Atlanta Journal-Constitution - March 26, 1999

John Kessler

Italian Gem

We fumble our way through a set of gauzy yellow sheers and mustard velvet curtains to find ourselves suddenly on center stage at Sotto Sotto. Customers twirling spaghetti from white porcelain bowls look up. Black-clad waiters carrying baskets of country-style bread give us the once over. And a winsome young woman named MaDora Frey strides across the floor to greet us. "We can have a table for you in five, maybe seven, minutes, " she says with assurance, and leads us to the cozy nook of a bar for a glass of Chianti.

Frey and her finance, Riccardo Ullio, opened this hidden trattoria in Inman Park just two months ago, and it already feels like a timeless neighborhood treasure. A wood-burning oven billows fragrance from the open kitchen. A display of estate-bottled olive oils in cut-glass bottles demands attention. A chrome espresso maker gurgles and steams.

And Sotto Sotto is a sensation. Ten minutes later, every seat in the waiting area and bar is taken. And still no table for us.

Twenty minutes later, there is a crush of upright humanity behind our backs. And still no table.

Thirty minutes later, Frey comes to us sheepishly and asks if we'd like to eat at the bar. It seems that not even people with reservations are getting their tables.

In a perfect world, Sotto Sotto could be the quiet neighborhood place it set out as. But captivating Italian restaurants don't open every day, and word of mouth has spread through the city like a chorus of "Ave Maria".

You'll rejoice, too, when you try practically any dish on Ullio's short but stunning menu. This 30 year old native of Milan is somewhat familiar to the Atlanta restaurant-goers; he founded Pasta da Pulcinella, then worked behind the scenes at Pricci and Coco Pazzo. Now after an extended research trip through Italy, he's ready to break out as one of Atlanta's leading chefs.

As my wife and I sit hunched over at that frantic bar, we spoon up a shellfish risotto with a flavor so pure and penetrating that the hubbub around us seems to vanish. Ullio takes no shortcuts: He starts with raw rice; he uses the premium Carnaroli variety that turns firm rather than mushy-crunchy; he stirs in a refined fish stock for a full 20 minutes; he adds seafood and tomatoes with a generous hand and garlic with a restrained one. Every Italian chef in town should try this risotto: It's the benchmark.

We love the briny, warming flavor of spaghetti with bottarga, the sun-dried mullet roe from Sardinia that Ullio tempers with parsley and lemon. We love the quivering seared scallops over a bed of fish-stock braised white beans and wilted arugula. We hate the fact that people pressed against us are staring at our dinner like cats eyeing an open can of tuna. We vow to return with reservations.

The next week, Ullio explains the reservations policy over the phone: "We'll put you down for the 7:30-to-8 seating. Come anytime within that half-hour.

When we get there at 7:40, his bella fidanzata wades through the crowd to say that we're late and she almost gave our table away.

We do snag a table after 20 minutes and start grandly with a tasting of estate olive oils from regions throughout Italy. Our waitress drizzles these bottles of liquid gold into monkey dishes with explanations of each: The hot Sicilian climate makes this one spicy." Then, "This vintage produced particularly fruity oils in Abruzzi." We dip Alon's bread (perfect with its chewy crust and puffy crumb) into each. We sip a gentle Dolcetto wine. We're enchanted.

The menu's flashy touches are wholly original, never trendy rehash. We thrill to a whole wood-roasted striped bass that the waitress deftly debones down to its snowy fillets and dresses with oil and lemon. We're all but blown away by a platter of pillowy tortelli (a kind of ravioli) filled with a forcemeat of lamb, chicken and veal and gently dressed with brown butter and crispy sage leaves. The recipe, Ullio claims, is culled from Michelangelo's journal. If I were lying on my back on scaffolding in the Sistine Chapel, I can't imagine anything I'd rather have in my stomach.

I've yet to be disappointed by a dish at Sotto Sotto, though I wouldn't rush back to the flat eggplant-walnut ravioli, and I'd have to be in the right mood for the harshly pepper steamed mussels.

But I can still taste the supple fresh fettuccine with meaty nuggets of wild mushrooms and the juicy hangar steak sliced over a bed of roasted garlic potatoes.

And Ullio's flawless panna cotta (a "cooked cream" custard thickened with gelatin) is long overdue in Atlanta. His Valrhona chocolate soup, with toasted filberts, ingenious croutons of toasted bread and a cloud of whipped cream, is an intense and soul-stirring communion with the god of chocolate.

And, once I've actually gotten a table, I've found the service informed and attentive. A sweet waiter-in-training, though, should be told to never grasp a wine glass by the bowl, a bottle by the neck, and say "Lemme fill you up."

"Sotto Sotto," by the way mean "hush hush" as in a "little secret." Ha! You don't need me to tell you the secret's out.

Food: A- Service: B Atmosphere: B+