The pastas are unimpeachable successes. A bomb of fresh lemon accompanied each bite of the marshmallow-soft ricotta-stuffed tortelli, and the spinach tagliatelle is pure food porn; the savory, rich bolognese ragù painted each strand beautifully. Unfortunately, you pay for the pleasure; primis run as high as $27, and that’s a lot to spend on spaghetti, even if it does have crab in it.
The main courses just never thrilled me the way I imagined Batali—and executive chef Mark Ladner—would. The lamb three ways featured a lamb-chop, braised lamb shoulder and cool little fried lamb-tail balls, but I wasn’t dizzy in love. The most attractive entrées require sharing—the balcony eaves host large circular tables made for this—and while I watched longingly as a nearby server spent 15 minutes excavating an arctic char salt-baked in a Dead Sea’s worth of sodium, bigger doesn’t mean better. The braised veal shank for two had all the flavor of a standard-edition pot roast.
Still more mystifying was the cheese course, which basically ignores hundreds of great Italian cheeses and instead plays only with two-, four- and six-year-old Parmigiano-Reggiano. I was especially disappointed, on one visit, to learn that the ten-course tasting menu merited only a chunk of the two-year-old, rather than a full flight. At $120 per person, not including wine, diners deserve better.
If Del Posto were the creation of some chef fresh from Florence, he’d be crowned a pasta wunderkind. Batali, alas, lives by higher standards. Towards the end of one meal, an elegant man at the next table told me that Del Posto wasn’t bad, but that he planned to stick with Babbo, where he dines every week. I can’t say I blame him.
]]>The pastas are unimpeachable successes. A bomb of fresh lemon accompanied each bite of the marshmallow-soft ricotta-stuffed tortelli, and the spinach tagliatelle is pure food porn; the savory, rich bolognese ragù painted each strand beautifully. Unfortunately, you pay for the pleasure; primis run as high as $27, and that’s a lot to spend on spaghetti, even if it does have crab in it.
The main courses just never thrilled me the way I imagined Batali—and executive chef Mark Ladner—would. The lamb three ways featured a lamb-chop, braised lamb shoulder and cool little fried lamb-tail balls, but I wasn’t dizzy in love. The most attractive entrées require sharing—the balcony eaves host large circular tables made for this—and while I watched longingly as a nearby server spent 15 minutes excavating an arctic char salt-baked in a Dead Sea’s worth of sodium, bigger doesn’t mean better. The braised veal shank for two had all the flavor of a standard-edition pot roast.
Still more mystifying was the cheese course, which basically ignores hundreds of great Italian cheeses and instead plays only with two-, four- and six-year-old Parmigiano-Reggiano. I was especially disappointed, on one visit, to learn that the ten-course tasting menu merited only a chunk of the two-year-old, rather than a full flight. At $120 per person, not including wine, diners deserve better.
If Del Posto were the creation of some chef fresh from Florence, he’d be crowned a pasta wunderkind. Batali, alas, lives by higher standards. Towards the end of one meal, an elegant man at the next table told me that Del Posto wasn’t bad, but that he planned to stick with Babbo, where he dines every week. I can’t say I blame him.
]]>The Italian-American supper clubs immortalized in mob movies and sepia-toned photos were never as dreamy as they seemed. And the red-sauce classics still served behind curtained windows at clubby holdouts like Il Mulino and Rao’s are rarely as inspiring as our memories of them. The young guns behind Carbone, though, have moved beyond sentimentality in their homage to these restaurants by flipping the whole genre onto its head.
The new spot, from tag-team chefs Rich Torrisi and Mario Carbone, is a Godfather hangout on steroids, more fantastical set piece than history-bound throwback. Like Torrisi and Parm, their earlier projects together, it’s a hyped-up spin on a vanishing form, a restaurant where, bread sticks to bowties, everything looks, tastes and feels like much more of itself.
