WILLOW ROAD

In the space that used to be part of the Nabisco Factory, Willow Road is a humble little nook tucked between two culinary behemoths, Mario Batali's Del Posto and Colicchio & Sons.  Our proximity here to the meatpacking district guides the restaurant more than does her neighbors, however.  Reviews I read online were positive if not particularly astute, and the hostess perkily boasted about mentions in Page Six.  Well, I don't care who eats here: I care who makes it and how good it is made.  That said, the executive chef (who was not there on my visit) is Todd MacDonald, a prior colleague of  Shea Gallante (whom I admire greatly) at Cru before its closing.   In his stead was Grayson Shmitz  (chef de cuisine), who came out to visit the only sizable party in attendance- apparently friends or family- the rest of her time spent manning the burners in the open kitchen.  We arrived at 7:30pm to a virtually empty room, appealing a space though it was.

Lots of mirrors and white tile combined with rough-hewn wood and neon lighting give the room a very unique appearance, and not at all unattractive.  The waitstaff looks straight out of Portland, in flannel shirtsleeves and jeans, a bit unkempt, perhaps,  but appealingly just as un-uptight.  That is, the bartender and hostess.  Our server just kind of seemed as if he didn't really give a rip.   We chose a table near the window, where the light was a bit more spirited and we could watch the passersby on 10th Avenue.  If there had been many.  Given the holiday weekend and lovely Sunday evening that it was, I'm guessing most were already enjoying other al fresco destinations, which could account, in part, for the lack of clientele.

At long last, our server finally brought a refreshing Willow Fresca, a brisk concoction of  lemon and peach with gin and a splash of sparkling wine ($14).  The cocktails run that price on up, but they are an attractive set.   The menu describes itself as American classics with modern technique, which about sums it up.  After another extensive wait,  he returned to get our food order, and finally to provide our appetizer: a warm artichoke and fregola salad studded with bits of tomato and vibrant fava beans. The artichokes were particularly flavorful, and the pasta well balanced and toothsome: a successful if not wildly memorable dish.  Would we like toast with that?  Why, yes- toast is always pleasant.  If you want to pay for the bread, order it along with the "hunk of aged cheddar" from the Bites section of the menu.


First up, buttermilk fried chicken, enlivened with jerk spices and a sweet touch of orange blossom honey.   But then, there had better be something interesting going on with the chicken because that's all your getting: three burnished pieces in a paper lined bucket.  We requested ketchup alongside, which turned out to be Sir Kensington's Spiced.  I thought this a little weird: when you ask for ketchup, normally you just want regular ketchup, but given that it was S.K.'s it's always delicious, regardless.

A side of brussels sprouts, out of season though they are, were solidly prepared, roasted tender and moistened with brown butter and lemon in quite a fetching combination.  Very welcome with the lonely pieces of bird, too.    A skate roulade was cheffier, featuring three meaty furls sprinkled with pickly spring onions atop a smear of pureed green garlic.  Even this, however, wanted for the brussels (or the potatoes, raw kale salad, or beluga lentils that were on the menu as other side dish options) to round things out, as the dish was a little stark.  But the prices are reasonable enough, which frankly was most of the reason I chose this place.  All the restaurants that are sprouting up right now seem to have forgotten what a shambles the economy is still in... entrees verging on $40 in places that appear like weeknight dining options.  I don't know.  Makes me appreciate places like Da Marcella and Bar Ciccio that are producing EXCEPTIONAL food at startling reasonable prices.  Aside from the pricey cocktails, Willow Road is relatively affordable if you order smartly.   Especially if you're accustomed to tipping in accordance with the level of service, you won't have to dig too deep to match it.

