A golem in the night, the Cincinnati Contemporary Art Center sits. A lonely island, scattered within its walls an array of mystery, intrigue, play and lore. It’s a remarkable space. Each angle cuts through the air like a knife with curves to cradle your fall. Walking throughI escape #losingitlikeEscher. I miss this space. I truly do. Working downtown, in the headspace of a muggle job that yearns for creative between the hours of 9 and 5, there would often be a need for a jump. My favorite floor is the Unmuseum. A place for tinkerers. Adult children looking to loosen their mind. I have a deep appreciation for spaces, what they are, what they were, what they can turn into. I try not to form an opinion on such things, preferring just to watch them unfold. History, is a fickle bitch, but she yarns amazing tales. One tale in regards to this joyous building is and always will be…the lobby.
What should a lobby to a cultural institution be? In this particular space, it has certainly been one of much debate. One where stories will undoubtedly be refolded and bent over time. But this is a story of now. A story of the present. That of a living sculpture inside a lobby. A surreal escape amongst a building of machiavellian constructs. Welcome one and all, to Fausto.
Italians. Well, we come from strong food roots. Birthed in gravy from the onset, not a minute nor second goes by when we aren’t working towards the next meal. My Sundays growing up consisted of chore after errand after chore to supply the endless run of mana required to feed the revolving door that was my grandparents kitchen and dinning room. It was the harth of the family. More memories are tied to these dinners than I can recall; I’m willing to go out on a limb and assume the same is true for the Ferrari Brothers. Their accomplishments are vast, and there’s plenty of Googlable fodder on such things. My appreciation of their food comes from the simple pleasure of a finely licked-clean plate.
On this night, Martha and myself chose to set time aside, and cozy up to a Hopper original. Light cutting through darkness. Clean lines amongst urban grit. A diner. Isolated from the noise of the outside world lay simply, elegantly ours. The fine details are there, the high end, but the casual personality oozes out. Could this easily be a stress-straunt, that strikes fear into the hearts of the common man like MORIMOTO or ATOMIX? Yeah, but for some reason, it doesn’t. Yes. It’s clean, slick, has the European hostess, awe-inspiring surroundings, and sits inside a f$%*ing museum of art. But immediately I was at ease. This felt like home. A touch of moto-cafe. A dash of coastline flair. But still…loose, and comfortable. Approachable even. I don’t know how that is, or what. Quite, literally everything screams “pretentious fancy big boy pants”. But then, it doesn’t. It wraps you up in the familiar. Simple, understandable words in delicate combination. and…cheap for downtown.
I use that phrase knowing most just assign “dollar values” to “stars” with no sense of how restaurants actually run. Having heard a life time of “they must add a dollar for every time they shake” comments to know there is just no getting through to people that plate and pour costs are actually related to the quality of ingredients and level of service you are trying to provide, I raise my fist and glass at the exceptional punch, pound for pound, that Fausto delivers. $49 for 4 courses? This is madness, and I want to see your Excel sheets, immediately. No seriously, teach me your ways. But enough groveling at the feet of our well traveled Masters, we are here to talk drinks. Jamie, you are on the clock.
Make no mistake, Fausto by far and large as I am told (cause I am a nightwalker), operates large turns by day. It’s the coffee bar of bars, the lunchtime retreat and yes the nightly pitstop, but it’s those first two turns that makes this bar really churn. Jamie Clemento runs the program here. I’ve had the pleasure of meeting him at an underground bartending event 2 years ago, and ever since we seem to just keep crossing paths. Cincy is funny like that. Jamie is smart. Calculated. He has a strong knowledge of cocktails and spirits, but an even keener sense for the public eye. It’s his ability to take a drink that in essence sounds interesting, but slightly standoffish, and make it extremely approachable. There’s always just one little twist that hooks it. Let’s take a gander at the Remolacha.
tequila blanco, mezcal, roasted beet, lime, honey, maldon
Tequila-Lime-Honey. Okay, margarita base. Twist. Add mezcal. Twist again. Beet. Not just beet, roasted beet. This is important (we’ll address this in a minute) Dry it out. Maldon. Just a pinch, I am guessing.
Margaritas. One of the Needs No Explainables. There are roughly 6 Needs no Explainables. These are the drinks made popular by pop culture. Everyone who is everyone who is lost when looking at a menu and feels pressure to blurt out something least they piss off the bartender, knows these drinks. Margs though, have a tendency to go incredibly south in most places. But the program here, it’s fine. Fresh juices, homemade syrups. Balance is key. Okay so, lets twist up this margarita. First, there’s the sweetener. Love the choice of honey over say a typical simple, or a more appropriate agave. Honey plays really well with root vegetables, especially polarizing ones, like beets.
Beets are funny. People hate em. Love em in drinks, but absolutely hate them otherwise. Feeding someone a beet drink is like convincing a toddler to open their mouth by making airplane noises. Adults just have no idea. Beet is potent. A little goes a long way. It’s dirty, bitter, musty, earthy, gritty. Beets are basically the Philly of root veggies. Now remember there was also mezcal present. Mezcal has aaaaaaall the similar qualities of beet, and a good one has a silky terra cotta or clay finish. They are brethren of the earth. When you roast a beet, you are a. releasing various sugars deep within b. gathering up all the choline, a nutrient that improves the metabolism especially in regards to memory and c. making something bright f#$ing red. Now our little soup here is coming together, but we want to stretch out that middle area a little bit. Thus comes in the maldon. Hint of honey up front opens our palette, the salt comes in and puts a quick end to that, and then the roasted beet and smoke of mezcal come in next bittering it up giving it a lovely long finish.
I can’t begin to explain my giddiness to actual chefs coming into Cincinnati and putting together something proper. The slate of delicious spots to dine has elevated not just in the past few years, but months. Bar programs are following suit. Complimenting the food rather than becoming the afterthought. The foundation of at Fausto is incredibly stable, an amazing price point, and a true quality drink. For Fausto, the Remolacha speaks volumes about their craft, farm fresh organic charm with clean, bright lines bringing color to the monochromatic. Saluti amici miei.
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