Farina Pizzeria and Wine Bar
Seriously sexy food
Walking into Farina is not unlike walking into my own ego. It's shiny and rough at the same time, all angles and pragmatic, utilitarian lines. Modern sophistication is the dominating aesthetic. Yet it’s also playfully submissive, as evidenced by a flat screen TV hung above the bar. It's a total dream.
Across Edith from the Artichoke Café, Farina’s proximity to some of the most established fine dining in Albuquerque isn't an accident. Farina is the punked-up younger sibling of jazzy Artichoke Café, and it brings a tantalizingly direct message to the neighborhood: pizza and wine, and all of it damn good. Artichoke Wine Steward Stew Dorris (who describes Farina as “guitars, tits and ass") brings with him some of the class of the Artichoke Café, but he makes sure to dirty up the new place with a little sex appeal.
Inside, dazzling tile work clings to voluptuously jutting walls. In contrast, flat expanses of exposed brick contribute that “Really, I'm so down to Earth” feel. A curvy, guitar-shaped bar subconsciously stirs up thoughts of rock ’n’ roll. Tables are simple, reddish-hued wood flanked by cold, metal-backed chairs. We get glimpses into the busy kitchen, but not a whimper escapes from this hub of activity.
Taking in the sights and smells inside Farina transforms hungry patrons into beasts lusting for gratification, satiation and epicurean kink: the defining triumvirate that elevates food to experience. A little teasing is in order. From the small "antipasti" menu, an order of meatballs al forno arrives as plump orbs studded with pine nuts. There's an acidic-sweet balsamic glaze that clings to each forkful so wantonly that more conservative diners could blush. But there's no shame at my table.
Mouthfuls alternate between the creamy toppings and crisp crust. Nice.
When the waitress inquires what my pizza weakness is, I have to choose my poison carefully. You could play it safe here with the fresh-
Each pizza delivers perfection. No fumbling around like an enthusiastic amateur—just carefully focused skill. And what must be one hell of an oven. Expertly turned crusts—pulled from ovens hot enough to singe the hair from reaching arms—become blistered canvases that flake and succumb to eager teeth. An eggplant topping is almost animalistic in its meatiness, and oyster mushrooms present diners with unholy covetousness. The bianco--with its mozzarella, Parmigiano and ricotta cheeses, truffle oil and crispy sage--is enticing. It's ordered by everyone around me, and the scent of truffles fills the air. If only truffle-flavored oil were the real thing.
Icy and bold, bittersweet coffee granita brings the encounter to a close. Sparkling crystals of strong black coffee pile up beneath faintly sweet whipped cream. I eat every spoonful.
The morning after brings the usual regret. Why, with such a playful wine list filled with Italian beauties, were the wine glasses stemless—useless? Why did I go to the bottom of that bottle of dolcetto d'Asti? Should I have tried the sweet fennel sausage? Was I a pizza slut for devouring an entire pie in one sitting? Guess I'll have to keep coming back until I'm satisfied with the answers. Likewise, whether you're in the market for a one-night-stand or a steady thing, Farina should fit the bill. It can be a neighborhood joint or a glamorous hangout. It'll tempt you and challenge you, but I doubt it'll let you down.