Under brass chandeliers, on navy walls, hangs brash modern art on old-school Italianate themes, curated, like the food here, by a downtown tastemaker (Julian Schnabel’s son Vito). The waiters, a seasoned crew plucked from powerhouse dining rooms all throughout the city, have the smooth steps and cool banter of celluloid pros. But Zac Posen designed their wide-lapelled burgundy tuxes. And the moneyed swells blowing their bankrolls in the entry-level front room or more sedate VIP inner sanctum—out back near the kitchen—aren’t capos or dons but young bankers and food-obsessed hipsters.
Whether you know a guy who knows a guy or simply scored your seat on OpenTable, you’ll feel like an insider as you pass under the antique neon sign hanging above the door, left over from Rocco, the 90-year-old joint this new hot spot replaced. Those swarming waiters ply every table with complimentary extras, swooping in with a hollowed cheese, big as a drum, stuffed with sharp chianti-soaked Parmesan nuggets (aged up the block at Murray’s), with smoky whispers of Broadbent ham carved from a haunch on a dining room pedestal.
The enormous menu, which opens as wide as The New York Times, reads like an encyclopedia of red-checkered classics. But co-chefs Torrisi and Carbone have made such dramatic improvements, you’ll barely recognize anything. You’ve never had a Caesar salad like their tableside masterpiece, a beautifully dressed, nuanced variation on the classic, amplified with warm garlic-bread croutons, two types of anchovies and three types of cheese.
You may have already heard about the restaurant’s exorbitant prices—that salad will set you back $17—but there’s real value in the top-shelf raw materials and gargantuan servings, and in the unbridled excess of the whole dining experience.
]]>The Italian-American supper clubs immortalized in mob movies and sepia-toned photos were never as dreamy as they seemed. And the red-sauce classics still served behind curtained windows at clubby holdouts like Il Mulino and Rao’s are rarely as inspiring as our memories of them. The young guns behind Carbone, though, have moved beyond sentimentality in their homage to these restaurants by flipping the whole genre onto its head.
The new spot, from tag-team chefs Rich Torrisi and Mario Carbone, is a Godfather hangout on steroids, more fantastical set piece than history-bound throwback. Like Torrisi and Parm, their earlier projects together, it’s a hyped-up spin on a vanishing form, a restaurant where, bread sticks to bowties, everything looks, tastes and feels like much more of itself.
Under brass chandeliers, on navy walls, hangs brash modern art on old-school Italianate themes, curated, like the food here, by a downtown tastemaker (Julian Schnabel’s son Vito). The waiters, a seasoned crew plucked from powerhouse dining rooms all throughout the city, have the smooth steps and cool banter of celluloid pros. But Zac Posen designed their wide-lapelled burgundy tuxes. And the moneyed swells blowing their bankrolls in the entry-level front room or more sedate VIP inner sanctum—out back near the kitchen—aren’t capos or dons but young bankers and food-obsessed hipsters.
Whether you know a guy who knows a guy or simply scored your seat on OpenTable, you’ll feel like an insider as you pass under the antique neon sign hanging above the door, left over from Rocco, the 90-year-old joint this new hot spot replaced. Those swarming waiters ply every table with complimentary extras, swooping in with a hollowed cheese, big as a drum, stuffed with sharp chianti-soaked Parmesan nuggets (aged up the block at Murray’s), with smoky whispers of Broadbent ham carved from a haunch on a dining room pedestal.
The enormous menu, which opens as wide as The New York Times, reads like an encyclopedia of red-checkered classics. But co-chefs Torrisi and Carbone have made such dramatic improvements, you’ll barely recognize anything. You’ve never had a Caesar salad like their tableside masterpiece, a beautifully dressed, nuanced variation on the classic, amplified with warm garlic-bread croutons, two types of anchovies and three types of cheese.
You may have already heard about the restaurant’s exorbitant prices—that salad will set you back $17—but there’s real value in the top-shelf raw materials and gargantuan servings, and in the unbridled excess of the whole dining experience.