Without further attention from our waiter, we finished our mains and chatted a bit, I visited the restroom, and still when I returned out plates had still not yet been cleared.  A bit more of a wait and

they finally were, and a dessert inquiry made.  There are no dessert menus, just three options briefly described: a sticky toffee puddings, a deep fried Snickers bar, and a chocolate-peanut butter cheesecake.  (Somebody's apparently forgotten bikini season is approaching).  Strangely, after acknowledging the Snickers with a disdained snicker, they provided us with one to try, anyways. It was... well, a deep fried Snickers bar.  Crusted in a crunchy golden sheath, the warmed candy bar was a bit leaden for my tastes.  I'm not sure who wants a candy bar, let alone deep fried, after a full meal.  But then again, this is, technically, the meatpacking district.  Atop a bed of cookie crumbs next to it was a smooth scoop of vanilla ice cream that paired well
with the toffee pudding that we DID order.  Although I preferred the ice cream to pair with the intensely sweet cake, it came pooled in a rich, sticky caramel sided with a dollop of somewhat deflated whipped cream.   Coffee arrived midway through dessert, and taken black, helped counter some of the extreme saccharine of the sugary desserts.

Willow Road is a funny contrast to its immediate neighbors.  Sandwiched between two acmes of exceptional service and exquisite cuisine, and then this little trendy nugget of faux-foodieism betwixt the two.  Transplant it to another neighborhood with a greater passerby traffic, and I'd say it had a good chance for success.  Here, they may need to step up their game a bit, and definitely sharpen the service, unless they  can lure the party set from the nearby clubs.  And it certainly remains a welcome financial respite from the wallet-strainers next door.

85 10th Avenue
646.484.6566

L'APICIO

Trust no one.  No one but the chefs... and subsequently, me.  I had it from two (now acknowledged as extremely unreliable) sources that L'Apicio wasn't "all that", and had thus sort of taken it off my list.  Then I ran into Joe Campanale, the beverage director for the quartet of Epicurean Management restaurants in the city, who assured me it would be worth my while.  So I headed east, to that unlikely little cusp of
the East Village on the Bowery that has become quite a dining mecca: Freeman's Alley, Peels, Pearl & Ash, etc., etc.   Their first restaurant, dell'anima, made a top ten list of mine that provided my first baby steps into the exploration of gastronomic New York.  Their second, L'Artusi, is named after the historic tome of the art and science of eating well, Italian-style.  L'Apicio, too, is a culinary book, this one from the 18th century which featured the first use of tomatoes in pasta sauce.  Had I known this, I would focused my ordering more intently on the primi, but having experienced chef Gabe Thompson's expertise elsewhere, I just went with ordering whatever sounded good.  And lots sounded good.... and luckily, everything that sounded good lived up to its reputation.

We started with a nibble of savory flatbread crackers served with a plush cloud of whipped ricotta refreshed by a tangy muddle of jammy rhubarb confit... ahh, 'tis the season.  The dessert-averse (those that might finish a meal with a cheese plate instead of a sweet, might find this a fetching finale).

 Next up, another harbinger of spring prevailed in an appetizer of  juicy, svelte asparagus, grilled with bold evidence of char into a supple tenderness, easing languidly across the plate to rest their tips in a luscious, caper-flecked lemon aioli surrounded by tufts of frisee.  Grilled endive
was tempting too, although this version was just-seared to retain its crispness, and having a current fetish for endive braised mushy within an inch of its life,  I went for the warm mushroom salad instead, featuring chewy morsels of shiitake amongst more frisee.  Chewy slices of shiitake nestled with nuggets of roasted hazelnuts underneath a dense veil of shaved parmesan wafers, forming a haphazard igloo-like dome over the salad.

