Many restaurant reviews wouldn’t suffer going without the mention of the proprietor, which is because, frankly, many restaurateurs don’t seem to give two shits about making appearances. Heck, that’s why they hired a General Manager, right?

Not so for Pino Posteraro. Posteraro eats, breathes and sleeps his stellar Cioppino’s Mediterranean Grill, and the overtime has paid off. “Chef”, as he is called by his loyal brigade of blue-shirted waiters and white-jacketed cooks, has taken Vancouver Magazine’s highest accolades for Italian Cuisine three years running. Which is odd because Cioppino’s tips its chef’s hat as much to French cuisine as it does to Italian.

What makes this patio so successful is the neighbouring confluence of old brownstone warehouses transformed into Soho-esque clothiers, design firms and cafes. Even the Mini dealership across the street adds to the cool of this strip of Yaletown – it’s so Ocean’s 11. Shit, get me a Martini, let the people watching begin.

At Cioppino’s, it’s always a good idea to listen to your server. The ambiance here is timeless, the service is old school, and this staff is expected to know its shit more than most. So, when Joe tells me that the tatin of caramelized artichoke with a seared hand harvested diver scallop is “amazing,” I’m game.

When I ask Posteraro about the drizzle of crème fraiche – because it is exquisite – he waxes scientific, and I am quickly lost. In a word, it takes three days to ferment and thicken the cream, buttermilk and lemon juice ingredients, without exactly souring them.