Bacaro

Just past nine on a Tuesday, the racket in this narrow Raval room was already at full Venetian pitch, orders shouted over heads. Bacaro is loud the way a family kitchen is loud, and that's both the charm and the catch. You eat half of it with your hands, cicchetti drifting past, and by the second glass the next table has joined your conversation whether you invited them or not. The cooking trusts its produce and doesn't overwork a thing; the pasta has genuine conviction. My reservation is stamina. It's a lot of room for a little dinner, and I find one night a year covers my need for that particular din. When that night comes, though, it delivers, and I happily let it run long.