There are over a dozen pastas and four polenta preparations, more than half of which I'm guessing involve tomatoes in their saucings.  Now that I know from whence L'Apicio is derived, a return visit would involve a bucatini with shrimp and ramps, or perhaps polenta with rabbit cacciatore- maybe even the untomato-ified gnocchi with morels.  The variety is expansive.  But thus far, our samplings had been strangely un-specifically-Italian.  Not incongruous, in the least, but just as suitable at perhaps a New American or even modern French as an Italian named after the institution of classic red sauces.  Anyways, we continued on in just that vein, with a special LaFrieda burger.
His signature blend of beef was shrouded with a melty slice of pearly  Fontina and scattered with pickled shallots.  It is quite possibly a perfect burger.  And on the side arrive a boat-load of home fries, these more of the French-Canadian bear-trapper ilk than any little skinny steak-frites-esque french fry.  I wouldn't have been surprised had they been clad in flannels and sturdy suspenders.  Their exterior was rustic, crunchy, salty, and the insides sweet and tender- smooth as mashed potatoes.  All this, served with a dense salsa bianco which was anything but bianco and much too thick to be categorized as salsa.  Instead a dense creme fraiche stained ruddy with copious amounts of dried peperoncini  and chives, delicious on the fries, on the burger, by the spoonful...   I digress.  On a lighter note, the sauteed

 halibut was sauteed a little too vigorously, leaving the filet a bit tough and at odds with the delicate herb brodo and bright ribbons of shaved raw vegetables that adorned it.  Had the fish been more gently cooked, it would've harmonized with
its subtle accoutrements.  Instead, the sturdy filet could've held up to heartier bedfellows (perhaps even that red sauce?)

 It wasn't too disappointing, however, because it arrived simultaneously with a side of brussels sprouts with speck.  These were so decadent, fried to a deep russet and studded with thick chunks of meaty bacon and crispy leaves of sage, that they would've been hard to pair with that fish executed properly or not.   I decided to fixate on the sprouts, and the slightly overcooked fish took second hat.  These are snacky sprouts.. eat them more like potato chips, less like a virtuous vegetable.  They share the nutritional profile of the former, but a few bites are sure tasty.







Polishing all that off left little room for more than a green tea for my dining companion and and a short espresso for myself-  until I saw that Vanilla Semifreddo with rhubarb and orange cake on the menu.  You wait eleven months out of the year for rhubarb, so once a night, when the opportunity presents itself for twice, is not enough.  This might be my favorite dessert I've had since Jansen Chan's ethereal apricot souffle I was fortunate enough to experience at the old Oceana.  I didn't even think I liked souffle until that.  I know I liked semifreddos, that wonderful temperature purgatory 'twixt frozen and tepid, a consistency neither here nor there but simultaneously exactly as it should be at the same time.  The moist round of orange cake sat beneath the vanilla pillow crowned by a small orb of rhubarb sorbet, all surrounded by a tangy moat of  rhubarb compote, perfectly portioned and brilliantly satifsying: creamy and luxe yet fresh and vibrant.  This is the stuff sugar plum fairies dream of.

Was it particularly Italian?  Maybe not the meal I had, no... delicious though it was.  The room is  spacious at least as big as both dell'anima and L'Artusi put together. It's decor, with glowing, laser-cut orbs and lofty bouquets, could easily suit the cuisine of either nation.  And it was busily full, as it should have been for food this good.  You can easily put together an Italian repast at L'Apicio, or bend it New American like I did.  But regardless of its denomination, you'll be having a fine, fine meal.





13  East First Street
tel.  1.212.533.7400

COLE'S

This address used to by Lyon, a wonderful location for a now-shuttered csual French restaurant with which I wasn't at all impressed.  So when it closed and reopened as a New American bistro called Cole's, I was intrigued.  Plus, a reader board outside the menu touted a Pat LaFrieda (my butler: long story) burger, AND still had brussels sprouts available as a side dish even though spring is pushing its way in...  both appealing factors.   Anyways, I figured better sooner than later, because the chefs here are certainly on the seasonal bandwagon.

