Ritz Bites

2nd Ave Deli: No More Translation Needed

Even if I ate there only a couple of times, I'm saddened to see these images and read about the 2nd Avenue Deli's closing.

The removal of the landmark sign means the following story can never again transpire. This overheard conversation would've made a perfect Metropolitan Diary entry. Believe me, I had to I resist the temptation to write to the Times pretending to be a passerby. Good thing I must've still been riding high from that one Met Diary submission I got printed in early '98.

Anyway, so my Jewish friend, let's call her Miss E, was dating a shegetz (the semi-offensive term for gentile man people rarely know, unlike it's feminine counterpart).

While walking up Second Avenue at 10th Street the BF points to a sign with oddly psychedelic, Hebraic style lettering and asks her to translate.

"What do you mean?" she replies.

"I don't know what it says. You read Hebrew, right?"

"Um, no. And for your information, it says 'Second Avenue Deli'."

Babbolicious

When my friend Anto in Bologna calls out "Babbo!" it has a clipped yet melodic ring, whether she's admonishing or expressing affection for her goofy father.

Now that we've finally fully experienced Babbo restaurant, the word will never be the same.

This was the meal we came to New York for. With the exception of the shall we say, overly casual folks next to us (c'mon people, step it up a little!), all the elements at Babbo converge to create an experience that's comfortable and simultaneously says "super special meal." And the food friggin' rocks.

The only off-putting feature of Babbo is the bathrooms. Restroom dcor shares a couple things in common with the activities that take place within: framed old clippings about the Coach House, the occupant of the Waverly Place space in days past, charm the, um, pants off of ya, while the Home Depot McMansion "old world stone" style bathroom tiles have also gotta go.

I began with the baby carciofi special (pictured above right), lightly fried with a shot of lemon and tender as can be. As I already mentioned, H's octopus appetizer was completely amazing.

Lamb's tongue accompanied by a mild vinaigrette with hedgehogs and a soft boiled egg oozed fatty richness. Unlike the time we unwittingly ate lamb's tongue at Carousel in Glendale, we were excited to try the dish. Delicious, but no way could I polish off the entire plate.

Rarely are orecchiette prepared properly. Too often they stick together, or are formulated with the improper flour instead of the right semolina, so why bother? (Oh, someday I must return to the trattoria in Bari where I tasted them for the first time!) My assumption that these "little ears" were are by the right hands was correct. The fennel seed flavor in sweet sausage at first overwhelms the dish; I tried to tune it out and focus on the rapini. Still, in the end the flavors balance themselves quite nicely.

"Mint Love Letters" are creamy and robust, full of sausage and other goodness and piquant herbal notes. The real true star of the menu, however, is Babbo's signature pasta dish: beef cheek ravioli (pictured right). This dish leaves any meat lover reeling, regardless of your feelings about offal. In concert with good friends Squab Liver and Black Truffle (just imagine them sitting at Batali's televised kitchen counter), this item is among the most luscious, overall perfect pasta creations ever. Following the pasta I had the overly salty fresh peas with thick cut pancetta. The veggie delight doesn't come close Lupa's fabulous fresh peas with mint. The fluke special was also troppo salato. Fortunately these disappoints added up to a very minor bump in the overall picture. Jim and H split the hen of the woods secondo; an interesting dish, if not as satisfying as all the primi.

The wine list of Italian vintages is simply exhaustive. And exhausting. Though temped to order a bottle of Pigato (Ali and Jim grew to love it when they visited Liguria last year), we polished off a bottle of a too robust red that frankly, I forgot to make proper note of. I want to say it was piemontese, but because it didn't interest me much I spaced.

For reasons about which we neglected to inquire, wine not decanted like some others. But the sommelier "primes" each glass with a few drops before the contents of the bottle is properly dispensed. Classy touch! I'm easily impressed. (Glad to spot a Carema label pictured in the "sommelier's picks" link; I love this nebbiolo based wine,
i.e. an excellent wannabe Barolo for about half the price.)

Desserts at Babbo are marvelous. I'm a fan of just about any semifreddo, ice cream's slightly icier, less emulsified, lighter first cousin. And to honor this chocolate and pistachio puck swathed in more silken chocolate, I'd spin cartwheels and shout cheers while tossing pompoms about.

The gelato sampler is irresistibly cute, with each dainty scoop nestled in its own cozy egg cup. The goods live up to the presentation. Chocolate proves to be the winning flavor, and the tingly tartness of pink grapefruit gelato is so pleasing. Vanilla is actually somewhat of a disappointment; it just tastes inexplicably odd. The subtle quiet flavor of saffron panna cotta beautifully makes itself known without being run over by the mango pairings. Jim loved his rhubarb tart, too.

Even though daylight lingered through most of our 5:45 early bird dinner -- a weird feeling for us Spanish time eaters -- we managed to outlast our neighbors. And while we weren't ordering top-shelf wines or breaking the bank, we never felt rushed out to accommodate bigger spending customers. Our waiter's tips were totally right-on and much appreciated.

