Once upon a time, in the big small town known as Nashville, there was a grandiose prince with a mysterious accent. The prince held court at a restaurant that he had opened for himself. There, wearing his crown of four stars, the prince accepted the tributes of the people of the town. Because they had never seen even a make-believe good restaurant before, the people clamored to give the prince their gold. “After all,” they said, “this is the only game in town. If the prince remembers our names and accepts our credit cards, they said, surely we must be powerbrokers. Surely, we must be people of sophistication and good taste.”
Even when the prince lost one of the stars in his crown, even when it was decreed that the lawmakers of the town could not eat dinners that had been charged to other people’s golden cards, even when it was discovered the prince’s veal scaloppini was actually made with pork—even then, the faithful courtiers did not stay away. Indeed, no matter what they heard, no matter what he charged them, no matter what appeared on their plates or was poured in their glasses, they told the prince that he was still the best. And the prince was happy, because they told him just what he wanted to hear.
Mario Ferrari, the high-living, outgoing, well-connected proprietor of Mario’s Ristorante, has enjoyed an uneasy relationship with the Nashville Scene ever since 1992. That year, acting on a tip from Ferrari’s own kitchen, the Scene asked a laboratory to test samples taken from some of the entrées served at Mario’s. The test results indicated that some of Mario’s best-known veal dishes contained no veal at all. Instead, they were made with pork. The resulting article caused an uproar.
The news, however shocking, didn’t close Ferrari’s restaurant. Many of his most loyal and devoted followers, in fact, hardly seemed to notice. Neither did they seem to care when Ferrari lost, then regained, then lost again, one of his four stars in the Mobil Restaurant Guide.
I have never been a regular at Mario’s. I have, however, eaten there on several occasions, always as a guest at a private party. Until a few weeks ago, I had never even ordered from the Mario’s menu. I knew people who did—mostly music business executives on generous expense accounts or lawmakers dining with lobbyists. All of these people spoke well of their friend Mario.
A few weeks ago, I decided it was time to bury the hatchet. To celebrate a friend’s 39th birthday, a milestone that was causing her a fair degree of angst, I called three of her good friends, and we booked a reservation for five for a Wednesday night at 7. After all, isn’t that why normal people go to Mario’s? For special occasions? We were all expecting great things.
Three of the women in our party arrived at 7, birthday presents in hand. They were promptly seated at the round table in the far left corner of the room. Judy and I arrived just before 7:30. Mario was not on hand that evening.
Our waiter, who might have been attractive if he hadn’t sported a disdainful smirk throughout the evening, brought our menus and recited the specials. He didn’t leave a wine list; he didn’t even offer one. Maybe he figured we’d be having iced tea with our scampi.
When we finally did get a chance to peruse the wine list, we suffered immediate sticker shock. If there’s one thing that’s definitely overinflated at Mario’s, it’s the prices. The wine prices are consistently at least $10 a bottle higher than at other restaurants in town. And what do you get for the extra bucks? Believe me, you don’t get Riedel stemware. Looked like Libby to me.
Apparently, we weren’t paying for service either. We ordered two bottles of wine. Without bothering to show them to us, the waiter opened the white first and poured a bit in my glass. It was Chardonnay, not the sauvignon blanc we had requested. When I told him about the switcheroo, he asked if the sauvignon blanc was still what we wanted.
He proceeded to uncork the chianti, but a close look at that bottle’s label indicated that he’d brought us a 1991, rather than the 1990 we had ordered. (According to the wine expert in our party, ’91 was a terrible year for chianti.) The waiter then explained that the wine cellar was out of the ’90; would we take the ’91? Couldn’t he have asked that question before he pulled the cork?
The menu at Mario’s reveals Ferrari’s Northern Italian heritage—the emphasis is on meat and seafood; there’s very little pasta. What’s more, when it comes to updating the restaurant’s culinary repertoire, time has stood still at Mario’s. Melon wrapped with prosciutto ($12), escargot, minestrone, veal Marsala, chicken piccata, shrimp scampi...yawn. There’s something to be said for classics, if they are done well. But like the little girl with the curl, when they are bad, they are horrid.