The exec chef harkens from the laudable Chestnut in Brooklyn, and teamed up with Jimmy Bradley of The Red Cat and The Harrison to create a fresh take on American classics- something both of these guys are VERY good at.  The rest of the team has The Lambs Club, Jimmy at the James and The Waverly Inn on their resumes, so we're of good pedigree.  The room itself transitioned from Lyon's standard French bistro decor to moody shades of dusky blue and black.  Somehow, the demonic exit signs that haunted the prior locale here seemed less ubiquitous.  Our waiter seemed a little surly at first, although he warmed up a smidge with coaxing~ but that shouldn't need to happen.  A place like Cole's needs to be welcoming and neighborhoody.  It's food is good, but not good enough for attitude.  Anyways, he provided us eventually with menus, and scrolling down there is a lot to choose from.

We began with a hearty chopped root vegetable salad that was substantial and sizable enough to split.  Tufts of frisee teamed up with crunchy caramelized pumpkin seeds and crumbles of goat cheese, along with delicately sliced radishes, chunks of tender roasted squash and turnips, chewy discs of baked carrot and a flurry of tender sunflower shoots atop.  Other notable appetizers are a spicy hot flashed squid with chorizo and shishito peppers, and harbinger of spring featuring artichokes and arugula with lemon under a chickpea panisse.  One could make a balanced and interesting meal out of the appetizers alone.




But big plates are appealing as well.  Amongst these, of course, is that LaFrieda burger, which on the printed menu was egregiously misspelled "LaFreida" (hopefully now corrected), served with cheddar and fries.  There also four  other meats, a poultry, two fishes and a pasta.  Atlantic salmon was aptly grilled and served with a creamy puree of great northern beans enriched with pancetta, sturdy enough for a persistent winter with a sautee of swiss chard in a nod forward to spring.  Sunflower sprouts again found their way in as a garnish here, as well.

    Another fish was a sturdy filet of cod, seared golden and seasoned generously with black pepper, and topped with a flounce of chervil.   Creamy celery root puree contrasted with a smooth salsa verde beneath, dotted with lentils that performed a subtle caviaresque trompe l'oeil.   The food here is beautifully plated, colorful and balanced, without too much finicky precision: no spherification or foams.  And there there were those brussels sprouts, which needn't rely on their beauty:  vigorously charred with chewy hunks of diced thick-cut slab bacon, and sweetened with a touch of maple syrup.











Dessert menus were never offered, and neither does their website list any of their after-dinner options.  I saw a chocolate concoction of some sort saunter past our table, though, and read of a lemon curd dessert noted in the press.  Instead, we were given our check, and sought out Empire Cake just up 8th Avenue after the fact to finish the evening on a sweet note.  But I like Cole's... certainly I like it much more than I did Lyon.  The quality of the food is excellent, and there is an easy, comfortable vibe here.  So a return visit to Sherlock Holmes that dessert menu... well, no one's going to have to twist my arm.

118 Greenwich Ave
New York NY 10011

212 242 5966

MADANGSUI

Finally, off the New American beat.  Not only is ethnic just inherently delicious, it also refreshes a palate jaded from her favorite standbys.  Mandangsui serves exactly that purpose, and coincidentally, the name actually translates as "servant" in Korean.  A slightly-north-of-K-town Korean BBQ, the dining room is typical spartan, bare-bones cafeteria looking.  But not to worry: their energies are concentrated on your food.

Upon being seated, we were provided multi-page, plasticized menus with vivid, easy(-ier) to identify pictures along with the Korean names and minimalist English descriptions.  But go with your gut, or be guided with recommendations from your "servant": they are knowledgeable and helpful... if a little deficient in the mother land's tongue.  Pointing always works wonders.  Seated at the rectangular table, a metal cover was lifted off the center to reveal an electric grill... you'll cook your own dinner to taste if you order the right things.  We did not, however, order the right beverage: a syrupy plum wine that might have passed as potable for a dessert wine was less than ideal paired with funky kimchee and vinegary pickles.  And those are not to be missed.

