Delfina

Unlike their French, or even Asian, counterparts, Italian restaurants have the extra burden of impressing a crowd too familiar with the category. By the time diners are old enough to afford fine dining, they've already been introduced to ravioli by Chef Boy-R-Dee, chicken parmesan by The Olive Garden, and classic spaghetti by Mom with assistance from Ragu on nights when she was too tired to cook anything elaborate. Thus the schema for an entire swath of Italian cuisine in most minds is well established. The problem, of course, is that in the process of being absorbed into the American kitchen vernacular, pushed "forward" by the American need for convenience and universal appeal, the cuisine evolved so far from its origins as to be almost unrecognizable. Indeed, our current schema is a false one.

It shouldn't be a surprise, then, that to the uninitiated the menu at Delfina may appear surprisingly common. Tomato salad with fresh mozzarella, polenta, roast chicken, for example. Melons and prosciutto may push things, but not very far. They even have spaghetti, which may stir some skepticism among those expecting a meal to match the national reputation Delfina has gathered over the years. Foodies on their maiden visit to the restaurant would do well to order for once something familiar or obvious, because that is the very purpose of Delfina: it reintroduces the prototypes of food we all think we know so well but don't. It reinvigorates the cuisine with the absolute best ingredients and well researched methods.

On my most recent visit I ordered the spaghetti. The pasta was perfectly al dente, as one should expect from $11 spaghetti. But what elevated it was the way the sauce, far more vibrant and less sweet than anything in a jar, sticks evenly and generously to the pasta, the way a drizzle of olive oil just before serving provides a subtle but splendid sheen, and the way fresh basil and peperoncini fragrantly punctuate the dish. Its charm arises from its unpretentious attention to detail, its simplicity. In the same way, the roast chicken seduces the diner. A half chicken, roasted with some salt and pepper, arrived on a plate with nothing besides a clean reduction of fresh chicken stock and a few plump royal trumpet mushrooms. A rare moment of ostentation came in the form of bone marrow accents on the flatiron steak, but even then the marrow was strewn about in small kernels so as to impart its richness without vulgarly announcing its identity, a humiliation bone marrow faces too often as it is becoming a banner of inventiveness and peculiarity among foodies. In fact, I had to pick one up and check with the waitress to make sure it was bone marrow.

The electric charge of the ambience is a stark contrast to the straightforward sensibility of the food in which it is served. The tables are packed close together, the density raising a raucous worthy of a popular Manhattan restaurant. Look, however, at the waitstaff - lithe, inked, and meticulously disheveled - and you're reminded that Delfina is distinctly San Franciscan. Look, too, at the diners, huddled happily in these close quarters. They actually love the simplicity of the food; they find the full and precise return to its origins gratifying. And it shows on their faces. No wonder Thomas Keller pointed to this restaurant before any others when asked which restaurants he visits when he comes to the city. The popularity of Delfina is proof of the conscientiousness of the patrons. Look and you are reminded that this is San Francisco, where every day its citizens' schemas of Italian food are remade.