An Account from DEtroit’s hottest new Italian spot
According to Roman mythology, there was this guy Numitor. Back in the 7th century B.C., he was the king of some prime real estate in Western Italy, Alba Longa. Think ambrosial rolling hills, tranquil lake-shores with pristine glass-surfaced waters, the whole nine yards. (They actually didn’t measure in yards back in ancient Roman times. They did use feet, though. Its length was based on the size of the foot on the statue of Cossutius. So let’s say this property had the whole twenty-seven Cossutian feet).
Anyways, this dude had a brother, Amulius, who was pretty jealous of him, so he seized the throne, killing Numitor’s son (the heir to Alba Longa) and sending his daughter, Rhea Seehorn to go live with a sect of celibate priestesses called the Vestal Virgins (a group whose main purpose, as I can tell, was to inspire one of the more beguiling lyrics from Procul Harum’s late 60s masterpiece “A Whiter Shade of Pale.”) So, Ms. Seehorn…
Wait a second. Isn’t Rhea Seehorn an actress? Yeah. She plays Kim Wexler, on Better Call Saul.
Did I say Seehorn? I meant Silvia. Rhea Silvia. I do love Better Call Saul, though. Saul’s such a rabblesrouser…and Kim, that spunky, ponytailed, workaholic lawyer…you should check it out. Mondays at 9pm on AMC.
As I was saying, Ms. Silvia, despite her new friends’ strict policy against any and all bedroom activities, got pregnant. She claims that the father was totally the god Mars, and not Fabius, the cross-eyed hobo, even though Cornelia, the town gossip, claims to have seen the two having a grope-fest behind the shrine of Jupiter Latiaris a few months back. Mmm-hmm. Well, Amulius was none too pleased, as these babies (twin boys named Romulus and Remus) had a claim to the throne, so he called for his servant to go and give them a good murdering instead of doing it himself. Apparently he had other things to do.
So, of course the servant gets all soft and, in act of mercy, sets them adrift in the Tiber River because infants are known to be self-sufficient and amazing swimmers. It just so happens that instead of dying pointlessly at the bottom of the river, they settled on the bank where a she-wolf came upon them. As luck would have it she had just lost her cubs (lucky for the twins. Not for the cubs, so much), so she figured these boys would be the perfect receptacles for her swollen, distended teats. I mean, what else was she gonna do? Pump?
After a good suckling in a cave, the baby boys were found and raised by some shepherd guy named Faustilus and his wife and after they’d grown into young adulthood, Romulus founded Rome on his preferred hill (after killing his brother Remus for having the audacity to prefer a different and apparently far inferior hill).
There you have it. The story of Romulus and Remus.
Cool, but…what does that have to do with a restaurant in Detroit?
Oh, yeah! I almost forgot. This unnecessarily long and detailed retelling of ridiculous ancient folklore is relevant because it is how Shewolf Pastificio and Bar got its name. I guess we should actually talk about it since this is a restaurant review. Here goes it…
It was a sticky August night that was preceded by an even stickier August day. I’d spent it indoors thankfully, but I’d been working and as I’d plodded away at the day’s tasks, the one thing that kept me going was the thought of plunging in to some delectable, fresh, uniquely modern Roman cuisine. You see, Detroit for all of its recent culinary development, has a relative dearth of Italian options. Of course there’s the old standbys, red sauce purveyors like Mario’s, Andiamo and Giovanni’s, but some others have fallen to the wayside, ie. Angelina (after another rent dispute) and DaEdoardo’s Foxtown.
That is where Shewolf comes in. The restaurant is the brainchild of Chef Anthony Lombardo, formerly of acclaimed Bacco in Southfield and fresh off a two-year tour of Italy where he soaked up all the culinary treats the boot-peninsula had to offer. Since being first announced, the hype train had been chugging along full-steam (THEY MILL THEIR OWN FLOUR!) and it finally opened at the end of June, nestled into a stretch of Selden St. in Midtown just East of Honest John’s.
Though there was not a reservation to be had on this simmering Thursday night, my dining partner and I descended upon the trendy locale in hopes that we may sneak into a spot at the bar. So I parked in a real space that was not at all hanging halfway onto a driveway, and we walked past the bustling patio where diners soaked in the mid-summer ambience and approached the hostess stand.
As luck would have it, she smiled and directed us to two stools that had just become available. Relieved, we sidled up to the bar and took in the atmosphere. The first thing that struck me was the noise level. This definitely ain’t your mom’s Italian joint. There was quite a din, which I don’t mind per se. I’m quite used to it as it seems to be common in most modern restaurants. They at least feigned concern in dampening the noise as I noticed a few of those foam cone noise mufflers attached to the ceiling, but they were hardly containing the constant chatter.
As far as the decor, it was gorgeous. Wide open and airy, it offered many eye-catching attributes. The impressive wine cellar to my right, the cavalcade of liquor bottles shelved high above the rectangular bar, the barrel of wheat hanging from the ceiling. All nice touches. And not a checkered tablecloth to be found.
