SESSANTA

John McDonald strikes again, keeping his focus downtown by taking over the old Kittichai space at 60 Thompson Street, and enlisting Chef Jordan Frosolone to reign over this new Sicilian in the Village.  I couldn't find an immediate translation for "frosolone", but I'm leaning towards fra sole, which would translate to "between a big sun".  I like this, accuracy notwithstanding, and it segues nicely with the number of untraditional spellings throughout the menu, which may just be attributed to quirks of the Sicilian dialect.  I never made it here when it was the popular Thai restaurant of yore, so I can't compare the room, but at Sessanta (adopting the easy nomenclature of the street number in Italian), it's hard to forget you are dining in a hotel.  Stripey wallpaper in ruddy
reds and browns coordinate with a red tiled floor, but somehow there is still an office-y boxiness to it.  An eclectic mix of art
hangs on the walls, some Italo-centric, some graphic and colorful.   But it gives you something to admire until menus arrive: that, along with the very attractive clientele that Mr. McDonald always seems to attract. 

 So the room gains appeal as it fills up, the lighting soft and warm so everyone looks even better.   A large skylight framed in frondy plants also breaks things up... and made we wonder how it was possible since the rest of the hotel rises above the ground floor restaurant.  But a little welcome appetizer arrives from the kitchen to distract me: a crunchy, toasted crostino topped with a warm, stewy compote of
summer squashes and eggplant, plush and sumptuous under a dusting a pungent parmesan.  Nothing revolutionary, but perfectly balanced and rich enough to warrant an  amuse-sized portion.  Ditto the steamy potato-cheese croquette: its crisp-fried exterior just substantial enough to encase its gooey, cheesy innards.  These are the kinds of things you want more and more of, but with dinner to follow are better kept in diminutive portions.

A salad of baby kale and romaine is moistened with just enough dressing to render the greens toothsome, shrouded in a feather-light grating of zesty pecorino nerello.  Chef is very conscientious of his cheese usage: there are dozens of unique Italian formaggi gracing different dishes, each paired thoughtfully with its cohorts, instead of just throwing parm on everything.  The pecorino here served as an assertive counterpoint for paper-thin, mild radishes and tender sweet beets cloched underneath.   A gorgeous fritto misto barely ensconced the variety of shrimp and vegetables in crunchy gossamer shells - even the lemon wedges were battered and fried, rendering them mild enough to munch along with everything else, bursting in your mouth with a gentle, tamed citrusiness.

On the other hand, there is nothing gentle about a deceptively light-sounding Schiaffuni Raviolo, with its baby leeks and zucchini.  I imagined this resulting in a summery, bikini-friendlier pasta dish, but the bright succotash of produce occluded an enormous noodle pocket, fat with cheese-amplified cheese, stretching oozy and luxe between forkfuls, bedecked with a fine dusting of more grated cheese, and topped with frico (more fried cheese).  It was fantastically tasty, for the few bites I could manage, but I bowed out before even conquering it halfway.  I had to wonder if this might now be more successful shrunken and doled out like the bruschetta and croquette, a mini-version amuse.

For an entree, secondo-style, I couldn't decide between meat and fish (the veal marsala read like the classic, appealingly so.  And our waiter recommended the branzino as a most popular item, but it felt a little "safe").  So I went for the two-birds-with-one-stone option: a surfy-turfy grilled swordfish served over pulled pork shoulder, some artichoke and carrot thrown in for good measure.  The fish was cut thick like a T-bone, and just as juicy.  The braising juices pooled deep below, begging for a starchy component to take advantage them, so I commandeered a bread basket- three slices of which just handled the overflow.  I think a thickened, gravy-er version might have worked better to prop up the fish over such a brothy sluice, although a very home-grown, round carrot nub and chunky artichokes did their part.  I'm a huge proponent of keeping the flesh above the fluid, so as not to sog things up.  But the flavors were outstanding: salty, meaty, umami-y.  And the sparsity of vegetables called for a side order of
something leafy: there are five sides listed on the menu, but only two seemed appropriately vegetative.  I went for the chard with garlic and lemon, which just edged out roasted zucchini with pignoli and mint (might've been a better choice, actually.  The chard was great, but now I'm curious about that squash, whereas with the chard I pretty much knew what I was getting myself into, tasty as it was).  Starchier options included roasted corn (complete with  more cheese), shell beans slicked in oil, and rosemary potatoes.

On the sweet side of things, desserts are pretty standard dessert-y with Italian elements.  Aside from cannoli,  flecked with chips of chocolate and pistachio, a chocolate pudding with salted cookie crumbs and candied cashews, or a rhubarb crisp with creme anglaise could have been on pretty much any menu.  They do have a cookie plate of assorted Sicilian specialities: Sicilians like their biscotti nutty, so there are versions with almonds, hazelnuts, pistachios or sesame.  All in all, Sessanta performs solidly.... I'd rank it much higher than it's street number out of a hundred, for sure.  And with Frosolone's sensibility, I'd say that the best is yet to come, with the heartier ingredients and appetites of fall and winter just waiting for his expertise.

