Sabina
Toledo, Ohio
On our way to a destination wedding in the far northern reaches of Michigan, about as remote as it gets in this country, we drove through Ohio and stopped for the night in Toledo. I had never been there before, and the city itself was a shock. It was a Thursday night, and as we walked from our hotel, there wasn't a soul on the street. It's a large city that somehow feels like a small hometown, almost like something out of a Sims game, and it was the cleanest, most pristine city I have ever been in in my entire life. Somewhere in all that quiet, I discovered a small Italian eatery called Sabira, and every single aspect of my epicurean experience there made me salivate. Truthfully, a month later, it still does.
Walking in was a breath of fresh air. The room is beautifully appointed and clean, bustling with an energy of professionalism, yet it still feels like walking into a friend's home and being treated as an honored guest. Every table holds a glorious candle that has become a literal work of art, wax upon wax upon wax dripping down until each one is its own sculpture. I'll apologize up front that I don't remember our server's name, but this ridiculously young man had more panache, sophistication, and knowledge than some of the most seasoned professionals I've ever encountered.
The restaurant touts as one of its specialties a bread made from a 250 year old sourdough starter. Unlike most people, breads, pastas, and carbohydrates don't usually excite me, but quality and passion do, and this bread had both. Calling it spectacular is an understatement. It was full of flavor, beautifully herbed, delicate yet hearty, and served with the most extraordinary butter.
The wine list was superb, with every regional treasure I would expect from any five star restaurant. As much as I enjoy Italian wines, my knowledge runs far deeper in Napa Valley. Still, I opted for an Amarone, and it was beautiful, silky, balanced, and simply a great drink.
When people hear the word fusion, eyes immediately begin to roll. Generally it's an excuse for a mishmash of flavors a chef uses to impress himself, and the result isn't terribly friendly to the person actually eating it. That isn't the case here. The chef pays homage to his Turkish and Middle Eastern background while staying true to the Italian bistro he's running. When the arancini arrived, stuffed with baba ganoush, we knew we had landed in the right place.
From there we moved to a wild mushroom flatbread. The dough was of the same quality as that bread, covered in glorious artisanal fungi, and it didn't rely on over cheesiness, both literally and figuratively.
When I asked our young server to choose between two or three entrees that all looked wonderful, he steered me with real professionalism, asking about the flavors I relate to and enjoy rather than rattling off the highest priced or most popular dish. He landed me on the Dover sole, and a month later I can still emotionally taste every ounce of it. A word about Dover sole: it is an impossibly difficult fish to prep, and it takes real skill to get a beautiful filet out of that bony little beast. This one was perfect. It came with artichokes, garbanzo beans, and bits of shrimp and crab, balanced with little pops of acidity from the capers. Between the brine, the richness, and the light but well rounded cream sauce, every forkful was a new adventure. The portion didn't need to be as large as it was, but I'm glad it was, and I'm sure I saved the dishwasher from having to sterilize the plate by eating every morsel.
My dinner companion opted for one of my absolute favorite sea creatures in the universe, grilled octopus. I can't make a real complaint about her dish, because it was cooked to perfection and served in a beautifully spiced romesco. If I had one ounce of criticism, it would be that the dish was a little one note. Where my sole gave me a new experience on every bite, the octopus was pretty much exactly what you read on the menu, lovely and flavorful but offering only a singular sensation. Sometimes the palate wants to be excited over and over again. If I'm ever back, I think it would be better suited as an appetizer.
Our third guest played it safe with a wagyu ribeye, and it was the one dish of the night that offered nothing interesting. It was perfectly cooked, but it wasn't fusion, and apart from the lovely side of cacio e pepe, it wasn't particularly Italian either. That's my one real criticism of the menu. When a kitchen builds its identity around a point of view this specific, every single item needs a purpose, and this steak felt like a throw in.
I can't wax poetic about dessert, because all I truly remember is that it was a bread pudding. I told myself I'd have one bite, since there's only so much fat my body can handle. By the fifteenth bite, I was justifying it with the simple truth that no one trusts a skinny chef.
Everything was priced extraordinarily fair. This isn't a restaurant where anyone should be reaching for a Groupon, and that should never be the criteria for fine dining anyway, but for the quality on the plate and in the glass, the three of us walked out having spent about $400 on food and wine. For an evening like this one, that's a bargain.
The entire experience was seamless and delicious. We all left pleasantly satisfied, our senses tickled on every bite. We took an Uber back to the hotel, and I had to ask the driver whether something was wrong, because a city this quiet and this spotless on a Thursday night didn't seem possible. He told me that's pretty much just the way it is, and that the weekends bring a much busier, younger bar crowd. As a suburbanite, I can't say I quite fit in up north, but the drive through Ohio was well worth it. Sabira remains truly one of the best Italian restaurants I've ever encountered, and I would absolutely go back to Toledo just to eat there again.