Alfred Portale has taken himself down a notch. Not in ambition, nor humility (he has always been gracious and hospitable) and certainly not in execution. But his newly opened eponymous restaurant is a less lofty affair than was Gotham Bar & Grill, which was inseparable from his reputation for thirty some years. The only thing that moved up is the new address, five blocks north. The verticality of plating has grounded
itself, the high ceiling and airy dining room left on 13th street. The new restaurant is more Italian, like Portale himself, although the modern art decorating the walls depict iconic Americans, like Lucille Ball and Sinatra (I 'm not particularly a fan of the paintings), implying that it isn't an exclusively Italian restaurant.
 |
| Lumache |
That said, the strongest dishes definitely nod Italian. There is a long list of pastas, handmade in house from locally grown grains, are priced as
primi, but eligible to upgrade into larger, main-dish portions. Most are hearty enough to satisfy even in their more diminutive sizes, like the immaculate
lumache, which manages to be both refined and comfortingly nostalgic. Chubby macaroni cradle nubs of short ribs, ground into a pebbly bolognese, unconventional in its lack of tomato, and studded with sweet chunks of roasted squash and fragrant with truffles and parmigiano. Ricotta Cavatelli al arrabbiata strays from the norm as well, tweaked with a fresh cilantro pesto, while mushrooms fortify the two vegetarians options, a
cappellacci with goat cheese and a risotto with spinach and fontina.
Before you get there, though, you'll encounter a roster of
cichetti, many of which are substantial enough to comprise, or at least anchor, a full meal. Maritime
crostini are graced with baccala, ruby shrimp and potato, and more seafood star in the
fritto misto, with a golden crusted calamari, shrimp and cod served with a lemony aioli.
Our server was suave and accomplished, but super chill and friendly- quite the perfect example of hospitality. He was also ace on the subject of wines, useful given the list of whites by the glass had a couple of wild cards that piqued my interest. It may have been the ghost of Pascaline Lepeltir from Route Tomate, the address's prior incarnation, the encouraged me to stray past my go-to selections, but for whatever reason I was feeling experimental, and narrowed its down to an orange and a
grillo, neither of which had I ever sampled. He brought me tastes of both, and I began with the seemingly less foreign of the two, which at least in color was a familiar hue of pale buttercup. The taste... well, at first I blamed it upon having just mouthwashes, so I swished some water and went on to the orange, which was surprisingly fresh and floral, with just the faintest hint of funk. Assured now that my palate was untainted, I returned to the
grillo, but it only marginally improved. Verbatim, I assessed that "it tastes like you're sucking on a barnacl." I guess there are redeeming qualities to "oceanic" notes or a subtle salinity, but this one was overpowering, like brackish backwater murk. Now, if that appeals to you, by all means go for the
grillo. Not my thing.
Appetizers include a kale salad starched up with pears and quinoa, much like the
finocchio, which
featured less of the fennel than I would've liked. It was primarily composed of a chewy
riso nerone and juicy, but somewhat flavorless, hunks of blood orange. Perhaps it was just that the fennel was so expertly roasted, though, that made me want more of it, but it seemed there was a surplus of rice and fruit for a dish titled simply "fennel".
Secondi are more predicable, what one might find in pretty much any upscale, farm-to-table establishment with a thoughtful chef: dry aged sirloin with crispy potatoes and brussels sprouts, a formidable roast chicken with blue corn polenta, and crisply sautéed branzino with delicata squash and red chard (strangely, served
aside). I say crisply which actually verged on a fried, achieving a deliciously crisped skin but robbed the svelte filet of some of its delicacy.
Four side dishes (around ten dollars a pop) are on the menu, but although there were Brussels sprouts intended to accompany the steak, they weren't one of those four. Our server, however, was gracious enough to afford us an off-the-menu treat, rounding out an otherwise somewhat veggie-scarce repast. There are veg components with most dishes, to be fair, but in lesser portions that I would deem ample for my liking.
Five dessert options were presented, fairly simple concoctions but nonetheless tasty for that. An olive oil cake with orange marmalade, a milk chocolate-updated tiramisu, a classic affogato, a selection of gelati and our choice, the
torta di here, which was essentially a caramelized pear upside down tart, its crust treacley sweet, if a tad mealy.... or sandy, might be a better description, as it wasn't entirely off-putting, although noticeable. Cool chunks of pear nestled within were relatively earthy and mild, countering the very rich, sweet and buttery crust; a scoop of mildly maple gelato was also not as sweet, a necessary foil for the deeply caramelized tart. It was served with a birthday candle, quite unpredictably, since both I and my tablemate are summer babies. But it was in good keeping with the festive vibe of the place, and I would steer any one else celebrating an occasion here, secure they'd be in good hands, fed well, and treated, even if for no particular reason, like its their birthday.
126 West 18th Street
(917)788-0255
enough, I suppose, but lacking any cheffy finesse. Almost everything was just a smidge overcooked, resulting in a bit of mushy texture to the brussels sprouts to a distinct rubbery chew on my flounder. The wild-caught fish was pan-seared about time and a half too long, which was tragic because the seasoning was pleasant and it had a nice Peruvian flair with its molded hemisphere of white rice, yucca fries with rocoto aioli (a red pepper mayonnaise) and (not enough) salsa criollo. 
