Cafe Dominique
Director George Miller once quipped, “The trouble with Italian food is five or six days later you’re hungry again.”
I’m not about to argue with the creator of Mad Max and Happy Feet, not as I find myself waddling to the kitchen for a cup of strong morning coffee, red wine, meat and sauce coalescing at my core.
Woof, I say to my husband. I feel like a human meatball.
Thus looms my Italian-American hangover, the result of our venture to a new restaurant in Midland named Cafe Dominique. These new offerings don’t come often, so we meet them with cautious optimism. I had texted the couple joining us the night before preemptively,
Okay guys, no idea what this is going to be like but hey, something different!
I have faith, though. Italian food, in all its iterations, is just that thing I can’t live without. If you asked me to name my favorite restaurant stateside, I’m going to say L’Artusi in Manhattan’s West Village. I’m going to give you the 411 on the dayboat scallops with bursts of chili oil and sea salt, the roasted mushrooms tossed in bacon with a fried egg and hard ricotta draped on top. I will try, and fail, to do justice to their spaghetti with bread crumbs, whose recipe I have studied, befuddled at the simplicity of this outstanding dish (the secret, I believe, is the parmesan brodo they cook the pasta in. See it for yourself.)
I think of this as ‘elevated’ Italian, or maybe ‘refined’ is a better word. In New York, these are the Barbuto’s and Maialino’s of the world. Peasant and Frankie’s Spuntino come to mind. Maybe Morandi, a familiar face, or Don Angie, the new ‘it’ girl. There are hundreds more.
But then there are the true ‘red sauce’ establishments, from Little Italy to Arthur Ave. Most of them have a sign that reads ‘Since…’ on the door, and that’s something to be respected. I’ve never made it in the hallowed doors of Rao’s, (although it’s the only jarred sauce I’ll buy,) but Monte’s Trattoria and Emilio’s Ballato were some of my old-world go-to’s. There’s also the no-frills of Piccolo Angolo (penne vodka, my weakness, my first love!) and then Parm across town, and now all around, sent here to ruin summer bodies everywhere. I once made it to Staten Island to dine at Enoteca Maria, where a cast of rotating Italian grandmothers, ‘Nonnas,’ as they say, cook dishes from their homeland in the open kitchen. No, really - must go. There’s really no need to mention Carbone or Quality Italian, although I’m doing it, because this post isn’t shying away from gluttony, and Quality Italian wants you to eat chicken parm as a pizza. Such institutions demand you leave your calorie counting for when your diet starts at Monday.
The moment we walk inside Cafe Dominique, I have. I know what I’ve signed up for. The entrance is unpretentious, occupying a shared one-story building off Big Spring towards downtown. A new meat market, Tall City Meats, serves as its neighbor. The space is straightforward, one large casual dining room.. A robust man named Dominique (but of course!) greets us at the front.
The space has a hum of couples and families, matched only by the acoustic guitarist at the front filling the room with 80s and 90s nostalgia. I tend to like my carbonara paired with Sinatra or Morricone but it’s Midland and it works.
Cafe Dominique is new – like, new new – and if dabbling in hospitality taught me anything, it’s to be patient. We are. A man walks over and asks us if we’d like to open a bottle of wine (the place is still BYOB). He’s wearing a Pelican Hill pullover and I know before he tells us that he must have some ownership in this joint.
A few people called in to cancel, he explains, I’m filling in.
He points to the corner where his wife and children and grandchildren sit. It turns a long wait for a drink into an afterthought. I love that there’s family here - that Dominique is in the front, or slips into the back, slinging up a few recipes from his own ‘nonna.’ We are instantly relaxed.
The menu is predictable, and that’s just what I want. Calamari, caprese, a good Caesar, any kind of parm, piccata, a naughty lasagna, and steak (all Midland Meat Company, I’m sure to Tall City’s chagrin…Meat Wars!)
I am a sucker for piccata, both homemade and otherwise. This is my idea of restraint tonight. I will, however, try the mountain of calamari and the mussels diavolo. My husband will give me a bite of his two-toned lasagna, against his will, and I will treat the bread basket and garlic oil that does not leave the table as a palette cleanser. Us, and our friends, will clear out three bottles of red wine and a six pack of beer. The owner comes over to offer us a nightcap of bourbon. We are unraveling and pass on the drink for conversation. He is leaving for Cabo the next day. He’s excited about his new restaurant. He loves his grandchild.
We pay the check and pour ourselves out the door, smelling like garlic and chianti. My husband looks at me on the ride home,
I had a really good time. Did you?
Oh yes. I am one happy meatball.
Cafe Dominique is open for lunch Monday - Friday and dinner Monday - Saturday.