Mandoo-gui

A vast array of complimentary salads, pickles and sauces are spread out like a rainbow around the circumference of the grill.  Once your food arrives, make use of them.  There was a nutty, sesame-oil tinged water spinach that made for a lively vegetable, a zippy red harissa-like dipping sauce, earthy rounds of purply lotus root, and that strange adoptee in Asian cuisine, a saccharine macaroni salad for who knows what purpose.  Certainly not to pair with a dumpling appetizer: we chose beef, fried which came off much lighter than they might sound, but still rather filling.

Beosut Modeum Gui

For the grill, a bountiful array of enoki, king oyster, shiitake and trumpets met their fiery demise as our server flipped and poked at them 'til doneness.

Each bite could be vastly altered with a touch of soy or kimchee or a bite of spicy shredded turnips.  Probably the condiments team up better with a carnivorous selection for the grill (note to you), but I do love me my mushrooms.

Yook-Hwe Bibimbob

At any rate, they came in handy once again once our bibimbob arrived, because despite its multi-component structure, once our server homogenized it into submission it was, in appearance, a porridge hardly differentiable to chop suey, fried rice or even a dry risotto.  But the flavor was pronouncedly Asian, the rice tender and chewy with an umami punch from soy and richness from the beef and egg.  It had little spice, though, so here the kimchee was put to good use.  Still, there wasn't a tremendous amount of heat in any of the dishes except for sliced jalapenos which could be meted out to amp up the Scoville (recommended).

Although the menu has a section titled "Dessert & Drinks", it is really only a list of tipples.  But refreshing slices of juicy orange are post-prandially provided: probably all you'd want given the absent prestige of Korean pastry in the U.S.  And even if you got the accidentally got the plum wine to drink with dinner, hopefully there's a swig left in the bottle to perform as its only redemptive function.

35 West 35th St New York

Tel: (212) 564-9333

PETITE ABEILLE

Quaint, humble, cozy, charming: these all can be used to describe Petite Abeille ("little bee" in French).  Although the mini-chain of small, very cute, tres Belges bistros began in 1995, this was my first visit.  I visited the location nearest me on West 17th street, neighboring the historic Chelsea Inn (a rustic little hotel that might be New York's best little-known lodging deal).  I had made a seven pm reservation that was unnecessary given the sparsely populated room.  But it filled up quickly, quickly and by eight there wasn't a table to be had.  Our waitress noted that brunch conjures up formidable lines and often it's a matter of gently nudging customers out in order to close up at night.  This might be in part due to the special nightly deals offered by Abeille: Wednesday night offers Moules a Go Go - all you can eat mussels for $27, and Thursday's 1 1/4 lb. lobster costs the same, both beer-inclusive.  But we went on a Tuesday, where it's half-priced bottles of wine, and we weren't drinking.  That said, the little bee is fairly moderately priced.

Our waitress was not French, but described the menu and the day's specials jubilantly, and the general manager, who was very French (de Lyon, en fait) supervises the room approvingly.  We order a beet salad to begin, which was just plentiful enough to share, although on a hungrier night I might have handled it solo.  It boasted a lovely, lemony vinaigrette over tangled watercress and crumbles of goat cheese.  The greens were so fresh and the hearty beets roasted tender that they held they're own in spite of a slightly heavy hand with the dressing.  I would've liked to have tried the wild mushroom ragout on toast, but didn't think I quite had the appetite that night, so might have to entertain a return visit.

Grilled salmon was offered as a special, served atop a generous wad of garlicky sauteed and mushrooms on a bed of fluffy, creamy mashed potatoes.  This was by far the better of the two entrees we tried, for while my Codfish Flemish Style was cooked delicately enough to make Ripert proud, its berbed broth had a harsh, sharp
 sharp bite that imbued the too-lightly steamed brussels sprouts below, compounding their bitter, acrid flavor.  The cod perched high enough atop to avoid contamination, although it required removing a prickly thatch of dried bay laurel and thyme riddled with lemon zest that might have contributed to some of the bitterness.
The roasted brussels sprouts that come as a side dish are exponentially better: in fact, they are quite great- at least in comparison.