When it came time to order, we decided on a drink first (I, an Italian-brewed but Eqyptian-inspired spiced ale and my dining mate a concoction called Aperol These Years which had strawberry and basil infused Aperol, sparkling Rosé, soda and balsamic shrub.) We found both to be delightful and were hopeful they’d be a pleasant sign of things to come. So we ordered our food, two pastas and two starters with a focaccia addendum, and enjoyed some conversation and a dash of people watching.
After about forty-five minutes had gone by and not one morsel of food had been delivered to us, my dining partner was getting perturbed. We had been so caught up in a debate over whether the hot brunette with the pudgy guy at the corner of the bar was an escort or not that I’d lost track of time. It was then that I noticed two separate parties that had been seated after us at the bar were eating. Not only that, but they were suspiciously eating things that we too had ordered. So, as my stomach let forth a rumbling borborygmus (it’s a long word you can use to sound smart (or pretentious) to describe that gurgle your stomach makes when you’re hungry), I said something to the bartender. She then preceded to whisper in hushed tones to whom I presumed to be the front-of-the-house manager and stare contemplatively at the POS monitor. She did not, at least not immediately, explain why we were without food.
Coincidentally, at that moment a waitress appeared behind us carrying a small plate with two pâté and berry crackers to whet our appetites. My appetite already being firmly whetted, I devoured the cracker and was disappointed to find it over-salted with a sand-like consistency.
“Uh-oh,” we said in unison, fearing further disappointment awaited us.
Like rapid-fire, food came flying out of the kitchen to us now. First the focaccia, ordered at the behest of the bartender. Baked with capers, olives and tomato, it was stacked about 4 inches high and looked appealing. It came with a small bowl of olive oil and what tasted like a tomato paste for dipping. I only ate half a slice, however, as it was far too dense to my liking and I feared it fill me up before our mains arrived.
Next came the apps. First was my choice, the Farinata, a chickpea pancake embedded with thinly sliced summer squash, topped with a poblano and pistachio salsa verde and finished off with some charred shishito peppers. It was an interesting fusion of Middle Eastern, Mexican and Japanese influences. I say interesting, not tasty. Maybe in some iteration this dish could work, but my pancake came across a little dry with a bit of an acrid note due to the heavy char on the underside. I think had it been pulled off the grill a moment or so sooner and had something to balance not only the one-note look of the dish, but also the heat (perhaps a yogurt or cream based sauce or drizzle), it may have worked.
My partner’s choice fared a little better, but still did not deliver. The Branzino Nero, a black sea-bass atop melon pieces, presented Nigiri-style and dressed with poppyseed and fennel blossom. The flavor itself was pleasant enough, but their seemed to be a lack of touch as it pertains to the melon. The slices were too thick and overpowered the gentle saltiness of the fish. A version of this dish was featured in some of the press leading up to Shewolf’s much ballyhooed opening. The photos show a thinly-sliced melon, better balanced with the seabass and it also featured a puffed farro which could have came in handy for a counter texturally. I wanted that version.
Lastly, after an ‘on-the-house’ appetizer of their version of a beet and goat cheese salad that was swimming in olive oil, came the pastas. My mate’s was the Carbonara; rigatoni with Pecorino, guanciale and peppercorns.
Let’s start with the good; the rigatoni was cooked perfectly with that al dente sturdiness you want in a pasta. And…that’s about it. Otherwise, it was a disappointment. The sauce had the consistency I was looking for, but it lacked that ‘gotta-soak-it-up-with-some-bread’ richness I craved and the peppercorn was decidedly the prevailing flavor. My mate even noted a bitter note at the end from the overdone guanciale which was not welcome.
My choice, the Francobolli Di Salsiccia, was hands down the night’s winner. That isn’t to say it was the best pasta I’ve ever had. That title goes to the asparagus cream sauced beauty we happened upon near the Spanish steps years ago. (Insert Homer Simpson drooling gif) The dish, a ricotta and sausage filled kind of ravioli topped with beats and roasted sage, was quite delicious. The sausage was finely ground and the pasta again was cooked perfectly. The sage added some nice crunch and the beets, though sliced a bit thick, were fresh and offered some balance.
After a slew of almosts, not quites and oh-no’s, we decided that we had no desire to sample the dessert menu. To her credit, the bartender offered us a regretful explanation as to how there was a mix-up and she seemed sincere in her concern that our experience was not up to par. Still, we left unsatisfied and more than just a little bummed as we’d had high hopes for the place.
Perhaps if there hadn’t been a mix-up things may have gone differently. It is possible our food was rushed out of the kitchen without the usual attention to detail in order to fulfill our long delayed order. Perhaps if Chef Lombardo with all of his experience had been inside the kitchen instead of conducting all of his staff’s movements from just outside of it, his culinary perspective may have come through better. I’m not sure.
What I can say is that the taste just wasn’t there for me. I felt the same as those baby boy’s suckling on that wolf’s hairy, bulbous teat must have felt; that something was just a little off. But, I have hope for Shewolf. The pedigree is there. The location is prime. The decor and layout are inspired. It just may take a bit for the flavors to catch up to all the ambition. After all, they say Rome wasn’t built in a day. Maybe the same applies to modern Roman restaurants.
