Restaurant Review - Prince of Monaco

Don Monaco’s trattoria is an intimate oasis among Alpharetta’s dining behemoths

Every time I drive down Alpharetta’s Windward Parkway, I get the feeling I’ve stumbled onto some kind of designated testing grounds for big box restaurant concepts. It’s practically impossible to discern the independents from the chains: Stand-alones like Cabernet and Vinny’s project the same behemoth presence and wear the same corporate everyman veneer as Romano’s Macaroni Grill.

From the outside, Trattoria Monaco gives a similar impression. The place is located at the end of yet another generic suburban strip dressed up to create the illusion that you’re traipsing through a quaint, vaguely European village. A sign glowing candy-apple red announces the restaurant’s name. But after 30 minutes inside, you’re deeply aware that a focus group did not orchestrate this quirky, slightly awkward spot. And that’s a beautiful thing.

Owner Don Monaco, who opened the restaurant five months ago, can be easily spotted anywhere in the 85-seat dining room. He’s the one putting to good use the well-made suits he collected during his years in the business world. On a Saturday night, when the rest of the crowd is casual in jeans, Monaco works the room like the host of a convention gathering, or like the proud father at a wedding. It’s unquestionably his party.

The “Trattoria” moniker might give the impression that the menu is scrupulously Italian, but much of it is actually New American with bright, earthy Italian themes woven in. Executive chef Chad Scott, who worked at Buckhead’s defunct Grappa, and chef de cuisine Jordan Lloyd tweak their selections frequently to revolve with the seasons. At its best, their food is spunky and surprising. Monaco has given these guys a long leash of culinary freedom, and you can tell they enjoy playing with their food.

Many of their plates showboat a riot of busy ingredients - a telltale sign of youthful exuberance in chefs. But man, when they pull it off, it’s impressive. The scallop appetizer broadcasts five colors and reveals as many or more textures. Swab a scallop through one slick of sauce and you’ll taste the verdant punch of pureed arugula. A drape of prosciutto adds salty punch. Mango mellows the assemblage. And underneath all these flavors is an elusive spiciness that brings to mind garam masala, the Indian spice mixture. What a memorably bold composition.

The antipasto plate is a cacophony of Italian greatest hits: salami, prosciutto and sopressata; carrots and other crunchy vegetables pickled with lemon and oregano; a judicious slice of pecorino. But the sensual twist that sets this dish apart is the fried taleggio. Imagine the consistency of melted mozzarella, but with a backbite so deliciously funky that you want to shower after you eat it. I only wish the plate came with more than three tiny nibs of the stuff.

As is also often the case, a tendency toward frenzied food pairings muddles things in the entree department. Halibut is deluged with artichoke risotto, basil, apricot oil and lemon parmigiana sauce. Too bad that underneath all the hoopla, the halibut was overcooked the night I tried it.

Same deal with the striped bass piled with gulf shrimp, white cannelini beans, rapini and an olive oil sauce jazzed with saffron and preserved lemon. The striped bass was dry, though I will say the shrimp had a gutsy sear but weren’t rubbery on the inside. Simplifying these offerings might free up some kitchen time so that every component its due attention.

Let me pause here to say that I discovered a wine on Monaco’s list that was not only one of the most pleasurable I’ve had in recent memory, but would also vividly complement any of the above mentioned dishes. It’s the Arneis Bruno Giacosa (2003). Roero Arneis is the only white grape of distinction grown in Piedmont, Italy’s region primarily known for Barolo and Barbaresco reds. Floral but with hints of peach and apricot, it tastes of how the promise of spring feels in your bones. Several other out-of-the-ordinary treats, in varying price ranges, can be found on the wine list. Every server I encountered gave confident recommendations.

Back to the chow: I love it when Scott and Lloyd pare down the pyrotechnics and produce something pure, like the cauliflower lime soup. Cream and lime, it turns out, are about the only elements needed to convert cauliflower from an unwanted crucifer into a gustatory swan.

The tender gnocchi are allowed to stand on their own merit. A few wisps of speck, prosciutto’s smoked cousin, only accentuate the gnocchi’s billowy nature.

And I’ve had more luck with meat here than with fish. The veal dish, despite some over-the-top powdered veggie garnish brouhaha, is a lovely riff on saltimbocca. A subtle layer of fontina can be found melted into some of the pounded slices of veal. Praise be that they know how to show restraint with the truffle oil bottle: The veal’s lemon-white wine reduction had only a suggestion of the stuff.

I’ll admit, pondering it later, that I rolled my eyes about the cheffy presentation of the beef tenderloin. But when I was eating it, I was enamored. The dish is presented like abstract art from the ’60s. A ring of polenta surrounds the beef. Round slices of different root vegetables are spaced evenly apart across the canvas of the plate. In one corner, a precise cube of Gorgonzola is used to prop two rectangular slices of bacon. Robert Rauschenberg would appreciate it. More importantly, the components all melded appealingly when I put them in my mouth.

Other kinks still need to be worked on. Most of the pastas, either on their own or as accompaniments to meat, were soggy and overcooked. (The exception was the straight-ahead spaghettini and meatballs, which, along with an excellent chopped Caesar salad, would make a swell solo meal consumed at the bar on a weeknight.) The desserts veered toward weird. Too much white chocolate. (Try the mango panna cotta or standard molten chocolate cake if your sweet tooth is shouting at you.)

But I like the individual spirit of the place - the strange, bulbous little light fixtures hanging throughout the otherwise staid room; the earnest service; the experimental rabble-rousers in the kitchen. And when I see Don Monaco eyeing his customers with just a hint of worried brow, I know he cares about making his baby a success. That makes me want to come back to the Land of the Giants just for his intimate restaurant.

bill.addison@creativeloafing.com