If there were a contest for accurately named restaurants, Piccolo might take the top prize. The word is Italian for small, and size, or lack thereof, is the leitmotif that runs through nearly every aspect of this exceptional new south Minneapolis restaurant.
The numbers speak loud and clear: Thirty-six seats. Sixteen menu items. A top price of $14. Thirty-dollar-and-under wine prices. A staff of 12. The exception to the "small" rule is chef/co-owner Doug Flicker's talent and his ambitions. Both are big. Huge, even. Piccolo may be a small stage, but it's an appropriately intimate venue for enjoying some colossal flavors.
In the three years since he pulled the plug on his much-loved Auriga, Flicker has been channeling his culinary gifts into venues not his own. Now that he's his own boss again, it's obvious that Flicker has used his exile to carefully consider what's important to him. Don't expect to encounter a 50-ounce bone-in ribeye at Piccolo -- to date, the menu's sole beef selection has been tripe, another signal that Piccolo is far removed from meat-and-potatoes Minnesota. Instead, the menu is a graduated series of exquisitely rendered, modestly portioned plates. Taken in concert, they become a do-it-yourself tasting menu, with diners determining the number of dishes that their appetite -- and budget -- allows.
It's easy to see that Flicker and his fellow cooks place a premium on curiosity. Why not make their own yogurt, then mildly infuse it with camomile? Or why not tinker with pork hocks -- yeah, pork hocks! -- by forming balls of ground smoked pork and white Cheddar cheese, rolling it in panko, spearing it on a pig's bone and deep-frying it; the result is four-star state-fair fare.
Or why not show skeptics the blissful joy of pickled pig's feet? Flicker cites them as an example of "risk and reward" dining -- divine, lardon-shaped pops of pillowy, intensely porky meat, sprinkled over gently scrambled, protein-rich eggs. I can't imagine visiting the restaurant and not ordering it.
Some dishes have a remarkable sense of color and composition. The painterly progression of several colors of beets, stacked into a terrine, could have been mistaken for an edible Rothko canvas. A plate of insanely tender gnocchi, toothy white beans and bits of pecarino Romano cheese was a study in how similar shades of a single color -- in this case, beige -- can be the most elegant solution possible. Flicker's idea of a salad was a nuanced arrangement of crisply roasted Brussels sprouts leaves, bits of tender white asparagus spears, a delicate toasted brioche crouton and lemon-kissed chèvre; it was jazzy and improvisational.
Sometimes the menu goes straight for comfort, and the results are sublime, whether it's the world's most fabulous four-nibble grilled cheese sandwich, or an artichoke gratin paired with tiny, intensely flavorful duck gizzards. The approach to seafood is similarly revelatory, whether it means cutting coin-shaped shears of sushi-grade octopus and pairing it with stems of vinegar-laced Swiss chard, or thin-slicing sturgeon that's been infused with hickory smoke flavor and layering it with skinny slabs of fingerling potatoes. Salt-crusted bream, baked over a potato base, tasted like utter luxury. The more substantial proteins include rare-roasted duck and lamb two ways.
When I fret about the long-term viability of Piccolo's business plan -- can small actually find success in our big-box world? -- I'll remember this: To my everlasting gratitude, Doug Flicker is demonstrating that being small doesn't mean you can't think big. That has to be money in the bank, right?