]]>Michael White, who built a national reputation at Fiamma in New York and Las Vegas, only to see his fledgling empire squashed overnight in a partnership meltdown, returned stronger than he left. The chef strives to continue the comeback that began at Convivio and Alto with the new seafoodcentric Marea, his third and most ambitious venture with partner Chris Cannon.
An upmarket shrine to the simple pleasures of the Italian coastline, the project is a gutsy gamble from a chef with bravado to burn. The most extravagant New York restaurant to open so far this year, Marea features an enormous menu, daunting prices and almost maniacal optimism (is there another new spot in town offering California caviar at $175 an ounce?). But the restaurant, which took over the space vacated last year by the venerable San Domenico, suffers from a split personality, with a menu sprawling enough to service the two distinct venues it could easily be.
The high prices and opulent dining room—with silver-dipped seashells and rosewood walls cloistered from the street behind gauzy blinds—suggests a restaurant with the loftiest auteur ambitions. While a good chunk of the dishes live up to the setting, many others—the basic iced platters of raw oysters and clams, the la carte whole fish featuring your choice of sauce, cooking method and sides—seem better suited to a far more casual fish shack. White, simply too eager to please, covers all of his bases, with prestarter crostini and fritti (including a delicious snack of lardo and sea urchin on toast), followed by crudo, antipasti, a whole raw bar selection, pastas, risottos, fish, meat and sides.
Most diners here, however, seem to be drawn to the restaurant for the chef’s more distinctive creations (since joining forces with Cannon, he’s cultivated the foodie following that eluded him somewhat in his Fiamma days). While there are very fine raw bars around town, few restaurants do crudi quite like Marea. Adding a few boisterous condiments to pristine raw fish, White creates beautiful and exuberant morsels. A pick-your-own sampler included exceptional sushi-grade tuna with oyster cream and a shaved artichoke chip, striped marlin with preserved lemon and olives, and cuttlefish strands anointed with briny bottarga. The chef gets even more adventurous in a cold lobster starter featuring an unlikely accompaniment: creamy burrata. The unorthodox marriage of seafood and cheese turns out in this case to be truly inspired (that the shelled lobster meat was supremely tender and sweet, and the cheese among the richest I’ve tasted, certainly helped).
Marea’s large, seafood-friendly, all-Italian beer list includes intriguing bottles you won’t find anywhere else, including the herb-infused Nuova Mattina ($13).
Sea urchin-lardo crostini, cuttlefish crudo, lobster with burrata, fusilli with octopus and bone marrow
The onyx bar, glowing gold, is an inviting spot for a snack and a drink—or a meal of crudi and pasta.
Michael White’s introduction to upscale Italian cuisine began at the original San Domenico in Imola, Italy, where he cooked early in his career. Partner Chris Cannon, meanwhile, once worked for the New York San Domenico’s Tony May (who is reopening his restaurant farther downtown later this year).
]]>Michael White, who built a national reputation at Fiamma in New York and Las Vegas, only to see his fledgling empire squashed overnight in a partnership meltdown, returned stronger than he left. The chef strives to continue the comeback that began at Convivio and Alto with the new seafoodcentric Marea, his third and most ambitious venture with partner Chris Cannon.
An upmarket shrine to the simple pleasures of the Italian coastline, the project is a gutsy gamble from a chef with bravado to burn. The most extravagant New York restaurant to open so far this year, Marea features an enormous menu, daunting prices and almost maniacal optimism (is there another new spot in town offering California caviar at $175 an ounce?). But the restaurant, which took over the space vacated last year by the venerable San Domenico, suffers from a split personality, with a menu sprawling enough to service the two distinct venues it could easily be.
The high prices and opulent dining room—with silver-dipped seashells and rosewood walls cloistered from the street behind gauzy blinds—suggests a restaurant with the loftiest auteur ambitions. While a good chunk of the dishes live up to the setting, many others—the basic iced platters of raw oysters and clams, the la carte whole fish featuring your choice of sauce, cooking method and sides—seem better suited to a far more casual fish shack. White, simply too eager to please, covers all of his bases, with prestarter crostini and fritti (including a delicious snack of lardo and sea urchin on toast), followed by crudo, antipasti, a whole raw bar selection, pastas, risottos, fish, meat and sides.
