Why My Father Dislikes Pinetta's in Baton Rouge (And I Can't Get Enough)

It should be the other way around, really-or so you'd think. The quiet storefront across from Perkins Road Hardware, next door to Cottonwood Books, seems exactly the sort of place a man my father's age would enjoy. Indeed, the first time I stepped into the dimly lit time capsule, as soon as my eyes adjusted from the midsummer whiteout and I caught a glimpse of the tattered beer signs on the walls and the checkered table cloths and heard the soft scratch of the music (Was that Edith Piaf? On vinyl?), I thought of him.

The place even smelled like my grandmother's house. Pinetta's, in short, is old school: chicken parmesan and spaghetti with meatballs, schnitzels and mushroom soup. The fare is largely Italian, but there are German dishes too, and even Armenian. My father, I remember thinking as my eggplant rendition of the parmesan standby arrived, sizzling in its own cast iron, scooped out and plated tableside by a waiter who seemed to have performed the same ritual at least a thousand times in his life-my father would love the place.

And yet he didn't. Not by a long shot.

And I think that owes something to the red sauce.

He didn't say anything, mind you: but that's kind of the point. I've seen him give a warmer reception to a chili dog. He politely finished his plate, dabbed his lips with his napkin and inquired where we might be headed for dessert.

A food critic in his own right, Trencherman Sr. doesn't like his spaghetti sweet, never has. Unless you count the basil, or the natural sugars found in a canned tomato, my father has never once sweetened his sauce. His dinnertime palate is principally savory, and when it comes to red sauce, no matter where it's to be ladled-over pasta or meat, even paired with garlic bread- the flavor scale is non-negotiable. His mother, I recall him saying, put sugar in her red sauce, and it was, to quote: 'God awful.'

The red sauce at Pinetta's is not God awful. On the contrary: it is deeply nuanced and bold, the end product of a three-day process. Yes, it is sweet. But while I'm typically inclined to share my father's prejudices in this respect (too often, a sweet sauce traces back to corn syrup, or an unhealthy infusion of Dixie Crystal), the famed concoction at Pinetta's keeps me up at night, and not in the bad way: after a repast of eggplant parmesan or lasagna, I often lay awake wonder just how they do it.

I've tasted better sauces in Italy, and in the Italian neighborhoods of New York and Saint Louis and Providence, Rhode Island's Federal Hill, but I've never tasted one so knock-you-back rich.

I have theories what's in it, though I'm reluctant to post them. Let's just say they range from cinnamon to celery to finely minced carrot. Whatever the secret, it may not work for Mr. Trencherman Sr., but it certainly works for me. In all the times I've visited Pinetta's, I've only strayed from the red sauce (which accompanies several of the dishes) two or three times. And while I'll vouch for the trout, and I've heard the schnitzel's worth a go, I contend it's a mistake to get anything not bathed in the glorious red stuff, sweet though it may be.

Where: 3056 Perkins Road
Baton Rouge, LA 70808

When: Mon-Sat, 11 a.m. to 2 p.m.; Mon-Thurs, 5 p.m. to 10 p.m.; Fridays and Saturdays, 5 p.m. to 11 p.m.

Latest Lagniappe:

If you're out to make your own red sauce- and really, there's no justification for buying the jarred stuff, even the 'high-end' varieties going for eight-nine bucks a pop at your gourmet market-there are only a few things to consider. If it's summer and you have access to garden fresh tomatoes and fresh basil, you're something like three-quarters of the way to a quick marinara. Just sauté some fresh garlic in extra-virgin olive oil, toss in the above to taste and cook for a few minutes on medium. Season lightly with salt and, if you like, crushed red pepper flakes. Oh and please: save the oregano for pizza night.

If, on the other hand, it's not homegrown tomato season-or you simply crave the complex comforts of a slow-cooked sauce-the range of possibilities is considerably greater. Apart from using dry herbs and spices (unless you add it at the very end, that fragrant bunch of basil will be wasted over the long stew), probably the only thing that really matters is the type of canned tomato you choose.

When it comes to red sauce, there's no excuse for using anything but the San Marzano. Less sweet and less acidic than other plum tomato varieties, these fleshy red gems are grown in the volcanic soils surrounding Mount Vesuvius, near Naples. They are almost universally regarded as the best tomato for sauce, not only because of their superior flavor but because they possess fewer seeds than other varieties, are easily peeled (which won't matter if it's coming from a can) and have such firm flesh. Several companies market San Marzano tomatoes, and many are available locally, but beware: there are many imitators. The real ones will bear either the Italian DOC logo or the European Union's DOP.

A restaurant that first opened its doors in 1962, which has already undergone one fabled closure followed by a much heralded rebirth, hardly seems ripe for review. But Pinetta's, the Italianesque eatery located within a meatball's saucy roll from the Perkins Road Underpass, isn't just any restaurant, and with Baton Rouge growing faster than this trencherman's waistline these days, it seems almost an injustice not to let our newly arrived neighbors in on the secret.

Pinetta's may not be...., but its close. And it possesses charms all its own.

Most probably pass the nondescript cinderblock storefront across from Perkins Road Hardware without so much as a......