Our problems with Smirky the Server continued throughout the meal. We ordered mussels, but he didn’t inform us that the kitchen was out of mussels until our other five appetizers were being delivered. When Renee asked if she could have the vinaigrette for her salad minus the Gorgonzola, he informed her that she was out of luck. The vinaigrette, he told her, comes with the Gorgonzola. Forgive me, but I would have assumed that the kitchen of a restaurant like Mario’s would stock the basic ingredients for a simple vinaigrette to dress Renee’s $6 plate of lettuce.
When Judy told our server that the mozzarella in her salad wasn’t fresh, as promised in the menu, he argued with her. In spite of the fact that most of our food was, after a sample bite or two, left uneaten, not once did he ever ask us if there was anything wrong with the food.
Meanwhile, in our experience that evening, everything was wrong with the food. The focaccia in the bread basket was alternately stale or still cold at its center. The balsamic vinegar on the grilled portobello mushrooms ($9) tasted like Worcestershire sauce. The pastry surrounding the escargots was burned. The measly carpaccio (at $12) was sliced so thin it had to be scraped off the plate with a knife. The three pastas on the pasta sampler plate were so waterlogged we suspected they had been run through the dishwasher. The minestrone was a mush of vegetables, so oversalted and overheated that they were inedible. All the tomatoes were of the pink styrofoam variety. We ordered the rack of lamb in rosemary medium rare, but it arrived cooked gray through and through and devoid of any hint of rosemary. The scampi was skimpy, in terms of shrimp and garlic. The cioppino, lacking several of the promised varieties of shellfish, was not the fragrant, tomato-white wine broth we anticipated. It was a gummy mess of tomato paste. The veal special—a layered combination of pounded veal, spinach, prosciutto, cheese, and beefy mushroom sauce—was every bit as salty as the minestrone had been. The grilled swordfish, dry and flavorless, was less than a half-inch thick. None of our plates carried any sort of garnish whatsoever. Desserts were mediocre, and the cappuccino was watery and almost coffee-free.
Our check, before tip, came to $518.
On a Tuesday night a couple of weeks later, I returned to Mario’s, this time with my husband. Again, Mario was nowhere to be seen, but thanks to the professionalism of our waiter, John Marino, service was vastly improved. The food, however, was still mired at the same dismal level. Of the dozen or so mussels ($9) in the bowl of bland broth, easily half had not opened. The fish soup was overcooked and, characteristically, oversalted. The tomatoes on the caprese salad were fresh this time, but the mozzarella, once again, was not. The beef filet medallions ($26), even though they weren’t cooked as ordered, satisfied Steve, but they certainly didn’t knock him out. Likewise, my poached salmon ($22) was acceptable, but not nearly so good as the piece of salmon I’d enjoyed, at less than half the price, at another Nashville restaurant earlier in the week. We didn’t bother with dessert. Our check, before tip, was $147.50.
After my first visit, I called the restaurant to inquire about our bill. The wine prices, exorbitant to begin with, had magically increased again by the time they appeared on our bill. Gina Ferrari was patient and helpful, and she made an earnest attempt to straighten things out.
In the meantime, Mario himself had heard about my visits. Because he’d gotten wind of my unpleasant experiences, he called me to ask what the problem was. I told him about the wine. He told me it was a mistake. I told him about our Neanderthal waiter. He told me the waiter had been fired. I told him of the not-so-fresh mozzarella. He told me that it had to be fresh. After all, he explained, the label on the package from food distributor Robert Orr-Sysco clearly says, “Fresh Mozzarella.”
When I told Ferrari that most of our food was basically inedible, he said his chef had been on vacation during the week when I made both my visits. I suggested that, if the sous chef at Mario’s can’t execute the menu, perhaps it would be advisable to close the restaurant when the chef is out of town. Ferrari’s explanation was that he had been very busy getting ready for the Fourth of July boat parade with Mayor Phil Bredesen and Bud Adams. I told Mario that I was a busy person too.
Ferrari told me that he worked hard. I told him all five of the women in our party were hard workers too and that, when we paid $500 for a meal, we expected to get good food and respectful treatment.
He asked me to come back to his restaurant so that he could take care of me personally. I told him that the next time I went to Mario’s, I would arrive unannounced, as usual.
Finally, Ferrari asked me to give him another chance. I asked him what he meant. He offered to refund my money if I wouldn’t write my review. I didn’t know what else to say but no.
