Pitzi Hobart
Pinch-me pasta at the Fico team's little sister, in long-form.
Friendships are strange. Fickle little bonds that can grow in almost any circumstance, can vary in intensity, and can either grow into raging forests or wither away unexpectedly. Friendships are like herbs in your garden, I guess.
Some friends are parsley. They come into your life making sense and immediately accentuating every situation you put them in. They don’t distract, they don’t detract, and are additive in a holistic way. Like a scattering of parsley on your spaghetti and clams, they just make sense. These are great friends.
Other friendships are like rosemary. They’re strong, but they’re not something you always incorporate into your daily life. Even though they’re reinforced by time, they can subsist on neglect, and are always there in your garden should you need a little sprig in your braised beef cheeks. They don’t change, they don’t really evolve, but their merit can be measured in just existing. These are more challenging friendships, and ones I personally am struggling with. The thing about upheaval is that it demands an audit, and oftentimes when you reach the other side of the storm, the things you left behind no longer serve you. How do you continue to nourish relationships where you no longer receive any nutrients? People change, just as tastes change; I used to cook with rosemary a lot. Now I'm not so sure.
As a self proclaimed food dude, it is often my burden to choose where to eat when dining with friends. It’s something I take pride in and ascribe not inconsiderable energy to, and candidly, something I tend to rock the shit out of. I’m interested in people, and making them comfortable, so I want to take them to a place where they won’t feel intimidated, but will also impress them. Recently I had two very old, close friends visit me from Melbourne; one loves food and isn’t afraid to splash out on a fine dining experience, the other genuinely doesn’t eat tomatoes. Quite the dilemma! After battling to find a suitable venue that could actually accommodate a party of three (if travelling to Hobart, book ahead), I settled on Pitzi, which has been high on my to-do list for some time.
Pitzi is the sister restaurant to Fico, one of Hobart’s most well regarded restaurants. Somewhat less regarded; the owners, Oskar Rossi and star chef Federica Andrisani. The two have attracted a reputation in the Hobart hospitality scene as being challenging figures, and have certainly burnt a few people with their uncompromising approach to business. Candidly, as a veteran of the restaurant wars myself, I’m not opposed to this, and always take stories of woe from hospitality workers with a grain of Maldon; we love to whinge, and we love to gossip. From an owner’s perspective, this shit is hard, and while it’s never okay to mistreat an employee, there are far too many transient starry eyed people plodding along in the service industry, barely trying, and expecting to be treated like royalty for deigning to be there.
So, as I said; Maldon. Despite this gentle acrimony, these are very successful venues, and I felt Pitzi’s sharp and modern pasta-centric menu would prove the best solution for a group with diverse palates and appetites for innovation. I was, as is not infrequently the case, correct.
Fico’s slender dining room opens up over a compact open kitchen, with a central communal table within stretching distance of the pass. Federica is on the pans tonight and plating and expediting with calm control, and an affable chatty din reverberates through the sparsely anointed white walled venue. Up a mezzanine, our table sits pleasingly at the mouth of both dining spaces; the content, relaxed energy of the main dining area and the controlled flurry of the front bar. It’s the sort of welcoming, warm thrum of activity that puts people instantly at ease in a space; enveloping and lively. I observe service to be expeditious and friendly, not equally engaged and informed across our various interactions, but never less than efficient and warm.
We commence as all civilised meals do, with oysters. Perky, creamy Bruny Island numbers with that characteristic even salinity. A surprising garnish of a Japanese rice vinegar mignonette is served alongside, affirmingly sweet and spiked with what was, in my estimation, some sort of garum or amplified fish product. Fucking delicious, and a surprising spike of flavour. As an unexpected declaration of good faith, my conservative eater friend slurped his oyster with abandon, and didn’t gag once. We’re off to the races, and I’m starting to appreciate the merits of rosemary once more.
Pitzi’s signature focaccia is the bread course, which, it should be noted, is not complimentary. I’m comfortable with this as the bread’s complexity and heft warranted expenditure; incredibly pillowy and dense, bouncing back when squished like a Swedish mattress. Good flavour, softer than expected, and delightful when dragged through an accompanying anchovy and hazelnut slurry. Both my guests commented that it was very nearly the best bread they’ve ever had. I wouldn’t say the same, but it was certainly very good bread, and a reason to return to Pitzi.
