SoHo
September 2, 2008
Mon.-Sat., 7:30 a.m.-1 a.m.; Sun., 7:30 a.m.-midnight.
CUISINE Creative comfort food.
VIBE Open-air theater.
OCCASION Casual date; group dining.
DON'T-MISS DISH Bangers and mash, Ovaltine pudding parfait.
AVERAGE PRICE Appetizers, $7-$11; entrees, $12-$24; dessert, $8.
RESERVATIONS Recommended.
Not many delicatessens require reservations. Then again, Delicatessen isn't a "deli" in any conventional sense of the word.
It's a sleek, open-air theater in SoHo - floating leather banquettes, glossy white tables, a backlit bar and black Escalades parked out front. The restaurant spills onto the corner of Prince and Lafayette, and the corner spills into the restaurant. Waiters walk out onto the sidewalk to bring you your food. Right out front, slim young things smoke cigarettes and stare at their cell phones as if they were compacts. The social electricity lights up the block.
On a summer night when the garage-door windows are open, it's a nice idea for a restaurant. The question is this: Who will want to eat here on a dark, rainy night in November?
The owners of Delicatessen also opened a restaurant called Cafeteria, which isn't a cafeteria. It makes perfect sense. They're serving food that isn't actually food. What they're really serving is a scene.
Delicatessen tries to live up to its name, but it's an empty gesture. The menu features chopped liver, matzo ball soup and a Reuben.
Except the Reuben here isn't a Reuben at all. That's the approach, an ironic take on comfort food.
The Reuben is the culinary equivalent of a heart attack - deep-fried fritters, choked by much too much batter. Inside the batter, there are barely detectable traces of corned beef and Swiss cheese. The Thousand Island dressing it's served with tastes like the takeout variety - the kind that comes in packets.
The cheeseburger spring rolls, clearly a novelty item, resemble a Hot Pocket stuffed with supergluey American cheese and loose ground beef. Speaking of Hot Pockets, the halibut tacos look like an open-faced rendition of this microwave classic. The filling tastes disconcertingly like whitefish salad doused with guacamole and kimchi sour cream.
So what happens if you shy away from the gimmicks? You would hope you'd be able to take refuge in a regular burger. It's really hard to fumble a burger. But the burger at Delicatessen - overwhelmed by its bun - is stubborn, serviceable at best. The French fries that accompany it are not serviceable. They look like fries, but they're all exterior. They crumble on contact.
Everyone likes a little grease with their onion rings, but these are really batter rings. Not many delicatessens feature sautéed yellowfin tuna over buckwheat soba noodles on the menu. For good reason. This one does and out it comes from the kitchen, gummy and cold.
Some of the dishes suggest serious culinary intent. And so does the sourcing of the chef, Doron Wong, fresh from Clio, a prominent restaurant in Boston. But the clientele doesn't seem to be paying much attention to the food. And that may very well explain why the kitchen isn't paying much attention either.
One night, we tried the passionfruit cosmo - really a cosmopolitan in couture. It comes in a glass goblet, filled only halfway, as if another customer had gotten to it first.
When it was dropped off at the table, my dining companion stared at her $14 drink in disbelief.
"It's half-full," I said. She took one swift look around the room and said, "No. It's definitely half-empty." Dinner at Delicatessen is a spectator sport, best watched from the sidewalk sidelines.
July 21, 2008
'Hundred Acres'
Imagine a restaurant on a quaint, tree-lined street. Nearby, a few lonely restaurants attract just enough attention to survive. But this one is haunted - haunted by the ghosts of restaurants past.
Perhaps you've eaten in a place like this, where yesterday seems as vivid as the present. You go to the door you've always gone to, only to find it's moved 40 feet north. A young female hostess greets you, and yet you can't help expecting to see the gruff, French maitre d' who stood at a different door for 20 years. A grandfather clock - junked long ago - stands stubbornly in the corner sounding the stroke of midnight. And the newly gray walls suddenly fade to dingy green.
You open the menu and it's a palimpsest - traces of the old menu visible behind the new one. Bouillabaisse instead of a burger. French onion soup and steak frites instead of corned beef tongue and mixed market lettuces.
The street is MacDougal, the restaurant is Hundred Acres, and the ghost is Provence.
We all hunger for the past. So did Marc Meyer and Vicki Freeman - husband and wife - when they tried to resuscitate the original Provence just last year.
They gave it a sunny yellow coat of paint, installed a white marble bar and tweaked the Provence menu. But it didn't quite live up to the original Provence.
