One challenge for the weekly restaurant reviewer is that several times a year you’re expected to produce riveting prose on the basic art of eating pasta in a room painted in contrasting beiges. Not that I’m complaining about eating pasta; it’s almost unthinkable not to worship the stuff. Pasta is so delicious that I’ve even heard modern nutritionists describe it as more of a “social activity” than mere sustenance: all those lovely, starchy carbs with cream, oil and/or butter gliding down your throat, making you feel full and loved, but not a huge amount of vitamin K, omega-3s or anything else that may help you live to 100.
And, judging from the sight of a full restaurant on a wet Tuesday lunchtime, I am guessing that many of Notto’s customers that day had briefly considered longevity and instead opted for a luscious bowl of handmade strozzapreti (AKA priest chokers) with black truffles, mushroom stock, parmesan and butter, or pappardelle with oxtail and beef shin slow-cooked in red wine, and a mascarpone blood orange panna cotta for afters.