Fatty tangles of culatello tango around the carb of the moment, the panisse, a pleasing puck of crispy chickpea batter. A nice springboard for the prosciutto, paired back and elegant, executed well. Nice snack. No real notes.
Tasmania’s cool climate and cold waters famously produce superb scallops, as is demonstrated by the ubiquity of “scallop pies” at tourist traps across Hobart. That’s not my bag, but tartare certainly is, and this little beauty broadcasts the bivalves beautifully. When eaten raw, the natural sweetness and nutty complexity of the scallop sings truly, brought to pleasing parity here by a dense and tongue-clacking burnt butter yoghurt. Crispy wild rice adorns for contrast. Little else needs to be said about this other than that my conservative friend, to whom the idea of a raw capsicum is vomitous, spooned this tartare into his mouth with joyous abandon. That’s the magic of restaurants, I guess.
Up next, something of a signature dish at Pitzi, referencing Andrisani’s heritage and regard for risotto; a tombolo of crispy fried risotto, an undulating peccorino bechamel spooned over, dusted liberally with powdered pepperberry. Pure moreish childhood food fervour, the combination of crispy/cheesy/savoury/salty that no human mouth is able to resist. An assured crowd pleaser, almost heightened by the lewdness of its directness. I appreciated it but probably wouldn’t return to it. My guests gobbled it up manically.
Let it not be said that Tassie vino is the underdog. This honeyed, bright gruner took to the task of a varied carte with aplomb. It barely stood a chance.
And now, the main attraction. Pitzi is a pasta bar, and it would be a shame not to make the most of that; four pastas normally adorn the menu, plus specials, and we ordered three of them. To begin, a signature Pitzi dish, and for a reason; bug tail spaghetti aglio e olio. As much as I reach for poetry in these reports, I also believe in the effectiveness of abrupt, concise communication. In that spirit. I am here to report that this dish fucking rips. Silky, fresh alkaline spaghetti is cooked boldly to completion, lovingly lavished in a metric ton of butter emulsion, and draped with a perfectly cooked bug tail. Springy and sweet, the bug meat really sings against this buttery backdrop; an adroitly seasoned, devised and executed plate of food. Impossible not to photograph and even harder not to wolf down as soon as it hits the table, this is the sort of food I love; the marriage of technique, provenance and comfort. At $46 it’s an expensive dish, but don't let that be a barrier; this is Pitzi’s pinch-me pasta.
To follow, a special of gnocchi with XO sauce. A little tidbit I learnt is that all gluten free pasta substitutions at Pitzi come in the form of a house made gnocchi, which I think is quite brilliant, and a useful hack to remember when dining here. These gnocchi are nice, small and silky, but I found the XO sauce a bit watery and underwhelming, the mantecate not quite as pleasing as other pasta dishes on this night. Not an unsuccessful dish, but probably missing a textural or contrasting element to make it really sing.
To finish, a refined take on carbonara, served here with tight al dente tubettini. Another belter. All of the elements of good carbonara, elevated with clever precision; the pancetta, here served finely diced and fried crispy, more a garnish than a cooked component. The sauce, surprisingly loose and serving to envelope the pasta in an almost soupy spa of emulsified grace. A single raw egg yolk, sitting boldly in the centre of the plate, to be torn asunder, ready, willing and able to seep through the tunnels of tubettini. And not inconsequential, the sheer size of this dish; a portion that many a drunken home cooked pasta has brought forth, but one rarely seen in a hat-level restaurant. Easily shareable, and at a wallet-friendly $34, something I’ll definitely be returning for soon.
Desserts are sparse, and although tempted by a buffalo milk panna cotta, we forewent on this occasion in lieu of more drinks elsewhere. Pitzi proved the perfect meeting place for a group with diverse palates and comfort levels with food, and delivered almost flawless and memorable plates, at a reasonable price, in a welcoming and comfortable environment. I’d recommend eating there given the opportunity.
Pitzi
4 Victoria St, Hobart TAS 7000
Fantastic piece of writing! I wish more people read and liked it! Hope you are enjoying Tassie.