So they started over. They painted the walls gray, hung farm photos on the walls and scattered potted plants throughout the back garden. You can eat in the back garden, which feels like a greenhouse. Or at the communal table or up front by the windows, where you feel like part of the sidewalk life.
At a Hundred Acres, the menu changes daily. The soft-shell crab sandwich has already been replaced by a pike sandwich. The fried green asparagus has been replaced by fried green tomatoes. So don't get attached to any one dish.
But it's worth getting attached to the trio of toast, which tastes better than its name suggests. Two of the trio linger in my memory - a rubble of diced beets over a confited rabbit, generously spread on a thick crostini. And a luscious, salty whitefish topped with dill.
The kitchen does a really good job with Maine sea scallops, nicely charred and skewered with Tokyo baby turnips poised in a tangy yogurt-mint sauce. There's a gratifying riff on macaroni & cheese made with Westfield Farms goat cheese and specked with morel mushroom and English peas.
But there are too many disappointments. Even though the Southern fried rabbit is excellent, the Southern fried chicken is downright ordinary. The pretty pea-paved halibut is nicer to look at than to eat. The grits were swamped by too much olive oil. And speaking of swamped, the dandelion salad should probably be served with a life preserver.
Perhaps the best way to forget about Provence is to order from the dessert menu - perhaps a wonderfully fresh slice of blueberry pie or a moist chocolate layer cake with intense chocolate ice cream.
December 18, 2007
Address: 199 Prince St., between MacDougal & Sullivan Sts.
Phone: (212) 375-8275
Dinner: Sun., Tue. & Wed., 6 p.m.-12 a.m., Thu.-Sat., 6 p.m.-3 a.m. Closed
Mon.
Cuisine: New American
Vibe: Quaint neighborhood spot
Occasion: Casual date, neighborhood go-to dinner
Don't Miss Dish: Codfish with Gruyere broth, roast chicken
Drink Specialty: Stargarita
Price: Appetizers, $7-$14; entrees, $18-$25; desserts, $5-$7
Reservations: Not accepted
Soho's best-kept secret harbors a talented chef and a triumphant roast chicken.
"I'll have the chicken," is a request I'm hearing a lot lately in prominent New York City restaurants. What was historically a predictable dish designated for the unadventurous eater has recently become a first-string player on many esteemed menus. Union Square Cafe has a moist rendition in their back pocket. So does Cafe Boulud.
And then there's the roast chicken at Shorty's.32. Chef and co-owner Josh Eden has nearly perfected his: This remarkably juicy bird flaunts an obscenely crisp skin. It's a notably unpretentious bird, coupled with mashed potatoes and green beans. Though its presentation seems humble, it's abundantly rich in flavor.
This is Shorty's.32 in a nutshell: a straightforward restaurant with tremendously pleasing New American fare. It is also SoHo's best-kept secret. Nicknamed Shorty at JoJo, Eden spent 12 years working in Jean-Georges Vongerichten's stable of highbrow kitchens. With such upscale cred, one might expect Shorty's solo debut to razzle-dazzle with more sophistication than chicken and mashed potatoes. He does dazzle with a decadent bed of mashed potatoes and crunchy fries in golden coats. Though they look like something off the children's menu, pudgy crabsticks get a basil remoulade - grownup fish sticks stocked with fresh, peekytoe crab.
Familiar rock music plays in the background of a 32-seat dining room, furnished with burgundy velvet banquettes and dark wood tables. An altogether curious and unsightly collection of mismatched lampshades hangs from the ceiling. Though his taste in light fixtures is questionable, Eden has much better instincts when it comes to culinary marriages.
He perches codfish on crusty bread with caramelized onions and Swiss chard, then douses it in a gruyere broth. The spill of broth evokes a "French onion soup" twist, an inventive match for the flaky fish. Likewise, the aforementioned chicken gets a sidecar of chilled green beans specked with fried garlic. It recalls leftover Chinese string beans, an apparently intentional move. "Everyone loves leftover Chinese take-out from the fridge," Eden says during a telephone interview - a plain and persuasive argument.
Braised pork belly is topped with a vinegary cranberry bean salad that smartly tempers the fat. It's served chilled. Are you noticing a pattern here? Eden likes to play with food's thermostat: chilled cranberry beans and warm pork belly; cold green beans and warm chicken. The most composed arrangement is a pan-seared sea bass decorated with a neat line of quinoa and vibrant mound of pickled beets. Both the slow braise of the pork belly and the smart sear on the sea bass display Eden's seasoned technique with pleasurable effect.
