Out of the Frying Pan
By Victoria Looseleaf
Yes, Victoria, there is a Santa Claus. Perhaps two of them. Indeed, the extraordinarily generous father-son duo, Ivo and Peter Kastelan, owners of Il Tiramisu, certainly helped make the holiday season bright for your intrepid gustatory reporter. Graciously serving dish after amazing dish in their cozy (it seats 65), ecru-accented boite, the familial pair helped make the last Friday of the year 2002 more than memorable.
I, stand five feet eight inches tall in my fishnet-stockinged feet and weighing in at 117 pounds, at one point nearly begged epicurean mercy after being presented with my seventh appetizer, a cioppino-like tomato broth awash with swordfish, mussels, salmon and shrimp.
No wonder 70% of Tiramisu’s customers are regulars. And talk about fruits de mer! But I’m getting ahead of myself. With Andre Bocelli crooning in the back round, Peter 39 Years old and a Valley native, insists I begin my meal with a sampling of wines. Pouring a crisp, dry Pighin Pinot Grigio, Kastelan the younger tells me of his matriculation from Granada Hills High (“where the quarterback John Elway went”), while learning the restaurant business at Pop’s side.
“I started as a busboy, then was a waiter and a captain with my father, and at other restaurants [Ivo was a partner in a couple of Brentwood and Tarzana eateries before the duo bought Tiramisu nearly five years ago]. I also studied computer science at Cal State Northridge.”
Cool. But I’m more intent on gnawing on a hunk of Tiramisu’s deliciously warm, home-made whole grain bread while sipping a Lockwood Chardonnay, as the afternoon sun dapples the table with its brilliant late December rays. Peter, dressed in an efficient white shirt and dark pants smiles broadly, his shock of black hair complementing coal-colored eyes set off by a pair of bushy eyebrows that rival Frida Kahlo’s famous unibrow.
Ivo, a young 64, sporting identical brows save for a slight graying, returns to the table with two soups – lentil, punctuated with rosemary and basil, and a non-dairy puree of broccoli and zucchini. Slurping these divine potages, I learn that Kastelan the elder was born on a small Italian island in the Adriatic Sea, near Croatia. Forty-two years ago he made his way to the shores of Chicago, where he married a Greek-American woman named Katerina.
Finally settling in Southern California, they raised a family, where progeny Peter ultimately earned an MBA from USC. Trying his hand as a consultant for a decade, Peter says the food industry lured him back. “Since I grew up in the restaurant business, Pop and I began looking around for something cozy. How could we pass up this place?” he says, pointing out that there have been a number of proposals bandied about from the corner table.
Did I say we’re being waited on hand and, well, foot, as my favorite shooter, the matchless Gary Leonard takes advantages of the perfect light between bountiful bites? It’s only when Leonard realizes these are tasting items and there are at least a dozen more to come, that he reluctantly decides to abandon food on his plates.
More wine helps, however, as does the arrival of spaghetti with Dungeness crab in a pink brandy sauce. (Canyabelieve we’re still in the appetizer phase? Well, believe it and weep, as your girl is finding it increasingly difficult to put pen to paper. Moreover, who would have thunk these flavors could produce such a taste marriage?)
It matters not that Ivo tells me he had a frittata earlier today, a dish not on the menu, but one, I assure you, that is not missed. Why? Because a plate brimming with grilled salmon nestled in a plum cognac sauce with baby roasted potatoes and julienned vegetables, is now being served. And, if I failed to mention it, the salmon abuts a Lake Superior white fish, also grilled, and finished with shitake mushrooms, leeks and white wine.
The issue of white or red is now superfluous, as I indulge in a Sangiovese, Conti Contini, followed by a half-goblet of Chianti Classico Riserva, Nozzole, which is light, fresh and not as dry as the Contini.
Or is it the other way around? Who knows? ‘Who cares,’ I think, as the crimson wines are lined up on the table like a ruby necklace, an absolute perfect match for the New York steak slivers that have magically appeared before me, floating, I kid you not, in a raspberry balsamic reduction.
“What my father and I want,” adds Peter, who says he doesn’t work out but gets ample exercise in the restaurant (at least he is today, schlepping the myriad plates to and from Angelo’s cooking arena), “is for everything to be as good as it can be. We pay attention to the kitchen and to the guests.”
“I’ll drink to that,” I say, raising my glass, as Leonard continues plowing through his entrees, washing them down with herbal tea. And I will drink again, too, as Tiramisu, which means “pick me up,” offers monthly wine dinners. But first there is the matter of the establishment’s titular dessert.
Presented in an exquisite chocolate tulip, this is, oxymoronically speaking, a hearty delicacy, and even if the Kastelans don’t go to the gym, I know I’ll need a strenuous session to get me on track again. Why? Because our hosts have also brought a Millefoglie delle feste (like a Napoleon, this is a puff pastry with custard and chocolate chips, drizzled with chocolate and vanilla sauce), and a profiterole filled with lemon custard sporting a chocolate topping.
As my every wish continues to be their command, the meal draws to a close. Imbibing the java, I realize it’s time to say arrivaderci. Peter pulls out my chair and Ivo, his rugged face beaming an elfish grin, helps me with my coat, pressing – of all things – a food-filled bag into my hands, as he coos, “It’s a good life in America, yes?”