Most diners here, however, seem to be drawn to the restaurant for the chef’s more distinctive creations (since joining forces with Cannon, he’s cultivated the foodie following that eluded him somewhat in his Fiamma days). While there are very fine raw bars around town, few restaurants do crudi quite like Marea. Adding a few boisterous condiments to pristine raw fish, White creates beautiful and exuberant morsels. A pick-your-own sampler included exceptional sushi-grade tuna with oyster cream and a shaved artichoke chip, striped marlin with preserved lemon and olives, and cuttlefish strands anointed with briny bottarga. The chef gets even more adventurous in a cold lobster starter featuring an unlikely accompaniment: creamy burrata. The unorthodox marriage of seafood and cheese turns out in this case to be truly inspired (that the shelled lobster meat was supremely tender and sweet, and the cheese among the richest I’ve tasted, certainly helped).
Marea’s large, seafood-friendly, all-Italian beer list includes intriguing bottles you won’t find anywhere else, including the herb-infused Nuova Mattina ($13).
Sea urchin-lardo crostini, cuttlefish crudo, lobster with burrata, fusilli with octopus and bone marrow
The onyx bar, glowing gold, is an inviting spot for a snack and a drink—or a meal of crudi and pasta.
Michael White’s introduction to upscale Italian cuisine began at the original San Domenico in Imola, Italy, where he cooked early in his career. Partner Chris Cannon, meanwhile, once worked for the New York San Domenico’s Tony May (who is reopening his restaurant farther downtown later this year).
]]>Mario Batali has the toughest act to follow in New York dining: himself. I’ve eaten at his Italian restaurants—Babbo, Lupa, Esca and Otto—over two dozen times and never had a bad meal. Consistent excellence, and relentless Food Network appearances, have turned molto Mario into the most talked-about chef in town; in recent weeks, the rumor mill even suggested that Del Posto, his latest venture with mother-son team Lidia and Joe Bastianich, might well become the first four-star Italian restaurant in the city. But to these taste buds, it has a ways to go.
Much has been made of the $29 valet parking and coy reservationists, but I was more unnerved by the un-Batali, upscale-hotel vibe. The big open space feels like a lobby: There’s a lounge to the left, fine dining to the right, private tables upstairs and giant drapes blotting out the view of the Meatpacking District. In the background, a live pianist played sleepy sonatas. On the plus side, the noticeably large tables are spaced generously apart from one another. The service is knowledgeable, omnipresent and invisible. And the wine list features some great Italian choices in all price ranges.
The first food to hit the table was a not-especially memorable bread basket, accompanied by butter and rosemary-seasoned lardo. I could not sample all 16 or so antipasti available, but the ones I did try showed some originality. The seafood salad was light, non-oily and came with seaweed. The vegetable fritto misto included orange slices and a tasty anchovy-and-garlic sauce. The otherwise boring porcini salad was saved by powerful fennel flavor.
And my favorite appetizer, the salami-like cotechino sausage, was pulled from the world’s swankest hot dog cart and sliced over lentils; the garlicky, molasses flavor resonated for minutes.
The pastas are unimpeachable successes. A bomb of fresh lemon accompanied each bite of the marshmallow-soft ricotta-stuffed tortelli, and the spinach tagliatelle is pure food porn; the savory, rich bolognese ragù painted each strand beautifully. Unfortunately, you pay for the pleasure; primis run as high as $27, and that’s a lot to spend on spaghetti, even if it does have crab in it.
The main courses just never thrilled me the way I imagined Batali—and executive chef Mark Ladner—would. The lamb three ways featured a lamb-chop, braised lamb shoulder and cool little fried lamb-tail balls, but I wasn’t dizzy in love. The most attractive entrées require sharing—the balcony eaves host large circular tables made for this—and while I watched longingly as a nearby server spent 15 minutes excavating an arctic char salt-baked in a Dead Sea’s worth of sodium, bigger doesn’t mean better. The braised veal shank for two had all the flavor of a standard-edition pot roast.