There is the occasional misstep: grilled shrimp paired with celery root logs, smothered in a heavy-handed saucing of crème fraiche and Dijon mustard. Braised short ribs see an unnecessary addition of honey, further burdened by a weighty side of macaroni and cheese. Shorty's cavatelli craves more than a bland mushroom ragout and a few leaves of arugula.
Dessert also does not measure up to the rest of the menu. A chocolate bread pudding arrived burnt, and a listless apple tart layered with date puree collapsed on one swoop of a fork. Too, crème brulée tasted more like watery rice pudding with a caramelized shell.
Shorty's.32 is refreshingly simple. With humble determination, Eden succeeds at pleasing the neighbors and triumphing with chicken.
October 30, 2007
Fiamma is reborn, better than ever.
206 Spring St., near Sullivan St., (212) 653-0100
Dinner: Mon., 6 p.m.-10p.m.; Tues.-Thurs., 6-11 p.m.; Fri., 6 p.m.-midnight; Sat., 5:30 p.m.-midnight.
CUISINE Modern Italian
VIBE Civilized glamour
OCCASION Special occasion, intimate date
DON'T-MISS DISH Tuna crudo, Le Marche lasagna
PRICE Prix fixe, $75; desserts, $12.
RESERVATIONS Highly recommended
When chef Michael White departed Fiamma Osteria, restaurateur Stephen Hanson (founder of B.R. Guest Restaurants) was forced to find a chef capable of protecting his upscale Italian's star stature.
Fiamma had never been just another B.R. Guest restaurant. It was the luxury convertible in an 18-car garage filled with reliable, hospitality-driven establishments (Dos Caminos, Ruby Foo's).
Hanson seized the opportunity to upgrade: He changed the plates, the menu, tweaked the decor and even dropped the "Osteria" from its title. Most importantly, he secured chef Fabio Trabocchi (Ritz-Carlton in Tysons Corner, Va.). A 2006 James Beard Award winner, Trabocchi was as carefully sourced as the ingredients on the contemporary Italian prix-fixe menu. Five weeks later, Fiamma was reborn.
What was already an elegant SoHo townhouse has been newly appointed with glossy wood, plush white banquettes and creamy lacquered walls. Designer Jeffrey Beers left the orange linen lampshades intact, as they imbue a gleaming amber hue throughout the serene main dining room.
Trabocchi makes a stunning first impression. The appetizers, which range from a buttery burrata with heirloom tomatoes to an exceptional fontina fonduta, display poignant layerings of flavor executed with impeccable precision. The most breathtaking composition involves delicate nibbles of ahi: Top-notch cubes of tuna come alternatively topped with briny sardines and sea urchins, tamed by sorrel.
The pastas demand your undivided attention: Nearly every rendering unravels superior intricacies. Like an artist, he paints deeply flavored ragu onto a pappardelle canvas, finished with tender ribbons of venison.
None stand on the same regal plane as the I Vincisgrassi, a modern interpretation of a regional, Le Marche lasagna, which rendered my table speechless. This is Trabocchi in his finest hour: A crusty cap of Parmesan gives way to a round layering of pasta, and ragu, all bound together and sauced with a luscious béchamel.
The only freshly kneaded creation that didn't prompt swoons of delight was the lobster ravioli - ginger-infused lobster wontons - that registered more Asian than Italian.
The Porchetta oddly suffered a similar fate. Timid meditations on pork - shoulder, loin and rack - should have tendered a succulent roast feast. Instead, it went stifled by its citrus and dill complements. The other two meat entrées I sampled, veal and duck, went to overbearingly rich extremes. A fillet of sole, marinated in chanterelle mushrooms, offers more savor than the meats. So did the cod, olive-oil poached and served with crunchy charred octopus, cipollini and parsley-smashed potatoes.
As Trabocchi elevates Italian to an opulent plane, and the revamped setting revisits the old-world glamour of fine dining, Fiamma proves itself a restaurant worth revisiting.
May 15, 2007
Address: 71 Spring St., btwn. Crosby & Lafayette Sts.
Phone: 212.966.5050
Cuisine: French-bent global
Vibe: Modern swank
Scene: Euro crowd
Hours: Dinner, Mon - Thu, 5:30pm - 10:30pm; Fri & Sat, 5:30pm - 11pm; Lunch, Friday, 12pm-2:30pm.
First Bite Impressions: Lost in translation
Price: Appetizers, $14; Entrees, $30.
