Servio Garcia could have made a hell of a telemarketer. Or politician or con man or hostage-situation-breaker-upper. When he answers the phone at Bergamot, he broadcasts sincerity through the wires. It travels into your ear and warms you, leaving you flattered when you hang up, reservation written in black ink on a scrap of paper. “Hey, honey. I think that guy really wants us to come to dinner. I don’t think he’s putting it on.’’ His hospitality is convincing. When he says “We look forward to seeing you,’’ you believe it. When he says “Welcome,’’ you feel welcomed. As general manager, he’s using his powers of persuasion for good. You wind up well fed at the end of each transaction — not possessing an unwanted set of encyclopedias, vial of snake oil, or deed to a piece of land that does not exist.
At Bergamot, each bite matters
Bergamot, in Somerville, is an intimate restaurant, in the best way possible. Its staff makes each exchange and each bite matter. Long ago, my driver’s ed teacher, a shaggy white guy saddled with the name Eddie Murphy, would speak obsessively about the “moment of inattention.’’ That’s what would get us killed, he’d warn in an intense whisper. Cumulative moments of inattention are what get restaurants killed. Bergamot has an eye on everything.
You can tell by the bread, one measure of how much a restaurant cares. If the bread is stale, cold, just downright bad, it does not augur well. It’s viewed as incidental, a freebie. But nine times out of 10, if the bread is delicious — a welcome mat, a stepping stone to all that follows — your meal will be too. A good restaurant knows nothing is incidental. Bergamot’s bread is spectacular, a fragrant house-made focaccia that might be studded with olives one day, topped with caramelized lemon slices another. You might be tempted to make an entire meal of it, and they’ll let you — offering more until you refuse out of a sense of decency.
You can tell by the wine, which always comes at the right temperature — even when it’s a red by the glass. It’s a “True Blood’’ world out there, and restaurants seem to want to serve crimson liquids at a sanguine warmth. Wine director Kai Gagnon is scrupulous, obsessive. He has a dual-zone refrigerator behind the bar. Your pour of Beaujolais will be exactly 55 degrees, a more robust red 3 degrees warmer. (For more on Gagnon, see Page 3.)