Dulcet Devotion

8 pm Monday night, Carlton, VIC.

When I round the corner, D.O.C. is chock-a-block inside with a line up around the side of the building. Should I have expected anything different?

Probably not. The closest thing I could find to my beloved hometown pizza shop, Pizzeria Libretto, D.O.C. is being lauded for its fresh mozzarella and wood fired pizzas. And you know I’m hot for pizza. This should be a great night!

While I ventured out to D.O.C. expecting to wait, once I arrived it was so busy and had such a long line up, I feared I’d be waiting until at least 9 pm only to be told I’d be unable to hold a table for two or four for just little old me.

Already I was annoyed.

I attributed my mild annoyance to exhaustion and intense hunger and kept walking. Though I could practically taste Italian food, I was spoiled for choice as I looped back to Lygon St., confident I’d find a comparable alternative.

As I came through a back alley towards the street, I could smell familiar, comforting, garlicy aromas. I spied a crowd both lively and promising—perfect! Now hopefully I can get a table.

I felt like the luckiest girl in Lygon St. as I snagged the very last table out front. I was handed a one page menu by the busy server and as he walked away, I realized I was at D.O.C. Espresso, D.O.C.’s café offshoot! It was meant to be!

I had worked up a real thirst getting here, and the Campari blood orange cocktail had my mouth watering. But in the end I ordered a crisp Pinot Grigio and settled into the brief, well edited menu. At 8:30pm after a busy day of exploring Melbourne, I was hungry and thankful for few choices.

Best suited for sharing plates over drinks, the offerings started off strong with fresh mozzarella, smoked salami and house-made bread platters.

The next and final section on the menu was pasta. Big heaping plates of rich, comforting pasta. Just what I needed to quell my solo-dining jitters. I immediately ordered the fresh papparedelle pasta with porcini (mushrooms) and truffle oil. Then I sat back, sipped my wine, and watched the world go by.

D.O.C. Espresso (for quick, not coffee) has received rave reviews in the local media for its fresh mozzarella and smoked meats. Maybe I should have stuck with those. My pasta, though impressive to look at, was a big disappointment.

D.O.C., which stands for Denominazione di origine controllata (controlled designation of origin), is a Lygon St. establishment marketed as a traditional Italian bôite. How can the pasta be a fail?

Fresh or not, cooking pasta is not hard. Fresh pasta can taste divine, and still, pasta from the box (especially Barilla, my fave) can taste pretty darned amazing too. At a place like this, the pasta should sing.

The pappardelle, on its own, was just fine. What I expected of the porcini and truffle oil was a subtle but earthy, rich hum. What I got was wet noodles and tasteless fungi. Even with a mound of freshly grated pecorino on top, there was absolutely no flavour.

The accompanying hunk of fresh bread was the best part of the dish—a masterpiece of tangy, chewy dough, drizzled with fruity olive oil.

I should have known something was up when I saw that every table was equipped with a large tin of Sicilian sea salt, also available for sale inside the café. How embarrassing to visit an Italian restaurant and spend the whole night furiously seasoning my dish?

Subtle flavours I can appreciate, even welcome. No flavour? In Lygon St.? At $22 a bowl?

Unacceptable.

At one point I started to doubt myself. Neighbouring tables had all ordered the cheese and meat plates—was this another Melbourne secret to unearth? Does everyone in Melbourne know to stay well clear of D.O.C.’s pastas? I started wishing someone from another table would take pity on my and invite me to join their feast.

The best part of the night was when I finally escaped dining hell—after an extremely long wait for my credit card during the billing process—and practically tore out of the patio down the street. But before I could break free from DOC`s hold, I spied a celebrity sitting on the last table of the patio. All I could hope was the dreamy TV doctor was having a better time than I did.

Maybe he too stuck to the mozzarella and salami plate. Smart choice.