Reservations: Reservations recommended.
www.frognyc.com
Chef Didier Virot & his partner Philip Kirsh are testing their luck at NYC's restaurant roulette again. While Virot's first venture notably brought refined French to the Upper West Side, he's decided this time to tempt fate in Soho with a mixed bag of nearly every cuisine under the "French sun" (Lebanon, Morocco, Vietnam, & Africa to name a few). The two-level space also happens to be in throwing distance from Balthazar, which makes it nearly impossible to avoid side-by-side comparisons to McNally's French tour de force. But unlike Balthazar's worn-in brasserie decor, FR.OG looks nothing like France. From a white marble bar to pink ultrasuede banquettes & disco ball-mirrored stairwell, the sleek setting feels more like a swanky nightclub than a restaurant.
While the setting implies frivolity, both the menu and prices suggest an aggressive reach toward destination status. It's difficult enough to master one region's cuisine, but upwards of four countries is ambitious to say the least. But Chef Virot attempts just that with a global brew: braised lamb shank with roasted duck breast with cinnamon & Moroccan couscous, monkfish in tajine and foie gras sauteed with ginger crust. Moroccan spices even make their way onto the cocktail menu, implemented by mixologist Robin Lewis, who concocts saffron-perfumed champagne & Vietnamese herb-infused rum. I sampled a ginger rose, a honeyed elixir of gin, litchi & ginger - a drink that's pleasing on its own, but unfortunately clashed with my curiously plated seared lamb loin (note the photo). Unsettling, no? This long, tasty rope of lamb snuck a lemony kick from a dusting of sumac (nonpoisonous red berry), but went sadly unserved by a tasteless taboulee, apparently just for show. Ditto on a mess of shredded cabbage & carrots that accompanies
cardamom & cane sugar-crusted scallops to the table.
Mismatched plates seem a running theme at FR.OG, again rearing its head in an entree of colossal shrimp - indeed enormous - but practically upstaged by a phallic-looking & remarkably tasteless, eggplant roll. But once tossed aside, the deliciously juicy, coriander-spiked shrimp cushioned by the cool pillow of celery root & coconut puree. Likewise, a springy melange of fresh corn, carrots, cabbage & bacon, was the perfect interplay of smoky and delicate textures. If only it weren't served with an overcooked & chewy pork loin fell flat, seasoned with a barey discernible caramel-ginger sauce.
Chef Andres Vasquez pulls off a luxuriously moist coffee-tinged sponge cake with a naughty mound of Bailey's ice cream. A prim riff on peanut butter & jelly, the peanut butter bomb itself delights, but strikes discord against a "salad" of strawberries, pine nuts & olive oil. The word salad should never ever appear on a dessert menu. Alas, most diners, were too busy texting or scamming to appreciate Virot's overly precious plates. FR.OG suffers from an identity crisis: it strives toward chef-driven stardom while simultaneously luring a scenester clientele.
Until we eat again,
Restaurant Girl
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May 3, 2007
Address: 137 MacDougal St., btwn. Prince & Spring Sts.
Phone: 212.475.7500
Cuisine: Provencal French
Vibe: Country charm
Scene: An unassuming romantic
Hours: Dinner, Mon - Sat, 5:30pm - 11:30pm.
Inside Scoop: May 1st, Sunday night dinner begins. Come mid-May, lunch 7 days a week.
Don't Miss Dish: Salt cod fritters
First Bite Impressions: Neighborhood gem
Price: Appetizers, $10; Entrees, $23.
Reservations: Reservations recommended.
www.provencenyc.com
In this freakishly fast-paced dining climate, restaurateurs often resort to convoluted fusion tactics & garish gimmicks to garner attention. It's easy for diners to get caught up in the rat race, too busy sampling the latest in foie gras powder or Italian-Japanese fusion to revisit our neighborhood favorites. We take steadfast spots like Provence for granted. And then one day, owner Jean Michael & his restaurant shutter after nearly twenty years.
But Marc Meyer and Vicki Freeman have graciously rescued Provence from near death, handsomely reviving the Soho institution. With Cookshop & Five Points under the couple's belt, Provence seems an unlikely next move, but this project was personal (the two were engaged there).
Provence returns to us with a much-needed facelift and its Mediterranean roots very much intact. It's true the waiters no longer greet you in French and there's no rabbit paillard to be had, but the decor & fare are as inviting as ever. Newly revived with sunny yellow accents, country french patterns, antique mirrors and original wood paneling, the space is perhaps better than new.
