Night at the opera

The fog rolled in one evening, enshrouding us in thick milky opaqueness. Street lights threw off only the dimmest glow, barely lighting our way. We could neither see ahead nor behind. As we drove through the fog, we thought we were traveling to Town and Country Village—the bastion of modern expressions such as Trader Joe’s, Sacramento Brewing Company, Jamba Juice and Gourmet Wraps—all at the corner of Fulton and Marconi. But upon our arrival, we ended up unexpectedly trapped in the past, which we found in Aida’s Restaurant and Bar.

Aida’s, apparently named after Verdi’s opera, gives the impression of being all about highbrow fine dining, circa 1940 or 1950 perhaps. Whatever the decade, the style is clearly a pre-modern standout in our post-postmodern little world.

Aida, Aida. If only we could sing your praises.

At the early hour of five o’clock one weekday night, standing in the foyer, the stillness of the elegant dining room, devoid of a single soul, gave us pause. “Should we be here now?” I wondered. Our waiter might have been wondering that too. He took a moment to notice us, and seemed a little surprised by our presence, as if we were apparitions passing in the night.

Once seated, the ornate dining room seemed forlorn in its near empty state. Where were the society grand dames and gents in their finery? I closed my eyes and imagined the air thick with cigar smoke and the din of rich people’s laughter filling the room.

“Beef Wellington, madame? Or how about the brochette of filet mignon? It is excellent tonight, the chef says,” I heard ghostly voices saying.

In reality, the only audible sound was faint music playing in the background—foreign renditions of popular songs like “Mack the Knife,” an occasional accordion melody, and an operatic aria or two. It all seemed dreamlike. But like all dreams, there was something not quite right, an element of unreality that raised the suspicion of the conscious. Amidst the exposed brick, the white table linens, the ubiquitous artificial floral arrangements and too-cozy love seat banquettes, one could sense emptiness behind the ornate veneer.

Our waiter with impeccable manners broke the reverie and presented us with a menu. It was heavy with meats such as prime rib, lamb shank and several types of steak (in addition to the Beef Wellington and filet mignon), seafood offerings such as shrimp scampi and fried prawns, and pasta classics (Alfredo, pesto, marinara). Several sauces—sherry wine, béarnaise, Almandine and brandy, informed the dishes. While the prices appeared to be reasonable, we were to learn that the execution of the food fell short of their justification.

We started with stuffed mushrooms. Nicely cooked, holding a matrix of shrimp, cheese and herbs, they were quite lovely—all six. But though the prologue was encouraging, the subsequent acts went downhill from there.

The next course was soup or salad, which came with each meal. The Caesar salad had nothing to distinguish it: the dressing was neither garlicky nor lemony, nor anchovy-ey, the lettuce was not spry, the croutons were not homemade fresh. The soup of the day, chicken gumbo, was spicy, but otherwise seemed straight from the can with can-like chicken chunks and tasteless, textureless vegetables. The filet of sole dore entrée, the method that requires dunking the fish in a light egg batter and pan-frying, was hardly better. The batter was fine, but instead of the extremely delicate texture one expects of sole, the fish was firm, almost meaty, and tasted a bit too fishy and not too fresh. The rice accompanying the sole had several hard flecks, as if scraped from the dregs of the pot. The zucchini, cut into large chunks and spiced mainly with rosemary and salt, was not bad, but seemed more like filler.

Compared to the sole, the scallone steak, made of scallops and abalone, shined. Lightly breaded and served with a gentle but tangy lemon tartar sauce, it was sort of a glorified fish cake, but the flavors of the delicate seafood, the breading and the sauce melded quite well. The accompanying whipped, garlic mashed potatoes were also fairly good, although they could have used more butter to give the dish some depth.

The meal wasn’t so bad, but it hardly lived up to the expectations it set. Aida’s, despite the impression, is not about highbrow fine dining. The food just didn’t deliver what the package promised. The advertised $2.95 ham-and-egg special at 7 a.m. isn’t entirely consistent with the fine-dining theme either. For me, Aida’s is a paradox, wrapped inside a riddle—which is good if you like brainteasers, but bad if you’re looking for a solid, upscale meal.

Aida’s has been open for just a few months, standing where the old beloved Aldo’s restaurant used to be. Aldo-loyalists and curious Trader Joe’s shoppers are apparently dining at Aida’s. My recommendation? Practice your act and improve, Aida, while you still have an audience.