Photo credit: Filomena Ristorante

Have you ever crossed paths with one of those strip clubs that have dancers shaking their bits in the front window to entice customers puppy-in-the-pet-shop-style? Yeah, me neither. I imagine most of those establishments were done away with in the 80s. Still, I can’t believe any of those displays would have been more erotic than the scene you’ll find at 1063 Wisconsin Ave NW, Washington, DC.

There, behind freshly polished glass, sits the district’s most adorable Italian grandma kneading, rolling, and shaping all sorts of glutenous delicacies. Gnocchi, cavatelli, ravioli– her magic fingers produce them all and place them lovingly into baskets waiting to be swept downstairs, boiled to al dente perfection, and served to the ravenous patrons of Filomena Ristorante.

It’s a peculiarly deceptive storefront.

The jolly so-called “Pasta Mama” in the window sits in a perky faux kitchen that suggests the presence of an open, sun-soaked dining room behind her. Pull open the front door, however, and you’re met with something a bit more clandestine: an emerald-painted entryway that drops immediately into a steep stairwell.

I found myself descending that very stairwell the other weekend and feeling rather mischievous while doing so. The hustle and bustle audible from the steps sounded frenzied but refined and the black and white flashes of jacket and bowtie-clad waiters immediately sent my imagination spinning to speakeasies and mobsters. All of a sudden, I was a 1920s flapper being initiated into the seedy yet glamorous underbelly of Washington, DC. Below me promised to be the most prestigious, most entertaining company and– if the heavenly aroma was to be trusted– exquisite Italian fare.

Once I reached the hostess station, however, the entire fantasy changed. A good look around the restaurant revealed that I was not in a 20s nightclub but several decades and several milieus away in a homey (bordering on kitschy) dining room from the 40s or 50s.

My initial impression was one of complete sensory overload.

The dining room lights are dim enough to make you strain to read the price tag on your $30 tortellini, yet the room bursts with color and texture. Lush green ferns hang in clay pots from the ceiling while white snapdragons (or something similar, my knowledge of flowers is nominal) bloom from the center of the restaurant. A rich walnut bar occupies a corner painted in the same luxurious green as the entryway, while the rest of the dining area alternates between creamy beige walls adorned with lavish paintings and mirrored walls that intensified the ostentation. The icing on top of the entire scene is the identical ornamentation of each and every one of the few dozen glossy walnut tables. They’re dressed in delicate lace tablecloths and accessorized with bulky china starters. It’s all so over the top but oozes tradition and sentimentality.

Once seated at one of the overdressed tables, the other 4 members of my party ordered wine and a single Bud Lite, which I was informed were quite refreshing (my sober palette stuck to the complementary— and perfectly iced— water our jovial and Uncle Fester-looking waiter poured us).

Then it was on to the menu.

Now, don’t let the olive tone of my skin or the wild gesticulations I make while speaking fool you, I’m not really a fan of Italian food. I know, I know, how could anyone but Satan himself turn their nose up at a fork coiled tightly with angel hair and slathered in garden-fresh tomato sauce? I get it, it’s supposed to be universally delicious. Just chalk it up to a childhood jaded by the same chicken cutlet dinner week after week or to a sensitive stomach that cringes at the purportedly orgasmic ooze of melted mozzarella. Still, there I was at Filomena, one of Zagat’s best housemade pasta in Washington, DC and Washingtonian’s top 3 Italian restaurants in Washington, so I had to do my best to embrace it.

The menu offers just about every fresh pasta dish you could ever dream of: ravioli, rigatoni, fusilli, etc. A few dishes are mixed up with fresh vegetables while the majority of them include meatballs, sausage, chicken, veal, and other carnivorous fare.  My eyes immediately began scoping for seafood, my favorite of all the foods, and spotted two daily specials: a filet of salmon drizzled with a cream sauce and served beside roast potatoes and crab cakes served atop fried green tomatoes with asparagus and a creamy orzo. I reasoned that I can and do make myself salmon any time I please and with sauces I find more appealing than those of the “cream” variety, so I decided on the crab cakes which happen to be one my favorite yet infrequently prepared dishes. The crab cakes were admittedly more expensive than the salmon at $40+, but I wasn’t the one footing the bill so what the heck?

In addition to “Just enjoy the Italian food, God damn it!” I had one more request of myself: not to tax my aforementioned finicky digestive system. That meant refraining from the zealous overconsumption of bread, dairy, and meat products my tablemates, and the rest of Filomena’s patrons, had been preparing themselves all day (Filomena does not follow its home country’s sentiment of moderation but, as I noted to one of my party members, the arduous urging of the Italian-American grandma who insists “you need to put some meat on those bones” and “men like a little something to grab”). I wanted the full experience of flavor offered to me, yes, but I would only savor little bites of my tables’ shared appetizers and a respectful amount of my entree. No fun, I know, but neither is writhing in bed late into the night while clutching your stomach (*shrug*).