Desserts keep with the theme: classics such as chocolate mousse, fondue and cheese are to be had, but poffertjes, tiny Flemish doughnuts heavily dusted in powdered sugar, or try a waffle... there's are scrumptious.  Crisp-edged, light and golden, I would normally have gone for strawberries but for that it's March, so instead opted for a plain gaufre, doused in powdered sugar and a topped with a swirly cap of dense chantilly.  These would (and do) make a fine breakfast, snack or dessert.


Petite Abeille isn't going to change your life or rock your world.  But if you have one nearby as a local haunt, you'd be smart to become a regular.  It's one of those places where it's very easy to do so.

44 West 17th Street 
New York, NY 10010 
Between 5th Avenue & 6th Ave. 
Phone: (212) 727-2989 

CARBONE

Mario Carbone and Rich Torrisi have achieved the trifecta.  It all began with Torrisi Italian Specialties on Mulberry Street, and then the more casual Parm in the same neighborhood.  Now Mario's name finally hits the marquis with Carbone.  The name, in fact, is simply a neon sign placed over the top of the address's prior inhabitant, Rocco, who had thrived in that space for nearly a century.  Carbone not only salvaged the old signage, but a lot of the allure and mystique of the old red sauce joint.  But, of course, with this duo at the helm, it is spiffed up and refined to meet the standards of this unstoppable pair.

While I'd never visited the restaurant as Rocco's, they carried over its retro appeal.  The current decor exudes the swanky glamour of a 1950's era supper club.  From the red and black tiled floor to crystal chandeliers and grinning waiters in ill-fitting tuxedos, an old school charm abounds.  And leave your thinking cap at the door, because Carbone does not aim to challenge you (except if you don't know any Italian at all, because then you might miss some of the cheeky translations and plays-on-words throughout the restaurant).  While your at it,  check your coat as well, because even if you naturally tend cool, there is an welcoming warmth that immediately toasts things right up.

It feels like Carbone has a big heart.  It also has big menus, big portions and big prices.  Not that they might not be justified, but it's the kind of place you gotta know what you're getting into.  The ticket will be steep.  If you order an antipasti plate at $45 a head, there's no way you're getting out on the cheap (you're paying for really supreme quality here, so factor that in).  Luckily, you're bequeathed with an abundance of freebies soon after the menus arrive: nubbly hunks of pungent parmesan, a bountiful bread basket full of
 focaccia, slices of nutty semolina, long, spindly grissini, and a charming little dish of surprisingly spicy giardiniera.  Consider these sustenance for navigating the
enormous menus, both in shape and scope.  You'll entirely lose your dining companion during the ordering procedure, so you'll have to make up your mind on your own or play curtain-call raising and lowering the comically large scripts to coordinate your orders: you certainly won't need two of anything.   Of the vast array of starters, I couldn't not try the Vegetable Supremo, only to find (much to my chagrin) that, actually, I couldn't.  They had been toying around with a few different configurations of it which never finalized, and then decided to scrap it entirely (menus that big get printed early and there was no going back).  Apparently I was, in fact, the absolute FIRST person to request it!  Granted,

 they've only been open three weeks, but to that I added amazement to my disappointment.  Sticking vegetal, I perused the salads.  There is a Caesar alla ZZ is prepared tableside, but the "House Chopped" is totally d.i.y.  Not only is the "salad" left off the description, so is the fact that you'll be doing your own chopping.  It's big leaves of stripey radicchio, frisee, crisp spears of treviso , julienned green beans, marinated mushrooms and ceci beans generously dressed are worthy of the effort.  It did cross my mind to request Louis (our server) to prepare IT tableside, but it was a delicious enough salad to forgive the oversight.