Still more mystifying was the cheese course, which basically ignores hundreds of great Italian cheeses and instead plays only with two-, four- and six-year-old Parmigiano-Reggiano. I was especially disappointed, on one visit, to learn that the ten-course tasting menu merited only a chunk of the two-year-old, rather than a full flight. At $120 per person, not including wine, diners deserve better.
If Del Posto were the creation of some chef fresh from Florence, he’d be crowned a pasta wunderkind. Batali, alas, lives by higher standards. Towards the end of one meal, an elegant man at the next table told me that Del Posto wasn’t bad, but that he planned to stick with Babbo, where he dines every week. I can’t say I blame him.
]]>Mario Batali has the toughest act to follow in New York dining: himself. I’ve eaten at his Italian restaurants—Babbo, Lupa, Esca and Otto—over two dozen times and never had a bad meal. Consistent excellence, and relentless Food Network appearances, have turned molto Mario into the most talked-about chef in town; in recent weeks, the rumor mill even suggested that Del Posto, his latest venture with mother-son team Lidia and Joe Bastianich, might well become the first four-star Italian restaurant in the city. But to these taste buds, it has a ways to go.
Much has been made of the $29 valet parking and coy reservationists, but I was more unnerved by the un-Batali, upscale-hotel vibe. The big open space feels like a lobby: There’s a lounge to the left, fine dining to the right, private tables upstairs and giant drapes blotting out the view of the Meatpacking District. In the background, a live pianist played sleepy sonatas. On the plus side, the noticeably large tables are spaced generously apart from one another. The service is knowledgeable, omnipresent and invisible. And the wine list features some great Italian choices in all price ranges.
The first food to hit the table was a not-especially memorable bread basket, accompanied by butter and rosemary-seasoned lardo. I could not sample all 16 or so antipasti available, but the ones I did try showed some originality. The seafood salad was light, non-oily and came with seaweed. The vegetable fritto misto included orange slices and a tasty anchovy-and-garlic sauce. The otherwise boring porcini salad was saved by powerful fennel flavor.
And my favorite appetizer, the salami-like cotechino sausage, was pulled from the world’s swankest hot dog cart and sliced over lentils; the garlicky, molasses flavor resonated for minutes.
The pastas are unimpeachable successes. A bomb of fresh lemon accompanied each bite of the marshmallow-soft ricotta-stuffed tortelli, and the spinach tagliatelle is pure food porn; the savory, rich bolognese ragù painted each strand beautifully. Unfortunately, you pay for the pleasure; primis run as high as $27, and that’s a lot to spend on spaghetti, even if it does have crab in it.
The main courses just never thrilled me the way I imagined Batali—and executive chef Mark Ladner—would. The lamb three ways featured a lamb-chop, braised lamb shoulder and cool little fried lamb-tail balls, but I wasn’t dizzy in love. The most attractive entrées require sharing—the balcony eaves host large circular tables made for this—and while I watched longingly as a nearby server spent 15 minutes excavating an arctic char salt-baked in a Dead Sea’s worth of sodium, bigger doesn’t mean better. The braised veal shank for two had all the flavor of a standard-edition pot roast.
Still more mystifying was the cheese course, which basically ignores hundreds of great Italian cheeses and instead plays only with two-, four- and six-year-old Parmigiano-Reggiano. I was especially disappointed, on one visit, to learn that the ten-course tasting menu merited only a chunk of the two-year-old, rather than a full flight. At $120 per person, not including wine, diners deserve better.
If Del Posto were the creation of some chef fresh from Florence, he’d be crowned a pasta wunderkind. Batali, alas, lives by higher standards. Towards the end of one meal, an elegant man at the next table told me that Del Posto wasn’t bad, but that he planned to stick with Babbo, where he dines every week. I can’t say I blame him.
]]>