Niwot, about 40 minutes north of downtown Denver, is a strange, lovely town.
The beautifully preserved early-20th-century grange hall (Colorado’s oldest operating grange, according to the Niwot Business Association) sits just up the street from a glitzy real estate office with multimillion-dollar listings.
The Niwot Rental & Feed, where you can stock up on chicken feed and tractor parts, sits next door to Gunbarrel Import Motors, where you can stock up on Porsches and BMWs.
And if the $34 filet mignon from the elegant Le Chantecler restaurant doesn’t satisfy, Lefty’s Pizza, just around a corner or two, offers slices for a buck apiece.
In the middle of all this working class/leisure class mishmash sits Treppeda’s, an Italian-deli- cum-Italian-“ristorante” which, like all good Italian-delis-cum-Italian-“ristoranti” works both sides of the mishmash.
I can imagine the guys at the feed shop hitting up Treppeda’s deli counter for a noontime sandwich stuffed silly with fresh Italian cold cuts, just as I can imagine a famished couple perched on bar stools sipping cocktails and nibbling antipasti after test-driving a few Jags.
And I can imagine someone like me, regular old middle-of-the-road me, situated at a window table in the dining room on a wintry night tucking into a warm bowl of creamy, savory linguine carbonara.
Wait, that wasn’t my imagination. That was me.
And that was some good carbonara.
Treppeda’s menu is a treat to read, clearly constructed by someone who really loves food. It may be too long (but then I’m one who prefers a five-item menu to a 25-item roster any time) but nearly everything on it, from zuppa to hazelnut truffles, makes me hungry.
Trying to pinpoint the specific region of Italy that inspired Treppeda’s menu is a futile exercise. The penne Bolognese suggests Emilia-Romagna. The lamb Calabrese points to Calabria at the toe of the boot. The occasional Provençal accent might indicate inspiration from Liguria or Piemonte, way up north.
Perhaps it’s best considered an all-American interpretation of Italy’s greatest culinary hits.
Well, whatever inspired this menu, it holds some delicious options:
Linguine: pancetta-laced carbonara in a soft, salty-savory egg-and-parmesan sauce.
Fusilli: a buttery pile of corkscrews tossed with squash and sage.
Chicken: a skin-on, pan- roasted breast served over polenta and littered with briny olives and fresh thyme.
Lamb: a meltingly tender sirloin steak over a jewel-like pillow of French lentils.
Fish: a meaty chop of Arctic char with a bright basil pesto and seductive saffron- tinged aioli.
Salad: satisfying tangy-savory Caesar with white anchovies, and a brilliantly simple plate of robiola cheese and “fresh hot bread.”
Salumi: a smart four-component plate of speck, coppa, chorizo and prosciutto (the coppa, fatty and decadent, stood out).
Cioppino: a sea-party of shrimp, calamari, mussels and fish sharing a bowl of saffron- kissed tomato broth like Real Worlders in a hot tub.
There are also pitfalls on the menu, the most egregious of which is the chicken Parmesan, chalky and tasteless and overcheesed.
Also falling short: mussels Provençal, overburdened with garlic and sun-dried tomato, giving the broth too much vegetal flavor and not enough ocean flavor. (Save your mussels coin for Bistro Vendôme or Le Central in Denver.)
And while the tiramisu was built on buttery ladyfingers and creamy-rich mascarpone, it wasn’t boozy enough for my picky buds.
Treppeda’s has, foodwise, the makings of a restaurant I could really love. And I do, almost, really love it.
But there’s something holding Treppeda’s back: sloppy service.
Not snotty service. Sloppy service.
This distinction is important. Allow me to elaborate.
Sloppy service, in which unprepared but otherwise well- meaning people are entrusted to wait on customers, goes something like this: When asked “What are the meats on this antipasto platter?” your waiter, flummoxed, apologizes, then waves down another employee for help.
Annoying, but forgivable. He was doing his best.
Snotty service, in which otherwise competent but haughty people are entrusted to wait on customers, answers the antipasto-platter question with a sigh and sneer. Your waiter delivers a distracted explanation with a patronizing air.
Infuriating, and unforgivable. He’s not doing his best. (See this week’s Food Court, Page 2F, for more on service.)
At Treppeda’s I’ve encountered sloppiness: wine orders unfilled, plates misdelivered, careless mistakes on the bill. But in each case, the problem was remedied with mustered grace, not disdain. Even when they bobble, the staffers at Treppeda’s are always friendly, humane and, most of all, respectful of its patrons.
And that gives me hope.
Treppeda’s has the makings of a great restaurant, once it steps up the service program to match its food.
Then, everyone who visits, from whatever side of Niwot’s tracks they live on, will love Treppeda’s even more.
Dining critic Tucker Shaw can be reached at 303-954-1958 or at dining@denverpost.com.