Marc Meyer has partnered up with chef Lynn McNeely (formerly of Barbuto) to implement a Provencal-inspired menu with a signature sprinkling of garlic, olives & onions. Of course, seafood's plentiful: provencal fish soup, grilled whole fish and a generous raw bar. There's also a regional dose of housemade pork sausage, lamb daube & rabbit rillettes.
Considering the current fashions of food, Provence's simple & bright cuisine is a fantastical feat. There is nothing particularly revelatory or even exceptional - Meyer & McNeely are in no way trying to reinvent the wheel - which is exactly what makes it so irresistible. Take the salt cod fritters; crunchy puffs of luscious salt cod elevated to another plane by an addictive, garlicky aioli, which merits slathering on a French baguette once the fritters disappear from their basket. The fallen goat cheese souffle, eggy & tart, was an admittedly more refined endeavor, but no doubt a pleasing one. The appetizers seem to outshine the entrees, as was further proved by a supple tangle of sauteed calamari & octopus, playfully peppered with currants & pine nuts, all simmering in a currant-sweetened puddle of white wine, garlic & parsley.
The only blatant disappointments I stumbled upon was a deflated & salty chicken liver mousse and a bland halibut served in a watery, artichoke barigoule (stew), rendering its accompanying carrots & leeks mush. But the pan-roasted cod embodied the consummate Provencal dish; a green olive-crowned codfish, flaky & moist, arrived in a pool of aigo boulido (boiled water), stocked with garlic, sage & bay leaves.
Though most of the desserts were slightly uninspired - just like the former Provence - it's worth lingering over the delightful almond-specked meringue drizzled with a vanilla bean sauce.
Until we eat again,
Restaurant Girl
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December 3, 2006
406 Broome Street, at Cleveland Place
(212)680-5600
TYPE: American brasserie with a French bent
VIBE: A definitively social spot
OCCASION:
What was once upon a
time a factory, has been transformed into an airy brasserie with high
tin ceilings, antique mirrors, exposed brick walls, brown leather
banquettes and two sets of floor-to-ceiling windowed walls, that make it easy to window shop the good-looking, prepster crowd from the street.
But it was smooth sailing through the entrees, which were all quite good, perhaps not particularly innovative, but I doubt the Martignetti brothers are too concerned with breaking gastronomic ground. Still, the food firmly holds its ground, especially in the seafood department. A pan-seared skate, nicely browned, rode a cauliflower puree so luscious and buttery, it could've easily been mistaken for whipped potatoes. Not the brussel sprouts of your youth, these brussel sprouts, blanched and simply seasoned with salt & pepper, were so tasty and perfectly cooked, we demanded an additional side of them. I also took to the pan-seared diver scallops, nicely crusty on the outside, each perched on individual mounds of butternut squash, and creatively paired with delicate, honshimeji mushrooms. A mixed green salad, topped off with fresh, plump lobster, may have been slightly overdressed in a creamy espelette vinaigrette, but I was too distracted by an adjacent table of generous young men, willing to sneak me a bite of their filet mignon, to pay much attention to salad dressing. This unusual phenomenon of plate-sharing and table-hopping was curiously taking place throughout the restaurant, singles sharing frites with strangers.
By dessert, the music was pumping and the restaurant was in full swing, packed with a happily unpretentious, neighborhood set. I savored the feeding and flirting frenzy, over a creamy affogato, spiked with espresso, and dabbled in the usual suspect, a warm apple tart.
Until we eat again,
Restaurant Girl
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September 27, 2006
VIBE: A cozy, rustic
Victorian
OCCASION: A boutique retreat or low-key neighborhood eats
Not a Goblin in sight (except perhaps for Alex Freij of Industry and Diner 24 infamy), Goblin Market has emerged as a charming and pleasantly unassuming addition to Soho. Richard Snyder (AZ & Barna) and chef Richard Pelz (Tintol & La Caravelle), have teamed up for their first restaurant venture, a creative New American (with Asian accents) set in a rustic and notably petite 28-seat space (formerly Soho Cantina). Designer, Alex Freij has created a newly "old looking" feel by way of damask banquets, oak floors & tables, Edison bulb fixtures, and an exposed brick wall. Just as blue is the new black in the fashion world, so the latest newcomer, is further proof that intimate dining is the new mega-restaurant (Buddakan, Mr. Chow, Craftsteak, enough said).