Assorted Baked Clams come nine to the plate: a triad of each, one featuring enormous globs of uni.  Underneath each topping are pristinely juicy little clams- they wouldn't have to be so good with all their accoutrements, but they are.  Despite the fantastic, graffiti-esque painting hung behind our table stating that "Pasta is what we are made of",
we didn't sample any of the myriad pastas on

offer, but the selection runs the gamut from a classic Spicy Rigatoni Vodka to a more modern adaptations like Lobster Black Ties.  A return visit would definitely test the painting's theory.   Louis advised us that Mario's grandma's recipe meatballs could be ordered separately or added to anything upon request, so adding those to a selection from the Macaroni could definitely be a main course if you thought it not hearty enough to begin with.

Main courses are divided into Carne and Pesce under A Piacere (Italian "to please", as if everything wasn't already doing just that).I was tempted by the Skate Francese, given how partial I am to that fish, but you know the Italo-Franco rivalry: I went for Bass Vino Rosso instead.  This was a no-fear preparation of fish, it's skin finally achieved that elusive crispness who's absence usually requires me to peel it back from the flesh to discard entirely.  Not this bass, and the meaty fish below flaked tender, white chunks into an umami-rich, lip-smacking bordelaise- a sauce so rich it's usually teamed with heartier meats, but Carbone achieves the impossible pairing a mild white fish with such an assertive sauce.  Like the clams, one could mask something of inferior quality with such robust flavor, but not here.  The fish is as impeccable as the sexy, burnished sauce is profound.  Lips will be licked.  Rivaling that for my favorite dish of the night was inarguably the Funghi Trifolati. 
 These are the Platonic Ideal of sauteed mushroom: not a hint of mush, edges crisped and centers dense.  Salty, chewy, tender, eyes-rolling back in your head delicious. And such an assortment: shiitake, matsutake, oysters, and trumpets mingled with garlic, onions and herbs.  Oh, I could've just had a bowl of these and called it a night (but for all the other delicacies I would've missed out on, of course).

  Veal Marsala is a behemoth shank, bone-in, smothered in a luxuriantly winey mushroom sauce, propped up by sauteed hen-of-the-woods mushrooms giving it a jaunty tilt on the plate.










Delicacies, literally, are on the cart of desserts- although delicate they are not.  Really displayed on a rolling cart, like in movies of yore.  Big and beautiful, once again, with a monstrous tiramisu, gargantuan cheesecake served with a blueberry compote, these sweets are displayed whole, but they don't seem much diminished in size when you receive your portion.  A thick, cake-cut wedge of tiramisu loses its decorative ladyfingers in plating, instead the heel is coated in a rich toffee crumb.



The housemade gelatos are

outstanding- a cucumber-mint was my favorite: simultaneously refreshing and indulgent, but equally good was a creamy, mild coconut version and a zesty blood orange sorbet.












I am not one that typically considers fruit dessert (unless it is cobbled or pied or otherwise decadently adulterated), but Mario's insanely juicy bruleed grapefruit took on an exotic note with savory whole fennel and caraway seeds studding its crunchy caramelized sugar crust, daubed with an herbal gelato and decorated with shreds of citrus zest.  Not that any of this is necessary: each table is provided complimentary sambuca, housemade limoncello and vin santo along with a small plate of

ethereally light crostoli that were hard to stop eating, or melting upon your tongue, as it were.  So delicate they were I'm sure the powdered sugar was the only thing keeping them from floating off the table.  If you paid attention to how full you were, these with a rich doppio from Intelligentsia would make a perfect finale, and more sane than the abbondanza in which we indulged.  Except for that that's the kind of place Carbone is.  Once in awhile, you just gotta do it up big.

181 Thompson Street
between Bleecker & Houston
New York, NY 10012
(212)254-3000
                                                                           

CARBONE (not!)

Oh, the trials of blogging.  I just completed three paragraphs of the most brilliant, New York Times-worthy, erudite, witty and poignant review of Carbone, and it somehow evaporated mid-edit.  To begin again..... : (