After placing our orders, our table was anointed with an overflowing basket of focaccia and brown bread.

I figured I’d begin my meal with a bite or two of the focaccia, but I backed out as soon as I caught a whiff of the bread’s nostalgic aroma. The buttery, zesty breathes coming from the basket immediately transported me back to my Nana’s kitchen that always seemed to have a pan of focaccia baking in the oven. My tablemates tore into the bread, and their groans of delight confirmed what I suspected: the bread is delicious. Soft and light with just the slightest floury crust on the bottom, the focaccia flaunts its texture more than its depth of flavor. The bread itself is a bit buttery, a teensy bit salty, but mostly a passive vehicle for the sweet and sticky tomato sauce spread on top. The sauce’s flavor is both earthy from a pinch or two of oregano and obscure with a hint of garlic that wafts to the back of your throat rather than dances on your taste buds. In short: it gets it right.

Next up were the two appetizers my table ordered to share: calamari and meatballs. Despite seafood being my favorite of the foods, I’m not the hugest fan of calamari due to its typically fried and rubbery nature. Filomena’s calamari, while not terribly rubbery (a plus for my palette) was sufficiently fried and tasted like most other calamari I’ve had in the past. Its dipping sauce was a brilliantly hued yet only adequately flavored red sauce. The meatballs were far more impressive. Approximately the size of softballs nuzzled in a rich marinara, and daintily topped with a square of mozzarella, they were the epitome of grandma’s love. Though I only had a bite about the size of a pea, my taste buds swelled with the creaminess of hand-mixed meats and expertly selected spices. No skimping had been done during the formation of this meaty mass. This was no half beef, half turkey combo, no 99% lean mince. This was fresh, flavorful, and straight from the yellowed pages of Great-Great Grandma’s handwritten recipe book.

At long last, our entrees arrived.

The bulk of my party had gone with more traditional fare and received plates piled high with three full home-stuffed sausages, a hefty portion of meatballs, delicately shredded short rib, and that famous Pasta Mama pasta. All of that was mixed with Filomena’s special “Sunday Sauce” that brews all day in a witch’s cauldron of fresh herbs and time-honored flavor. Another member of my party took the simple-is-better route and received fresh cavatelli hedonistically tossed with vibrant green pesto.

My plate was just as overwhelming. Three golf-ball-and-a-half-sized crab cakes sat atop golden brown fried green tomatoes in a thick bed of remoulade sauce. Sauteed asparagus was stacked like Lincoln Logs in the upper right corner of my plate while the upper left oozed with cheesy orzo. Full disclosure: every bite was heavenly.

First, the crab cakes. The moist crab cakes that melted in my mouth with fresh-from-the-sea flavor and were given the most subtle yet life-changing structure by the fried green tomatoes. Their thin, crisp breading provided a backbone to the swoon-worthy warmth of the crab cakes and summery sweetness of the juicy tomatoes. The pairing caused my palette to question, to explore, to crave more. Oh, and when paired with a tangy bite of the silky remoulade? Fuggedaboutit!

Asparagus is one of the most “eh” vegetables to me. I’d never crave the fibrous stalks on their own or make them for myself. When properly prepared, however, they can provide the relief of spring’s first warm breeze to the right dish. I couldn’t get enough of Filomena’s asparagus. It had an al dente bite (if vegetables can be described with such a thing) and a savory, no-nonsense flavor. The orzo, while objectively good, was not really my thing (I tend to find dishes prepared with heavy cream flat and uninspiring). That being said, I took a few bites of it with the asparagus, and that proved to be a more compelling experience.

Sufficiently stuffed, my party opted out of ordering newborn-sized desserts haughtily displayed in a glass case up front. Instead, we settled the bill while sipping the complimentary maraschino liqueur and sambuca delivered to our table in crystal decanters al la the blood of Christ. I stayed away from the sambuca, but the few sips of maraschino liqueur I took were dangerously similar to a melted cherry Fla-Vor-Ice and reminded me why I don’t drink.

Despite my prejudice, I must say that Filomena provided a delightful culinary experience right on down to the gratifying mints offered by the door.

Will I be going back anytime soon? Well, probably not. Partially because the price ($15+ for appetizers and $30+ for entrees) does provide a barrier, though every penny proves to be well spent. Also, Italian food sill isn’t my favorite, and there’s no changing that. All that being said, I would happily accept another invitation to go back to Filomena and readily suggest the restaurant to anyone looking for a decadent meal in our nation’s capital.