60 Thompson Street
tel.  212-219-8119
info@sessantanyc.com

VIA CAROTA

Easily could Via Carota's website be ilovecarota dot com, like its sister restaurant www.ilovebuvette.com.  Because I do (it's hard not to), both of them.  Carota is virtually Buvette italianofied by chefs Jodi Williams and Rita Sodi, in a slightly airier space than its brethren just steps away.  They share a no-reservations policy, but arriving early enough even on a near-perfectly weathered Monday night (there is limited outdoor seating, all of which was full) there was no wait for a table in the humbly decorated dining room, windows flung out to a busy West Village side street, glasses clinking and a soundtrack I would actually buy the whole of straight out.
 That breezy availability of table might change drastically as either the hour of day or day of week progressed... busier nights have seen easy hour and a half waits.  But we were whisked in and seated pleasantly, water glasses filled immediately, the default house-filtered tap gratis (as it should be).  Menus are furled up in small cubbies in the back of the rustic wooden chairs, listing simple small plates ideal for sharing, but feasibly molded into an app/entree format too, if desired.

The greatest hiccup at Carota is deciding: literally 80%+ of the menu I would've been thrilled to have on my fork. Jody Williams and Rita Sodi have whipped up a market-pending list of seasonal delicacies with something for virtually every palate. The opening segment of the menu is Verdure, boasting fifteen different garden delicacies, thoughtfully categorized according to price: the eponymous carrots, some salads and beans in the $13, and pricier seasonal harbingers at $16.    This might seem a little dear for vegetables, but the portions are generous, and
 they are immaculately prepared.   Gem-like chianti beets (weighing in the middle at $15) , shiny as rubies with their gentle slick of oil, are mingled with translucent coils of pickly white onion and creamy, crumbly ricotta salata.  The vegetables themselves aren't too trimmed and perfect, giving them a farmy sincerity that becomes perfect in its own right.  Funghi are a wild mix with a heady, earthy perfume, perfectly roasted so their rich flavor is augmented by a bit of chew.  They disguise a luxurious blob of smoky scamorza, but consume quickly, as it's

 decadently melty splendor has an abbreviated lifespan.  There were two versions of artichokes on the high end of the listings, and two asparagi , green and white, from which we chose the green.  Numerous spears boasted smoky grill marks, dabbed with creamy caprino and flecked with herbs.

There are four pastas on hand, all priced in the high teens, but substantial enough to more than justify the price.  A wild boar ragu bedecked floppy pappardelle, and there was a special tagliatelle described by our waitress, along with a handful of other daily off-the-menu specials in all categories.  (She had quite a bit to remember, as well as struggle with a pretty feeble grasp of the

 prolific Italian on the menu.  But she was very sweet and helpful... even if that required running back to the kitchen to inquire about a correct response.)  From the quartet of Pesce options we chose a grilled orata with escarole and flavorfully bitey green olives, simple and savory, fresh as could possibly be.  The firm-fleshed fish flaked perfectly, and there was ample vegetable to accompany cites.  Given Carota is pretty vegetable-driven, this was kind of a given.  Twice-cooked lamb ribs, however,  served with a stewy chicercia of chickpeas and tomatoes, was
 not only veggie scarce, but the only disappointment of the night, the lamb far too fatty with a paucity of meat.  I might've been happier with a simple grilled chicken.. or even just another selection of Verdure.  Which would've made the meal here even more reasonable, but price-wise Via Carota is still a very moderate establishment.  If your bill ends up too steep, you probably over-ordered.... or indulged in their exquisitely curated wine menu, that while offering bottles and glassees at both ends of the spectrum, always pads the bill.

I guess dessert wasn't quite as magnificent a finish as I might have wished for, either.  But a simple dish of wine-sweetened raspberries topped with a thick dollops of zabaglione was still pleasant.  The raspberries had that supermarket-perfect appearance, though, making me wish for the months to warm up past April and bring on farmer's market bounty of plush berries and drippy sink peaches.  While the rest of Via Carota's menu can accomodate all the fluctuations and variances of seasonality, desserts always shine brighter in summer's abundance.   So while the restaurant as a whole is already a definite crowd-pleaser, I anticipate summer is when she will really hit her sweet stride.

Dal lunedì al venerdì 11:00—24:00 Fine settimana 11:00—24:00

 SENZA PRENOTAZIONE

IL McMULINO's

A twenty-seven rating from Zagat, bold recommendations from both weekend-warrior foodies and trusted, published ones alike, over twenty years of staying power in the toughest dining city on the planet... but not so fast. There seems to be some cracks in the blades of the windmill at Il Mulino.