Better than it has to be, some of the dishes on the small, but relatively inspired menu, are downright good, like the roasted yard bird, but first let's start with the appetizers. There are undoubtedly some misses to be avoided: the overly moist, mayonnaise-heavy crab cakes; a tiny pork belly that belies the notion of hearty fare; a bland arugula and ricotta salad (the ricotta could've been fresher). Those aside, start with the garlicky mussels served in a tomato, herbed broth or even better, the creamy shrimp risotto - zesty and luscious risotto dotted with plump & briney rock shrimp - further enlivened by a pronounced lemon kick.
All better than they have to be, there are no earth-shattering food feats, but surprisingly thoughtful, and some are quite tasty. In particular, the miso marinated hangar steak paired with a sweet mustard vinaigrette-dressed salad, a salad that merits a position of its own on the appetizer menu. Skip the sea bass, in need of a a flavor kick (the hazelnut vinaigrette doesn't serve the fish) and head directly to the burger - a tender and extremely well-seasoned grass-fed Angus patty, tucked into a sweet and soft brioche bun, happily overshadowing its fry accompaniment - not bad for Pelz's first go at a burger. The real winner is the pan-roasted yard bird, which should be their signature dish (and quickly renamed seeing as it's a chicken breast and the term yard bird has creepy connotations). It's moist, perfectly cooked and paired with luscious buttermilk mashed potatoes.
The finale, a daily special, requires a simple adjustment. A wafer-thin phyllo crust, sandwiches a more than generous dollop of rich chocolate sabayon, iced with fresh raspberries needn't the raspberry coulis, that surrounds and sadly suffocates a potentially lovely dessert.
But all things eaten and consider, the understatedly appealing Goblin Market is more than an acceptable refuge for weary Soho shoppers, or just a neighborhood jaunt for weekend brunch, lunch or dinner.
Until we eat again,
Restaurant Girl
Further Goblin Market reading at:
Eater
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January 30, 2006
BLAND DATE:
It was a beautiful summer night, love was in the air and I was determined to find it, so I turned to a friend for a last minute set-up. I wanted to dine under the moon with someone new and different. He suggested someone who’d just moved to the East Village with an extensive knowledge of Italian, homemade pastas and organic wild salmon.
When I arrived, my hostess shuffled me through a narrow dining room to a dark back alley and disappeared leaving me without so much as a menu or a waiter. What should’ve been a luminous moon hanging over my head was a menacing fire escape and the garden seemed suspiciously more like an alley cramped with strangers. With the heat of the kitchen exhaust blowing gently against my neck, I started to sweat this impulsive set-up. Maybe I needed was a glass of wine to help me relax and get to know Quartino better. My waiter whizzed right past me to another table. All dolled up in my new skirt and he wouldn’t even look up from his pad. I clearly wasn’t the only one on his mind.
I encouraged him to impress me with an intoxicating list of wines, but he only had one kind of merlot in the house. He left me with a generous carafe of red wine and a menu. I skimmed over a variety of organic greens sprinkled with nuts to get to the meat of things. He wrote of pizzas, ravioli, risotto, carbs, and more carbs. Where was the chicken, the fish, where was the beef? I couldn’t help but notice he wasn’t giving protein a fair shake. Then I remembered what drew me to him in the first place. But when I tried to order the wild salmon, he claimed all they were serving up for the evening was a bass. Teased by imaginary cuts of wild salmon, where was this wizard of the kitchen boasting of food he couldn’t bring to the table? I wasn’t wearing a short skirt for my health.
He brought me a warm delicate pizza that tasted suspiciously like the bread from the basket, toasted, sliced wafer thin, dressed in a thin disguise of tangy tomato sauce. But the meager droppings of an admittedly fresh mozzarella only lead me to wonder if there was some sort of dairy drought. Then came Sicilian tuna, which had apparently come by boat because it was drowning in a sea of oil. I didn’t know what to save first – the string beans or tuna. And what should’ve been the t’our de force was a bland bass, resting on a mere mole hill of unseasoned root vegetables.
I had to face the music. Quartino just wasn’t my kind of guy. But I was hard up for a good dessert, so I turned to an old friend to see what he was mixing up for the rest of the night. There he was – bright as a neon sign, always happy to see me. Tasti-D-Lite would satisfy my sweetest craving. I took him right there on the street corner, a rich O’Henry lavished in hot fudge sprinkled with well….good old colored sprinkles.
RATING: 3
BEST QUALITY: ORGANIC
WORST QUALITY: SERVICE
COST: AVERAGE
CONCLUSION: A DISAPPOINTMENT
Quartino (Bottega Organica) -- Organic Italian
11 Bleecker Street, at Elizabeth St., (212)529-5133
