IL FIORISTA

Be it know before I even start writing this that I had an ultra-weird dining experience here at Il Fiorista that is in NO way indicative of its quality, but prevented me from ever even getting to the main courses.  That said, everything up until that point was spot-on, so the eventuality of my going back to finish the deal is an absolute.


The restaurant opened up just in September, a husband and wife team from Milan, situated smack-dab in the heart of the flower district (thus the name).  Bonus points for the floral focus on the menu, evident at pretty much every turn, and one can even purchase a bouquet from their talented on-site florists, who source local-ish-ly from upstate farms Allora and Treadlight, or register for a floral design class taught by the aforementioned.

The room is airy and well-lit, and despite my tablemate's (excessive?) palpable disdain over their polyester napkins, quite well-designed and attractive.  Small nosegays decorate the table, but the room is otherwise simple, spacious, serene.  Our waiter was quick to take a drinks order, but a little more lethargic in the delivery, which may have been the breaking point (after the napkin debacle) that caused my team to plow through pretty every appetizer on the menu, but then call it a night (much to my dismay, but I wasn't going to stay and have an entree solo).

At any rate, the menu is literally a list of temptiations, spanning from crackers and bread options to salads and onto heartier fare.  Seeded crackers were nearly pure seeds: nutty and crisp, the flavor compounded by a tasty sunflower dip fluttered with petals and shoots.  All the dishes were categorically lovely, the type you hate to muss up with your first forkful but then that sentiment quickly
 evaporates as soon as it hits your tongue.  Sweet potato sourdough steamed on arrival: a dark, moist and chewy loaf, buttery even before the butter, which was a gorgeous whip with buttermilk, anointed with a verdant oil.  The sweet, plush crumb melted in your mouth, and the the tangy buttermilk-butter melted into that.  It was simply dreamy.   A crudo of Montauk fluke was bright and fresh with tangy early harvest citrus and an alluring sprinkle of fennel

 pollen.  

I thought I would scorn the raw cauliflower in a roasted & raw composition, but they were buttery, tender florets, quite complimentary to the toasty roasted ones, richer and nuttier, and the pickly bits cute through those, a flurry of lovage topping the plate with gusto.  






A last hurrah of summer tomatoes wallowed in milky burrata, with toothsome hunks of sweet, roasted corn sliced fresh off the cob and sturdy crackers of blue corn on hand to cordon it all onto your spoon. The rye crumbs atop a chicory salad were a bit gritty, or sandy, but somehow in the end not in an off-putting way as they coalesced with earthy-sweet
 half-moons of Tokyo turnip spiked with a gently anchovy-scented dressing.  The geranium component, wherever it was supposed to have been, seemed to have been conspicuously absent from the concoction, unless as an edible herb it was somehow subtly tucked into the dressing.














Gorgeous ribbons of baby carrots wove themselves between roasted whole ones beneath, nestled into a carrot top pepian, a Guatemalan sauce thick with coriander and pistachios that might be the next zhoug.  The closest thing we got to an entree were spot prawns on polenta, really wonderful crustaceans for their own part, but simply sumptuous with the creamy spin roso polenta and a zippy hibiscus harissa, which added punch but not much heat.










My favorite dish, however,  might have been the one that never arrived, artichoke hearts with flageolet beans, speck and smoked olive oil.  I KNOW we ordered it, but I don't know why it never came, nor whether we were, in the end, billed for it, as my tablemate snatched the check for reasons at the time unbeknownst to me and proclaimed the dinner to be over.  (Turned out to be an emergency at home, but the evening had a thickly mysterious cloud hanging over it, with weirdness coming from every angle but the kitchen, so I didn't question it at the time.). At any rate, so far at least, those artichokes are still on the menu, as is the skate that was calling my name, a graffiti Japanese eggplant, and a heritage chicken with foraged mushrooms, red okra and mustard seeds.  The only thing left that bugged me is how Il Fiorista doesn't  follow the gender rules in Italian: it would seem it should be La Fiorista , or il Fioraio.  But hopefully I can address this upon my return, and regardless, it is an absolutely petty blunder in light of an exceptional meal.

17 W 26th St,
(646) 490-8240