Please note that since writing this blog post, Hostaria has closed down
When I first moved to Amsterdam, I spent two months living with an Italian woman. Now, Italians outside Italy are a unique breed. While most of us immigrants are generally pretty positive about Holland (we did choose to live here, after all), Italians seem to suffer from perpetual homesickness. And who can blame them? If I came from a country with great food, a history of amazing artists, stunning renaissance architecture and rugged coast-meets-mountain beauty, I might feel the same. What I’m missing is the reason why, if it’s so great, they ever left in the first place?
Anyway, aforementioned flatmate was just such an Italian, and she claimed there was only one Italian restaurant worth eating at in Amsterdam (and she only ate Italian food, so I’m not quite sure how she coped): Hostaria. Over two years later and I finally got round to finding out whether I agree with her.
The restaurant is about the size of my living room, and Hostaria’s managers have somehow managed to cram a kitchen, three chefs, 20 tables and two waitresses into it: it’s a wonder there’s room for any diners at all. There was some confusion on arrival because, while there was a single table for two sitting invitingly available, we were told that we’d be best off coming back at 9 o’clock. ‘But we made a reservation for 8?’ my Dutch dining companion queried, baffled. It turned out that his native tongue had not been understood by the Italian waitress to whom we spoke initially; I was heartened to discover that I’m not the only one who has trouble being understood in Dutch.
Confusion resolved, the restaurant manager offered us each a glass of prosecco; now what a bloody good idea. It doesn’t take much to sell alcohol to me, and I’ve often wondered why Dutch restaurants and bars don’t try this tactic more often. They could earn a fiver in 30 seconds if they could only be bothered to ask. Replete with fizz, we embarked on the menu. Unable to fit in the whole antipasti-primi-secondi shebang, I opted for caponata with gambas followed by gnocchi with frutti di mare. The Dutchie had pesce di spada (swordfish) and ravioli filled with ricotta and mint. My overall (and, to my mind, very charitable) feeling was that the chef had a cold. The caponata was jaw-achingly sweet and the gnocchi was so over-seasoned that the pepper felt more like chilli, and the salt was an unnecessary addition to naturally salty seafood. Adding to my disappointment, the prawns, clams and mussels – while undoubtedly fresh – were all overcooked. I was more impressed by the Dutchie’s dinner – he reported that the swordfish was fresh and well-dressed though overwhelmed by an unnecessary number of extra ingredients (including parmesan, cherry tomatoes, spring onions, curly- and flat-leaf parsley and various leaves – this is starting to sound like the voiceover for ‘The Invention Test’ on Master Chef). His ravioli were delicious, and mint is an under-used ingredient with pasta. Why they felt the need to garnish it with limp fried sage leaves was beyond me. We shared a panna cotta for dessert, which came with two not particularly contrasting creamy sauces. While I appreciated the vanilla-rich panna cotta itself, I was more interested in the red fruit garnish than the hazelnut and caramel sauces.
The bill came to €90 including a bottle of Italian pinot grigio; the prosecco, it seemed, was on the house. Whether that was a result of the earlier mix-up over the reservation, the Dutchie pretending to know the chef, or me brandishing my notebook around, was never explained. In any case, it was appreciated, but it doesn’t alter my disappointment over the food. Maybe the Italians are right to be homesick: I have yet to discover good Italian food in Amsterdam.
