I’m gluten-intolerant, so I’m always a bit hesitant to eat out. Usually dining out goes well, provided I give our poor waiter the third-degree (“How was this prepared? What’s in the broth? What type of salad dressing is this? Are you sure it’s gluten-free, because if it isn’t I will get very sick right here at your restaurant!”). Occasionally, it goes very badly.
My worst dining-out episode was at a steak place in New Jersey that claimed to have a gluten-free menu. An hour after a celebratory graduate school graduation dinner with my visiting parents, I was curled on the couch in agony while my mom, ever the mama bear even though I’m well into my (eep… late) twenties, was on the phone.
“We very much appreciate that you offer gluten-free options, but I want you to know that my daughter is very, very sick right now. You need to reevaluate those gluten-free cooking procedures you have there.”
This is all to say that regular, positive gf-dining experiences will make me a fan of a particular restaurant for life. Now that I’m living in Nashville, there are dozens upon dozens of new dining possibilities on my horizon. I can’t wait to try them all, but since I’ve been living here all of ten days, so far I only have one to share: Maggiano’s.
Even walking into an Italian restaurant can be a little bit scary to anyone who’s gluten-sensitive. What if someone opens a huge bag of flour in the kitchen and it drifts into my personal space? What if the pasta noodles can sense my weakness? What if – horror of horrors – we sit at a table near a little kid who, unbeknownst to me flings particles of their glutenous food onto my plate?!?! Silly, I know, but I get kinda paranoid after a bad attack.
After unloading our storage pod and unpacking eight bajillion boxes, my husband and I were both starving, so I put on my game face and we drove over to Maggiano’s.
It was a Sunday night, so we didn’t think we needed to make a reservation, but when we arrived at 7pm there was still a half hour wait.
One thing this Maggiano’s doesn’t have going for it is a friendly entryway. The hostess stand is to the right, but walking in the doors it’s difficult to see and it’s easy to end up wandering around the bar area. If you face any wait time (and if you’re reservation-less, you’re likely to wait for awhile), there are only a couple of places to sit without feeling awkward and obtrusive.
Just about half an hour later, we were seated, and our waiter asked us if we had any special food allergies or requests. Bingo. I explained my gluten-intolerance (I usually just say “wheat allergy,” as this makes more sense to the average restaurant cadre), and he noted it.
“You can have pretty much anything on the menu,” he said. “We even have gluten-free pasta!”
I ordered the Chicken Saltimbocca – chicken breasts topped with fresh sage, prosciutto, and Provolone cheese, served in a garlic white wine sauce with carmelized onions and angel hair aglio olio. It seemed pretty simple – chicken, cheese, gluten-free pasta. Daryl ordered the “Mom’s Lasagna” with meat sauce, drawn in by Maggiano’s new offer of sending an entire fresh entree home with any customer who orders one of their classic pastas. We agreed to share a side of asparagus.
After our order the waiter stammered for a second.
“Ah, yes,” he said. “I think we can do that.” There seemed to be some discrepancy between what he claimed was possible (“pretty much anything on the menu”) and what was possible for the gluten-intolerant among us.
Within minutes Sergio, the sous chef, was at our table asking questions. He explained that they could not make the Chicken Saltimbocca gluten-free. Since that seemed like a fairly straightforward dish, I was now at a loss for what to order. Not ravioli or cannolini, obviously. Not the lasagna, I was certain. I wanted chicken, pasta, flavor, and not to get sick. I appealed to the chef.
“What can you make gluten-free?” I asked. “Anything with chicken?”
“Ah, well…” he wracked his brain. “Herb-roasted chicken?”
“With pasta?” I asked.
“Certainly. With pasta.”
“Sounds good,” I said.
The waiter dropped off a basket of bread a few moments later. No gluten-free options there, and I sat and sipped on my cherry coke as Daryl devoured the entire basket. For us gf-ers, this can be the grumpiest part of the meal. We’re hungry, and our friends or family chow down on a delicious-looking basket of bread while we… sip our cherry cokes. Bah, humbug.
In under half an hour we were presented with our entrees: an enormous lasagna for Daryl, piping hot asparagus for us both, and… an entire herb roasted chicken for me. What the–?
I stared open-mouthed at the massive chicken and green beans (which I hadn’t ordered) piled on my plate while searching in vain for the pasta.
“Is the pasta…?” I asked our waiter.
“Coming,” he said.
Five minutes later a server arrived with a vat of gluten-free rigatoni. This was enough food for me, Daryl, and the entire kingdom of Luxembourg. We were also convinced that my portion of the meal was going to cost us about $85. After all, it covered most of the table.
I nibbled on the pasta, but to my dismay it was very, very bland. And I like bland food, for the most part. I grew up in Wisconsin. It had some cloves of garlic and a touch of parsley, but it was quite dry and tasteless.
I asked the waiter for some sauce to put on it — anything gluten-free and not marinara. Cream sauce? Alfredo? Garlic-butter sauce? He came back in just a moment with some alfredo sauce, which turned the pasta from bland to delicious. I don’t know exactly what Maggiano’s puts in its alfredo, but I’m pretty certain it’s some derivative of heroin. I couldn’t get enough of it.
Before I had straightened out the elements of my meal, Daryl had devoured his lasagna and was licking his lips.
“How did you finish that?” I asked. “It was the size of a cement block!” My husband is tall and thin but can put down food like a hot-dog eating champion at a state fair.
He smiled. “It was amazing,” he said.
The only thing that disrupted my enjoyment of the meal, now that all of my ordered had arrived, was how massive everything was. I felt, as I told Daryl, “like an ancient barbarian sitting over my kill.” There were chicken pieces piled to my collarbone, which, as I had gone to the trouble of dressing up in my favorite little cocktail dress, sent some mixed messages.
We elected to box up the remains of my meal, and Daryl received his take-home lasagna as promised. When the waiter arrived with our dessert menu, at first I waived him off. We were too full. Then he mentioned the magic words:
“The creme brulee is gluten-free.”
Glory be. Maggiano’s has a wide range of desserts, and the ice cream and creme brulee are both gluten-free. They’ve also begun offering mini-desserts for $2.50 which, given the portions of the meals, is brilliant.
I ordered the mini-creme brulee, and Daryl found room for a mini-tiramisu. The creme brulee was the perfect size after such a large meal, and came with a good-sized strawberry but it was cold and seemed pre-made. Daryl raved about the tiramisu and smiled with every bite.
A good night out indeed. The best part? All of that food on my side of the table – an entire chicken, a massive bowl of pasta, extra alfredo sauce, and a mound of green beans – was only $16. I could get used to this.
The other best part? Not a twinge of upset in my tummy. It took them awhile to figure things out, but Maggiano’s eventually did gluten-free very well.
The Nashville Chow 