Review: Dominic's on the Hill

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Photography by Kevin A. Roberts

Old-school class: gilded mirrors and statues tucked in archways

Some years ago, Condé Nast Traveler crowned Dominic’s as one of the top two Italian eateries in the U.S., with both being from St. Louis. So we wanted to know the other one.

“We don’t speak that name in here, sir,” our waiter insisted. And he acknowledged the magazine’s coronation of Dominic’s was some years ago. (It was in January 1994, to be exact). That said, Dominic’s remains among the most elegant dining destinations in St. Louis.

Fashionable “open kitchens”? Forget it here. Dominic’s food is prepared in a tree hollow in a nearby enchanted forest, then whisked tableside—it seems that way, at least. Everything is special: hushed and grandly, unaffectedly dignified. It’s as if great meals are an effortless, “of course” matter. Dominic’s is a restaurant that exemplifies the distinction between entertaining guests and feeding customers.

The antipasti arrived exactly 10 minutes after being ordered. We’d selected three. Among them, the antipasto freddo is a jewel: wide ribbons of red pepper, roasted, marinated in olive oil and vinegar, chilled, then laid in strips alongside salty, pungent fillets of anchovy and fresh mozzarella.

Fat tubes of cannelloni are plumped with an aromatic stuffing and ladled with béchamel sauce. Calamari is fried in a lacy-light batter. These are a good test for the critical diner: Here, the delicate tentacles are done as perfectly as the thicker rings of the squid.

The urge to monkey with the lighting (the switch was just beside us) was enormously strong. At least three diners in the room appeared to be spelunking, scanning the menu with lights. We left it alone, though. Frankly, the dim atmosphere adds much to the experience. Crystal sparkles, and the numerous paintings are softened by the shadows and rendered more romantic. Complaints about the age of the interior sadly miss the point. The atmosphere isn’t dated, nor are the appointments passé. On the contrary, the interior is wonderfully timeless. If you want your kids to see what dining once looked like, take them here. (But don’t let ’em monkey with the light switch.)

At a table near ours, a waiter smoothly separated bone from the flesh of a Dover sole. There was no flourish, just a cool, practiced sureness. It wasn’t the first fish that the man has dismembered, and when he was finished, the fillet was whole, a delicate cream color, sprinkled with slivered almonds.

Salads interrupted our thoughts. They were fine, nothing more. Dinner salads have always been the distant stepchildren in the family of Italian cuisine. The Caesar is satisfyingly crunchy, salty. The house salad includes field greens in a light vinaigrette, lightly dusted with fresh Parmesan.

A few couples were conversing at smaller tables. There were mostly groups, quartets, half a dozen diners; many seemed to be celebrating birthdays or reunions. Not a collarless shirt was in sight, and the majority of women wore dresses or skirts. At no time should a restaurant intimidate, and Dominic’s does not. Instead, it seems to suggest it’s a formal place, and you are simply expected to conduct yourself accordingly.

Veal is treated lovingly, with half a dozen preparations. Flattened cutlets are slathered with lemon butter, in a cream sauce with artichokes. Slices of braised veal shin matched with risotto are served in perhaps the city’s most iconic presentation of osso buco. We went with a simpler take, a cutlet dusted with flour and pan-sautéed in a spectacular Milanese version that has not a single decoration, save for some strands of sautéed spinach. The portion is huge. We forked off a piece, impossibly tender and savory. The milky meat had just enough texture to give it a pleasant bite. We opted for a side of sautéed vegetables, though we should have ordered a plate of plain pasta for the dish.

Other meats had their own temptations. A rack of lamb was extravagant. Sirloin alla Siciliana was perhaps a better choice. Speckled with oregano, pepper, and salt, and massaged with olive oil before it hits the pan, it is the quintessential Italian steak. The flavor and feel of chicken come out in every bite of a Parmigiana that’s understated, lovely, with just the right amount of melted cheese and tomatoey sauce.

Pasta? How could you not? Capellini primavera is a natural for the heat of summer, laden with fresh vegetables, light and satisfying. Bow ties of farfalle are tossed with chunks of salmon. If you must choose one, go with the pappardelle alla Bolognese. The sauce is faithful and bright with herbs, tomatoes, and minced beef. The broad streamers of pappardelle arrive delightfully al dente, right for the sauce.

A sprawling wine menu is solid, heavy on Italian varietals. Desserts? Cannoli, of course.

Dominic’s service is invariably praised—it’s great. More important, it’s remarkably modulated. A nearby couple wished for a modicum of attention, and they got it. Our table asked about our waiter’s accent (it’s Roman) and his estimation of St. Louis pizza (we’ll spare you). He responded affably, chatting casually, as if he hadn’t anything else to do that night.

Some say that Dominic’s isn’t “authentic” Italian. To some extent, that’s accurate. Instead, it’s a monument to Italian-American cooking, that extraordinary amalgam of old-world and new-world styles. Char-grilled scampi in toasty bread crumbs, spiedini with wild rice, red sauces… These are all products of American influences on Italian cuisine. At places like Dominic’s, the results are marvelous.

The Bottom Line: Enjoy top-notch food, service, and ambience at a St. Louis icon.

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5101 Wilson

The Hill

314-771-1632

dominicsrestaurant.com

Dinner Mon–Sat

Average Main Course: $28

Reservations: Sei fregato without them.

Acoustics: St. Louis’ chapter of the Cubs Fan Club isn’t as quiet as this place.

Chef: Dominic Galati