Last Tuesday morning, I awoke craving Italian food. But no spaghetti and meatballs, no chicken parm; I wanted the latest Marc Vetri.

And so I called Amis, assuming I’d have to wait a week or two for a terribly timed dinner reservation, only to hear that a spot had opened up for that evening… at 5:15. Usually the time that I arrive to happy hour (I’m always late), I decided to take what I could get. My sweet-as-can-be, gay, and the perfect dining companion friend and I headed for Amis.

Well, stopping first at the Wine and Spirits shop at 13th and Chestnut. After reading that Amis offered a BYO option in addition to its extensive wine list (all but two from Italy), we figured we’d go the economical route; I’d rather spend $20 less on a Chianti Classico in the state store and spend that same Andrew Jackson in the restaurant on something actually homemade that represents what the chefs can do. Sure, the sommelier may know his shit, but most diners may not. What do I like in a wine list? Accessibility - some old faces, some potential new filngs, and a decent price tag. End of story.

As we entered, the staff was lined up at the banquet adorned with glasses, an espresso station, and silverware, waiting to serve us in their crisp white button-ups, ties, and black aprons. We were seated at a two top directly in front of the kitchen, where I snagged the church pew-like seat so that I could get a glimpse of the five or so individuals cooking, grilling, and plating the goodness that awaited us. With its exposed black industrial ceiling, red-wine stained walls, and mixed and matched light fixtures, I can’t quite say that the vibe fit with the Sting and Steppenwolf playing from the speakers.

But, if you think about it, would someone really do happy hour at a place that plays opera, Sinatra or Italian guitar music? Would you go to Amis for a Negroni and some antipasti before heading elsewhere if it didn’t feel so casual? By incorporating a seemingly opposing music choice, Vetri is both expanding his audience, and further distancing Amis from the myriad of other Italian restaurants.

As for the overall volume of the joint? Let’s just say I won’t be bringing my hard-of-hearing Pops here and expect him to hear a word I say. But still – Zeppelin and fennel salami? It works.

Gay friend and I proudly propped our $19.99 bottle of Rocca di Castagnoli Chianti Classico wine on the butcher-block tabletop and waited for our server to open it and fill our glasses.

“Just to let you know,” she said with a smile, “there’s a $25 corkage fee.”

I bit my tongue so not to bark, “WHAT?” But of course there would be an enormous fee. Why would they offer us a free BYO option? Either way, it would have been nice to know of this not-so-little figure ahead of time.

My friend and I stared at each other, not wanting to seem like cheap-asses for opting out of the steep corkage. Perhaps our bottle would seem expensive if we were willing to forego the $40 wine menu ticket price in favor of savoring our own? I think she sensed that we felt like jerks and pointed to the 500 ml of table wine for $20.

Not as much grape juice for the same price, but then again, it was a Tuesday during midterms. I smiled. “Perfect.”

The carafe’s contents weren’t the best in the world, but for $20, the Merlot/Sangiovese blend was worth every penny. Our state store bottle stood protected at my feet for the remainder of the meal.

We began with the eggplant caponata bruschetta, served with oil-drenched (and therefore good) toasted homemade bread and a bowl of eggplant, pine nuts, tomato and white grape bruschetta. This dish is reason enough to make the trip to Amis. Quite frankly, each of us would have been perfectly happy ordering our own and calling it a night. But of course you can’t. Not when you see three plastic-surgery success stories wolfing down meatball and buffala ricotta ravioli with thinly sliced asparagus in a rich, butter, cream, pecorino, and buffala sauce, not showing a trace of guilt.

And so we tried “Sal’s Old School Meatballs with tomato potato,” not just because we eyed it up three feet away, but because “tomato potato” sounds pretty damned interesting. The tomato potato ended up tasting, as expected, like the fornication and reproduction of the two. And that is some porn that I wouldn’t mind watching.

The meatballs were so cheesy and rich that one for each of us was sufficient. After the meat and starch hybrid dance, though, we were ready to enjoy what we came for — the pasta. The pasta we had watched the trophy wives consume, which also turned out to be the two favorites of our standoffish waitress (we knew only because we asked): ricotta ravioli with asparagus, and rigatoni with swordfish and eggplant Fries.

I experienced two firsts in those dishes: trying almost paper-thin pasta cooked to a tenderness that literally fell apart in my mouth, leaving way for the perfectly salty ricotta. The asparagus was sliced as thinly as a toothpick and crunched in a way that I have never managed to emulate. Unfortunately, we were told after we wiped the plate dry with more of their homemade focaccia bread, the ravioli dish will soon be taken off the menu when asparagus season slows down.

Now, when I think of swordfish, I don’t think of it sharing a fork with rigatoni and tomatoes, but I have never been happier to try a seemingly odd combination. The chunks of swordfish crumbled on impact, the chopped tomato was simmered to delight, and the eggplant fries delicious enough to stand proudly on their own.

Let’s just say that if it were acceptable in the writing world, I would have described every ingredient of every dish so far as “perfect,” and “working perfectly with its others.” It was just that good.

And it didn’t stop there.

The last time I had seen, heard of, or tried rhubarb it was inside a pot on my Grammy’s stove and I was about six years old. When I stuck my hand in the too-hot-to-be-sticking-your-hand-in-it seeping mixture, I thought it would taste like the strawberry Pop Tarts that she used to toast for us. It was no Pop Tart, and I’ve been scarred ever since. Literally.

But the strawberry-rhubarb tart with whipped topping was again, the “p-word” that I will intentionally not use, tasting like the best adult Pop Tart I’ve ever had. With that, and a cappuccino, we were speechless. We couldn’t move. We couldn’t think. We simply shook our heads in disbelief at the beauty in all that we consumed.

Yet we didn’t consume too much. We weren’t served family-sized portions with each dish, and therefore at Amis, being a member of the Clean Plate Club isn’t so dangerous. It was nice to leave the restaurant without waddling to the subway with an “I ate too much” stomach pain.

Well, I guess we did waddle a little bit.

Emily Callaghan is managing editor of Table Matters and a graduate of Drexel University. Her work has appeared in Philadelpia Magazine, The Philadelphia Inquirer and TheSmartSet.com.

Article photograph from restaurant website, Eat Drink Philly" photograph from suvodeb, via Flickr (Creative Commons), "Philly" photograph from camardella, via Flickr (Creative Commons).