VescoVino raises glass to Italy

There are plenty of tables (including a few choice fireside seats) at Il VescoVino. But for my money, the restaurant's best real estate is at its horseshoe-shaped bar, an amiable destination where St. Paul plays out as a big small town and not a small big city. One recent chilly night we walked in, peeled away our winter layers, grabbed two of the bar's stools and spent five minutes with our noses buried in the IVV's marvelous wine list and menu before we realized we were seated next to an old friend we haven't seen in ages. Tell me that happens in L.A.

Restaurant closings are always a downer, and when I heard that the Vintage bit the dust, I was especially bummed. I've always had a soft spot for the mansion (OK, technically, it was built as a bucks-deluxe duplex) that housed the Selby Avenue restaurant and wine bar, and hated to see it sit empty. Needless worrying on my part. A band of enterprising restaurateurs with a deep East Metro dining track record -- reaching back to Buon Giorno Italia, Osteria I Nonni and the former Rimini's -- took over the building, scrubbed it up, slipped in an Italian accent and dubbed the place Il VescoVino, Italian for "the bishop's wine."

The name rings true. This fair-weather churchgoer has to believe that a high-ranking ecclesiastic would raise their glass to the restaurant's judiciously selected wine list, which plays like an Italian travelogue. Aside from its geographic diversity -- 18 of Italy's 20 regions are represented -- the list also thoughtfully showcases nearly 20 drinkable choices poured in two carafe sizes. Don't want to face the ugly dollar-Euro rate with a trip to Italy? Step into IVV and at least enjoy a few reasonably priced, enthusiastically served sips that will momentarily transport you straight to the hills of Tuscany, minus the round-trip ticket.

Chef Walter Buffalo's best moments play out at the top of the menu, over a glass of wine. I could make a meal from the antipasti platter's generous array of cheeses and parchment-thin cured meats, along with a basket of the kitchen's nicely crusty bread.

A beautiful, flavorful beef carpaccio was topped with colorful chopped arugula and a pert dash of lemon. A hearty, peasant-fare combination of sausage, roasted peppers and mozzarella hit the spot on a frigid night; ditto a meatball trio resting in a chunky red sauce. A big bowl of mussels had a pleasantly spicy bite, and light, tender calamari were dusted in just the right amount of sea salt. An aromatic brown butter sauce was a nice finish to crisp salt cod fritters.

Pastas start strong: A creamy toss of ziti, prosciutto, peas and Pecorino; a rust-belt red puttanesca over spaghetti; linguine brimming with shrimp, zesty spiced tomatoes and plenty of garlic; and rigatoni paired with a fabulous fennel sausage and bits of zucchini.

But then things take a turn. A heavy, gluey gnocchi was overpowered by a veal-in-cream-sauce combo. Rice balls were fried into carb-bomb oblivion. Salt-crusted seared tuna didn't play well against undercooked beets. Dry short ribs were served, shepherd's pie-style, with a dull sweet-potato purée. Roasted hen was oddly flavorless, save the blackened, gummy balsamic vinegar glaze. A New York strip wasn't cooked to order by a long shot, and a veritable quilt of roasted peppers and melted cheese over a thick, perfectly succulent pork chop underscored the kitchen's tendency toward ingredients overkill. Desserts inspire indifference, with one exception: a cheery pineapple-ricotta pudding cake.

From the sidewalk, the structure still radiates promise after 117 years: a gabled, steep-roofed, Victorian brick pile with a profile so grand it manages to stand out in a neighborhood boasting block after block of architectural eye candy. Sadly, one too many renovations may have sapped some essential historic vitality from the building's interior, especially on the wholly unremarkable second floor, which feels more Woodbury than Cathedral Hill. So stay downstairs, amid the golden glow from the room's cute acorn-shaped lanterns. Take a seat at the bar. You'll probably run into an old friend.

Rick Nelson • rdnelson@startribune.com