Italian-named restaurant serves French cuisine.
Some hack who called himself Hemingway was in town posing as a writer, and I was consumed with rage thinking the thought as I waited for the young lady to meet me for lunch at Fellini.
I could tell by her expression when we met that she knew exactly what was tormenting me and she smiled as we walked into the restaurant. I indicated with a gesture and a grieving animal groan that I had reserved the last window-walled compartment on the right-hand side of the restaurant’s first floor as one walks down its narrow aisle lined on both sides with pink-clothed tables.
The Italian-named Fellini, which styles itself as French, is very centrally located – on Horodetskoho just off Independence Square and next to the Ukraina cinema.
While I prefer that a young lady whom I take to a restaurant sit next to me, My Inspiration refused, telling me that sitting across the table would make for better conversation.
I looked at the tightness of the seating on either side of the table and had to admit that the two wide, rounded chairs with their armrests together barely fit within the table’s confines. I immediately started composing an “Ode to Divan Seating,” when the rage provoked by Hemingway’s presence overtook me again, inasmuch as my thought of him was triggered by the act of writing, while the writing became paralyzed by my cognizance of his presence.
While I seethed with rage, we ordered two coffees – she, an espresso, myself, an American-style – for Hr 15 each, with the caffeine doing much to calm me.
“You have to take your mind off Hemingway,” the young lady said, now not enjoying my demeanor one bit.
“Hemingway – that’s probably not even his real name,” I said. “Which is it, his first name, or last?”
“It’s the only name he goes by, like Sting, or Cher, or Humbert Humbert,” she replied, adding that she would order the plate of steamed vegetables, which included broccoli, cauliflower, Brussels sprouts, carrot and green beans, for Hr 32. Later she would tell me that the vegetables were okay, but nothing special.
I’ll admit that it wasn’t a very bold choice, but the menu was confusing, and mutual consultation was nearly impossible, given our distance across the table.
As for this Hemingway, it was bad enough that I had run an assortment of hacks who insisted on calling themselves writers out of town, when he rolls in doing the same thing.
“Hemingway, eh? What else do you know about him,” I asked the young lady as I ordered two 0.33-liter-sized carbonated Borjomi mineral waters for Hr 15 a bottle.
“He’s a big, strong, dark, handsome brute of a man,” she answered, ordering the Steamed Trout served with a green herb sauce for Hr 102.
The trout was served perched atop a portion of Potatoes “Macaire,” which in Fellini’s version, is a thick, squat, medium-sized cylinder of baked and somewhat mashed potato with what appeared to be an admixture of green herbs.
“And he speaks French. He carries newspapers in that language around with him all the time, and he could walk into this restaurant with them any minute,” she said.
I topped off my order with the Fillet “Epee,” which was comprised of two large thick wedges of beef complemented by a red wine and juniper-based “Cocotte” sauce, and a side of Potatoes “Ecrase,” which looked exactly like the young woman’s Potatoes “Macaire,” except mixed with mushrooms rather than herbs, for Hr 155.
Unfortunately, Fellini was too delicate of a place, and its first-floor aisle too narrow, for me to ram this Hemingway through a row of tables and chairs (as I would normally be inclined to do in a more longshoreman-like tavern setting) before throwing him out onto the cobbled street with his notebooks, newspapers and pens (oh, sorry, pencils) flying about him in his now demoralized hubris.
I decided to enjoy my lunch instead.
And indeed I did, as the steak met my simple criteria of being thick and juicy, and the Worcestershire-like “Cocotte” sauce did a good job bringing all that steak flavor out. My Potatoes “Ecrase” were fine, but added more to my meal in terms of filling the potato pouch in my stomach than making the word “exquisite” come to mind.
The young lady appeared equally gastronomically unimpressed with her Potatoes “Macaire,” and said she didn’t care for the herb-based sauce that was supposed to go with her fish.
To add turmoil to torture, she wouldn’t touch the tiny smiling trout curled on her plate, cut open lengthwise down its dorsal side, until she had completely humiliated it.
First, she tried sticking the bonus cherry tomato I gave her that came with my meal into the trout’s open mouth, but as small as the fish’s mouth was, it was still bigger than the tomato, which rolled out.
Then she took a piece of a breadstick I had broken and stuffed it into the trout’s mouth instead, following which she said, “Sorry little fish, but I will now have to cut your head off.”
After finally trying the trout, she said it was good, which came as a relief to me.
Between swipes at the trout, the young lady enjoyed a large fresh-squeezed kiwi juice for Hr 45. While I was taking notes for this review, she left, and by the time I noticed, it was too late.
Fellini (5 Horodetskoho, 279-5462). Open 24 hours.
English menu: Yes
English-speaking staff: Yes
Average meal: Hr 200
