Pino rogano seattle

This is the favorite go to place for my family and me in Seattle. We love the personal attention, we love the food, we love the intimate setting, and we love the atmosphere. The setting is small, Stopped by for dinner with family friend from out of dinner.

The dinner was excellent, matched only by the casual atmosphere and Pino's hospitality. An important change - the restaurant is now Sign In. Search query. All Local Images Videos. News Shopping. Cafe Da Pino. His products have been served in many Restaurant and Pizzerie. We are fortunate to have him in our Columbia City neighborhood.

His bushy eyebrows moved closer together, like caterpillars facing off for battle. In the distance, lightning flashed a second time. I leaped from my seat and ran to the door, where a menu was posted.

I scanned it quickly, hoping I wouldn't get caught. Pino's menu is simple, unfussy, although I had to look up what ravioli aurora was. It is decidedly not a tribute to Seattle's drab highway, homemade pasta filled with car dealerships and Korean barbecue joints. It is, in fact, a simple tomato cream sauce. I ran back to our table and quietly rattled off the memorized menu.

Pino returned. Seasoned French chefs should flip perfectly creamy, sunny omelets, Neapolitan pizzaiolos should bake bubbly-crusted pizza margheritas, and New Orleans chefs should nurture dark gumbo roux. We gave up. We had the antipasti. But it was amazing!

Pino makes all of his own salumi and sausages in-house, and he might tell you, with a triumphant snort, that he once beat Armandino Batali, of Seattle's Salumi fame, in some sort of a charcuterie duel. It's that good. The gravy was thick and aromatic; the flavor was deeper than any of the poetry you wrote in high school. Chunks of slow-cooked meat nestled their way into the perfectly toothsome tubes of penne. Somehow, after hours of stewing, the tomato still tasted bright.

Each bite was rich and silky, like your nonna's underwear. I mean, I can only speculate. With each compliment I gave, his lips slightly quaked and shivered, until they finally stretched into a pleasant smile.

The next time he visited our table, it was to chat and share slivers of homemade cheese. He told us he's divorced from his wife she got the house in Lake Como but married to his restaurant. He is his sole employee: host, chef, server, and dishwasher. Later, after the plates were cleared, he passed out shots of homemade limoncello.

We clinked glasses with him and the soccer jersey guys and shouted, "Salute! When it was time to leave, he kissed my cheeks, and when my boyfriend and I returned months later, he remembered us. We were greeted politely, offered menus, and, again, firmly told we would get the antipasti.

This time we refused. Instead we ordered the verdure alla griglia, a platter of grilled eggplant and zucchini, roasted red peppers, and a few cracked green olives, a side dish I saw on every restaurant menu in Italy. We also ordered cheese ravioli, bathed in creamy pesto and sprinkled with toasted pine nuts, and penne con salsiccia, fresh marinara with slices of too-mild homemade sausage that could have used a stern look and a pep talk.

He told us his friend hunted a deer, and he brought us chunks of deeply spiced venison salami from his personal stash.