Someone with Savant Syndrome might be able to tell you on what day of the week the civil war started and then count back from it in prime numbers, but might not be able to tie her own shoes. If you fall into this category, there may be a position open for you at Urbana Restaurant and Wine bar. How else can we explain somewhere so perfectly beautiful, with such incredible wine, such absolutely lovely servers, such tasty appetizers… and such disappointing entrees?
I had been here a number of times before to luxuriate in the bar, a low, warm room filled with velvet pillows and couches. To call its design ‘pretty’ misses a perfectly good opportunity to use the word ‘Voluptuous’. There I munched my way through an scallop ceviche and a roast quail with wild mushrooms on what seemed to be a light pumpkin casserole. I washed it down with a cinnimony qupe syrah and thought that life was pretty damn good.
A week later, when finally sitting down at one of Urbana’s wooden dining room tables, both appetizers were still as perfect as calculating pi to the nth decimal place. But the only other success of the evening was an acceptable pork chop with Brussel Sprouts. Both orders of the lobster pasta were overdone and the carpaccio was uninteresting. The duck fat fries promised something outrageous; instead they were just a reminder that horse is really the way to go if you want to advertise an unusual frying agent. Gordon Biersch has better.
The wine was great, but there was a little trepidation in ordering it. Perhaps it was only our night, but the waiters seemed to be having an unusually difficult time in keeping things upright. Every five minutes there was a crash from the kitchen or bar area; the sound of splintering china was practically this meal’s soundtrack. At one point, a tray of airborn glassware jumped ship near our table to soak everyone’s back.
A plum tart was alright; in fact, the whole meal would have been fine had it not been for the hefty price tag. As it was, we were left with a vague feeling that we’d been the victim of a bait-and-switch… And wet blouses.