Prongs Of L.A. Reviews A Restaurant: Cafe Firenze.

"This is Top Chef, not Top Scallop!"

And with that one line, I was smitten. For those of you who don't watch Top Chef–and you should, if not for balding hotty Tom Colicchio alone–that line was uttered by one adorably handsome, terribly likable chef-contestant, Fabio Viviani.

Buon giorno, tutto! Please, eat my greens and love me!

With his Italian accent and rugged good looks, Fabio charmed the pants off of anyone within range of hearing his delightfully precious broken English. For instance, his "I'm fresh out of 'da boat!" made baldy Colicchio buckle and giggle like a Tickle-Me-Elmo. (Yet not nearly as furry.)

May I buff your head with some olive oil and marrow?

In addition to being more appealing than a overstuffed cannoli, Fabio is supposedly a great chef; he lasted until the final round of Top Chef competition. So for months, I've been dying to try Cafe Firenze, Fabio's restaurant in Moorpark, CA. I've resisted for months because, well, his restaurant is in Moorpark, CA–known more for cactae and rattlers and 100+ degree temperatures, and not fine dining. But this past Saturday, we drove the hour to Moorpark to try his "ambitious" lunch menu.

I secretly had high hopes, but I tried to keep my expectations realistic. Not so secret was the Bravo TV "Top Scallop!" t-shirt I donned under my Italian flag-woven cotton sweater.

Cafe Firenze is located in a strip mall, which is not unusual for many restaurants in the LA area; Katsuya in Studio City, for example, is smooshed between a pet store and a Domino's and yet it's one of the top-rated sushi joints in Los Angeles.

The only thing missing is a coin-operated carousel.

So, the strip mall aspect didn't bother me so much. However, the three Vespas lined up outside the door, did. Why not go the extra mile and hire three old skinny dudes with slicked back hair to lean against them while smoking cigarettes and talking about bracciole.

Once inside, at first glance the large rooms seem cozy, homey, lovely. But once you really start to look around, the room starts to look more and more like some faux-Mediterranean restaurant in Epcot's Italy. Had Goofy tumbled out of the kitchen spinning pizza dough, I wouldn't have been batted an eye. Mainly because I would've been too busy asking him to sign my autograph book I keep in my Chip 'n Dale backpack.

As expected, the restaurant walls are painted in that overly used faux gold overlay which highlighted the massive dark, wooden beams crossing the ceiling. It's a look often used by people who think they have taste, but don't. I'm immediately reminded of a wine cellar that may or may not double as a whacking room in a Mediterranean villa-mcmansion plopped down in the middle of, say, Franklin Lakes, New Jersey.

But, I'm here for the food, and I keep an open mind about this restaurant that decidedly blows. I order; a glass of white for me, a bloody for SFB. Because apparently there isn't enough sodium in the V-8 juice, the bloody inexplicably comes with salt. I guess Fabio figures, "You already too bloated to see your feet, why you care if you have cankle?!" And as predicted, 8 hours later SFB would comment that his hands look like mittens.

For the first course, a Caprese salad on a bed of arugula with aged balsamic is split. Let's start with a positive: the dressing was pretty good–a near-perfect combination of tangy, tart, and fruity. But, that's about as positive as it gets. The mozzarella was ice cold, the tomatoes grainy, and the arugula was more aged than the balsamic.

The "after" picture is more appetizing than the "before".

Have I mentioned the fly and its smaller yet more persistent cousin, the fruit fly, that keep fluttering around our booth?

Next, we order the Caprese and meatball paninis. First of all, the Caprese wasn't a panini. It was two pieces of previously toasted "focaccia" that contained the same ice-cold mozzarella and grainy tomatoes as seen in our salad, and worse–the basil that was so old its edges had blackened. And I say focaccia in quotes because it was basically two pieces of toast with grill marks. The whole thing looked like it belonged on a tray table during a flight to Cleveland.

Even the food is "faux". I should've kept the theme going and paid in Monopoly money.

The meatball panini, while appropriately hot and melty, lacked flavor and...meat.

This isn't a weird angle–the chip actually dwarfed the panini.

And as if adding insult to injury, each sandwich came with exactly five potato chips. And all 10 chips were unseasoned and chewy.

Blame the flies swarming our shitty food (undoubtedly the only satisfied customers at our table), or the fact that I noticed ivy leaves stenciled on those faux walls, but we didn't even bother looking at the dessert menu. But I think it's safe to assume that tiramisu makes a prominent appearance.

Fabio was actually walking around while we were there, and it makes me wonder about his judgment. How could anyone who calls himself a chef, allow those plates to be served, I'd ask him as I snuggled in his lap in the glow of faux gold.

It pains me to say this, but Cafe Firenze is nothing more than an Olive Garden. But more expensive. And that's an astoundingly annoying combination.