when a steak knife arrived before the dish itself. If I need anything more than a fork, let alone a member of the steak family, to portion a confit, we’re looking at problems. I did indeed need the knife, which left me longing for a confit that flaunts its fat-based preparation and falls languidly from the bone. The duck ($28) was served with a trio of preserves (orange marmalade, fig and pear moustarde) and a bewilderingly large scoop of plain white rice. The accompaniment is inexplicable, doing nothing to complement the meat and resulting in a dish nearly devoid of color. 

Sea scallops served on three pristine shells were paired with a coarse spring pea puree and a stack of mashed potatoes dotted with more fresh peas. Seasonal produce ought never go unappreciated, but the plethora of peas was a step overplayed, leaving me piqued and the dish in need of an acidic sauce or textural contrast.

Desserts are made to order (translation: they must be ordered with one’s dinner), which will strike Al Forno diners with an unnerving sense of deja vu. Mini ice cream sandwiches were lovely, and though our waitress deemed them all “on sugar cookies,” I was pleased to find that some were chocolate and others actually had a hint of sweet herb in them. “Chocolate” ice cream turned out to be chocolate-es-presso (a lovely surprise for me, but I’m highly caffeinated).

I had my doubts as to how recently my “bombe”— a mixture of vanilla ice cream and roasted plums topped with a huge cap of baked meringue ($12) — was assembled. The plums that I so desired had fused themselves frozen to the underlying ice cream, a feat usually managed over at least several hours time. Fortunately, the same dessert ordered on a subsequent visit was done just right: warm spiced plums and soft ice cream commingling at a moderate temperature.

Seasonal fruit tarts (a.k.a. crostata, $18) are in heavy rotation, as they are just down the block. Cucina Simpatica, Killeen and Germon’s ode to rustic Italian tarts (as well as grilled pizzas et al.) was first published in ’91 and — my math skills relatively intact — I think that the direction of influence becomes clear.

That being said, Kingsford is used to monitoring everything from a bustling kitchen to a monumental payroll, and his confidence at Bacaro appears to be as sizeable as his physical stature. A dozen line cooks fill the kitchen, leaving him with ample opportunity to roam the dining room and sit down to schmooze with the flock of diners who have followed him over. (The luxury of not being in the kit-chen does have its drawbacks: food was undersalted across the board on a night when Kingsford worked the crowd like Rocco DiSpirito.)

The clientele appears just a little older at Bacaro, perhaps not as willing as Al Forno enthusiasts to wait in long lines, and more receptive to the kindness of a fledgling restaurant rather than the pretentiousness of an established one. Diners new to the Providence scene may not even be aware of the culinary echo, but for those well-versed in the city’s history, Bacaro’s success will depend on convenience quietly overstepping allegiance.