Last exit to Naples

By Paul Reidinger

CONSIDERING THE MYTHICAL stature of Mount Vesuvius, obliterator of ancient Pompeii, the mountain itself, as a physical fact, is remarkably unprepossessing. As you trundle along the Amalfi Coast road southeast of Naples – a well-maintained two-lane highway, not an autostrada – Vesuvius rises to the left in the blue-green middle distance, bearing a distinct resemblance to our very own (and nonvolcanic) Mount Diablo and rising to about 4,000 feet of elevation. It is bigger than a hill, but if there were any real mountains around, it would shrink to insignificance, at least if it weren't erupting. But there aren't any other mountains of note around, and it does occasionally erupt – though not lately – and so it looms in the eye and in the mind's eye.

The lower slopes of Vesuvius, with soil enriched by volcanic ash, have long been celebrated in agriculture. If you have ever glanced at a Marcella Hazan cookbook, you have surely noticed that the only sort of canned tomato whose use she can countenance, San Marzano, is grown on the slopes of Vesuvius. The shoulders of the mountain also produce a famous line of wines, Lachryma Christi ("Christ's Tear").

Years ago, on a snowy Valentine's Day at Avanzare in Chicago, a paramour and I split a bottle of white Lachryma Christi, which is my polite way of saying I drank 80 percent of the bottle. There is also, and more commonly, red Lachryma Christi, and that is the Lachryma Christi you will find on the wine list at A16, which opened on Valentine's Day – naturally! – in a narrow, zigzaggy space that once housed Zinzino and then Savoia.

The restaurant is named after the principal autostrada of Campania, the region around Naples and Vesuvius, and the green-and-white sign mounted over the front door will be familiar to anyone who has driven, or been driven, or melted in dread, on Italian roads. (Italian drivers are legendary for their ability to speed without paying attention; hence the not infrequent news reports of epic autostrada pileups. Fog is generally blamed as the culprit, but please.)

Inside, the place has been considerably dolled up, with beautiful stonework on the floor and some of the walls and a slightly more formal look, including crisp table linens, in the dining room at the rear. (There is also a vintage foosball table toward the back of the bar; we saw no one playing.) But the wood-burning pizza oven, flickering with fragrant heat, is right where it always has been – in mid-passage as you move from host's station to your table – and pizza accordingly figures with some prominence in the menu. In fact the chef, Christophe Hille, is certified as a pizzaiolo ("pizza maker") by the Verace Pizza Napoletana Association.

The pizzas, with their gorgeously thin, crisp crusts and slightly puffy edges (a reminder of pizza's relation to focaccia, the olive-oil bread), could not be better. A romana pie ($9) is lightly swabbed with a tomato sauce rich in garlic, oregano, and salt, then dotted with a potent combination of anchovies, peperoncini, and black olives; a scarola pizza ($9.50), meanwhile, brings braised escarole to the party, along with olives, olive oil, and pecorino cheese. The scarola is a so-called pizza bianca (white pizza), one made without tomato sauce, and it was perhaps for that reason we found it in need of salt. Curiosity: tables are supplied with pepper grinders but not salt shakers. A start-up issue?

One Italian staple you will not find on the menu is pasta, not even pasta puttanesca, the Neapolitan classic – not even pizza puttanesca, though there is pizza alla vongole (with clams). What you will find is very strong Italian country cooking with a nice metropolitan shimmer. Top sirloin ($18.50), for instance, is rustically roasted (rare) with rosemary and served as a fan of thin coins with a sauce of green peppercorns and mosto (grape must, which in other circumstances might go on to become balsamic vinegar). Petrale sole ($17), meanwhile, is sautéed and presented with a relish of celery, capers, anchovies, and wedges of bergamot, the sour orange that lends its distinctive scent to Earl Grey tea. (We liked the bergamot – a deft seasonal flourish – but found the celery to be pushy.) And a polenta deepened with chestnut flour ($10), a peasant dish if ever there was one, matches up with a tomato ragu enriched by ground veal.

Main dishes, in true Italian style, consist of the item ordered on the plate, without superfluous clutter. But you do have your choice of side dishes, among them a crock of flawless cannellini beans ($4 if ordered separately), simmered with pancetta and given a gratin texture by toasted bread crumbs; and kale (also $4), dark green as a pine forest in winter and braised to tenderness with garlic and olive oil. (Also expertly braised, incidentally, are whole scallions, which appear on the antipasti plate, for $11, along with shavings of prosciutto, olives, and pats of burrata – a mozzarella-like cheese – and grainy ricotta.)

No grappa for dessert, alas, but there is a selection of interesting dessert wines, including a ruby-rich primitivo ($6) from Pervini. Real dessert hounds might prefer the hazelnut semifreddo ($6), which looks like a Three Musketeers bar stripped of its chocolate armor. Italian desserts usually aren't much to shout about, but this one was A-OK.