Or maybe I needed to have ordered the veal parm; that's the one thing everybody seems set on raving about. But a restaurant cannot sustain this level of acclaim and only be able to perform with one dish, so I will proceed. Il Mulino seems to have become the McDonald's of hyper-expensive restaurants, with locations in Aspen, Vegas, Atlanta, San Juan, etc., etc. Here in the city, the dining room appears to have retained its original decor, circa 1981, and perhaps some of its original waiters, judging from the from the wrinkles in their worn but welcoming countenances. It feels much like a grandmother's home (I almost expected to smell mothballs) when she had all the family over, except for these seated parties aren't your aunts and cousins. We made our way towards a cozy table near the back, dodging a fugitive branch of cherry blossom, a premature harbinger of a spring that is still a long ways off, illustrated by the foot of snow outside. But the menus echo the same brash disregard for seasonality as do the floral arrangements, featuring asparagus and artichokes, fresh tomatoes and zucchini. And, no, I don't think every restaurant in Manhattan has to be a mecca of the locavore, seasonal mantra, but it just makes the place seem all the more out of touch. Almost immediately, a smattering of plates were doled out robotically: delicate slices of peppery salami, salty hunks of parmigiano-reggiano, and juicy, messy tomato crostini with boatloads of garlic and a single, forlorn mussel, along with tall, rectangular menus that spoke for only about fifty percent of the offerings at hand. Our waiter arrived to impart the rest of them, a list of specials no less complicated than a State of the Union address, and with talking points possibly even more difficult to remember. None of our questions couldn't he answer, but they got all mixed up trying to remember whether the cappellini went with frutti di mare or tomato-porcini, or whether the Ligurian-style was for the branzino or salmon. When the specials are as expansive as the regular menu, there's certainly no shame in a nice little printout.


After a tectonic struggle navigating the menu, first courses came out in good time, but in less appealing form. My fiore di zucca (I know, I admit I was testing them a bit) were sodden (obviously frozen), chewy flowers, but more poignantly, stuffed with an abundant cheesiness instead of the porcini and vegetable mix that I'm sure
had been described from that inexhaustible specials list. Although I wouldn't wholly trust my memory; there was just too much to remember. Unless your a regular there, ordering tried-and-true favorites along with maybe one special that piqued your interest, the verbal list just becomes a jumble. And so, the cheese-filledfiori were tough to cut (doing so just smooshed out the insides) and bathed in a garlicky, buttery sauce. Scallops were simply cooked, barely seasoned and entirely forgettable aside from their impressive size. A little mound of garlicky spinach helped liven them up to some degree. Which reminds me, almost everything here is swathed in garlic, surprising for such a destination-date place. In fact, I felt quite out of place in that my birthday isn't 'til June, and throughout the course of the evening six rounds of "Happy Birthday" jubilantly burst out, once each at just about every table but ours. I should've pretended to be a Capricorn just to feel more like part of the group. Spinach salad was similarly unastonishing. The baby leaves of spinach were tender enough and it was generous with mushrooms, but the dressing bland and scant on bacon.

Entrees were, unfortunately, similarly underwhelming. But big!! Really, really big! The cappellini (which DID end up coming
with the frutti di mare) was an enormous bowl of pasta, slightly undercooked and noticeably underseasoned. Topped with a bucket of shellfish and seafood, the plain pasta just spoke of really nothing, in particular. Dover sole was presented first skin-on, baked whole, then whisked away to be fileted in private, reemerging with the sheen of Meuniere that got a little gummy, sticking more easily to the fork than to the tender flesh of the fish. Lonesome on the plate as it was, I had a side of broccoli raab. The overcooked vegetable sort of disintegrated into a pool of oil in which it swam, again heavy on the garlic and salt.

Not that there was room for it, since portions defy real Italian proportions, catering instead to American-Italian abundance, but since I was there, decided to see what the desserts had to say for themselves. Not that we didn't see them all at the entrance upon arrival, exposed to the blasts of frigid air each time the front door opened. Probably this would've more been detrimental to less hulking specimens. On the comparitively lighter side were poached pears with zabaglione. Dastardly sweet pears, carved table-side (of course), placed in a star configuration around marshmallowy cream.No better than maybe one-bite yummy due to its excessive sugariness, especially after the heft of the meal. The tiramisu, on the other hand, was pretty darned great. Not so rummy as it too often is, but light and pillowy and strong on coffee and cocoa flavors instead of boozy sweet. Super fancy, architectural, expensive-looking outsourced birthday cakes were arriving right and left, along with rousing renditions of their accompanying anthem, which certainly helped define the place for what it is: the Carmine's of the Trustafarians. Our bill, with not a single drop of alcohol (aside from that in the tiramisu) came to over $350 (including tax and tip) for two people. Absurd. I'd dine out three times and thrice better in dozens of joints. For a historic place with such an apparent following, I'm glad to have checked it off my list (especially since it happened off my dime), but only for knowing what I know now. If ever it were, Il Mulino ain't what it used to be.




86 West 3rd Street

212.673.3783