But next time it's the pasta tasting menu -- no further recommendations needed.

Samplings from the Atlantic

When I want fabulous fish I generally tend to think sushi. And while I know New York is home to some of the most stupendous sushi bars in the
U.S.A., the surfeit of amazing sushi in L.A. means it's not a priority when I'm out of state. (That is until some day when I go to Japan.)

So instead of the raw goods we sampled other interesting fish options. (But speaking of raw goods, we had an unbelievable crudo platter at Esca in Nov. '03. So, so memorable) The first is Milos, a veritable palace of fish where gleaming freshly killed specimens sit on beds of ice at the back of the earthy contemporary high-ceiling dining room. These fish look so close to life that you half expect them to pull a Billy Bass routine. (That whole art/life confusion rears its ugly head, again.) Here polished concrete and steel meet hand-thrown Mediterranean pottery in a manner that's both austere and rustically comforting.

Anyway, we made a res for our first day in town because my dad could not more highly recommend it following the not one, but two lunches he savored at this Midtown power lunch venue (on other people's dimes). Plus we've got a friend who works there, and Milos's relative longevity in the NYC restaurant world means it's doing something very right.

We began with the fantastic octopus appetizer. Not fishy, chewy yet not rubbery, sweet, and combined with a few bits of diced peppers. Why bother with $18 salads when offerings like this are on the menu of starters? I could hardly believe my eyes at the prices of fresh foods, nor at the sight of the travel-weary greens and vine ripened tomatoes, which looked like seconds at a standard
L.A. area farmers' market. Better to go for fish and other Greek specialites like the yummy fava bean spread.

Hot Pizza Action

When it comes to pizza, I'm willing to make an exception to my hatred of fruitless Los Angeles vs. New York discussions.

That's why it ranks way higher in importance than other classic NY foods, such as bagels and non-regionally specific Chinese steamed dumplings (which I had twice, and was most impressed by Shun Lee's). I didn't even have a bagel all week. Fairway whitefish salad spread over sliced Balthazar baguette served me just fine.

The need also explains why we booked our first dinner with assembled posse at Lombardi's. Our stomachs had to go along with the program of being further distended after lunch at Milos. Charlotte was a good pizza quality prognosticator when she pretended to enthusiastically bite the mural on the Mott Street side of the newly expanded restaurant. Laughs all around.

Followed by silence all around when the first pizza with the little pepperoni arrived. Her transfixed expression says it all.

The verdict: top-notch coal oven goods. Yet if pressed to choose, I prefer Grimaldi's. The good quality cheese and crust at Lombardi's are properly bubbly and the sauce tangy. But Grimaldi's has a deeper carbonized quality to it, and the crust is thinner which wins big points in my book.

Turning down a slice of classic Brooklyn street pizza is a no-no for deprived Angelenos. (None of that Ray's shit, though.) Michael and Lori walked us past their local, Sal's on Court Street in Carroll Gardens, and we obliged. Just, you know, trying to be polite out of town guests. This product wasn't the Platonic ideal of pizza overall, but pretty damn close in the category of pizza by the slice. I think we would've fared better, however, if instead of the "plain cheese" slice we opted for their version Margherita, which appeared to have better quality mozzarella. Still, it was damn tasty and fresh. I weep inside when I think of the pizza that's within walking distance of my home and office.

Welcome to a New Age

First in a series of retroactive posts about the trip.

Some say everything happens in New York first. Even if the merits of this claim are often dubious, there's one area in which it's always true: the cost of fancy alcoholic libations.

Back in '97 Sean P. and I took the elevator ride up to the Greatest Bar on Earth at the Twin Towers to marvel at the view, and so the Seattle resident could experience a $10 martini. This cost, you see, was still a novelty in the 90s. Now it's the norm in many
L.A. bars, and at the low end in upscale NYC joints. No news to anyone.

Here are two lovely, artisanal cocktails from the fabulous Deco retro Flatiron Lounge on 19th Street. No one recognizes superior mixology better than Morgan, so when she recommended this place I knew it was a must try. These delicious drinks cost $12 a piece, which based on other meals throughout the week seems to be the standard going rate. At least the variety of super fresh juices at Flatiron justifies the prices a bit, since the space is redolent with the smell of recently pressed fruits and exotic ingredients. (By the way, how is lychee pronounced -- "lee-chee" or "lie-chee"?) The airborne fragrance makes the drinks taste even better, unless what we're smelling are synthetic odors like what they pump into the air at Disneyland. But I'm not too worried about such scams in this location.

Gramercy Tavern also offers brilliant cocktails at $11. Because child duty called (yeah, I just wrote a tasteless double entendre) it took nearly two hours to sip down a snappy drink that involved Pimm's and blackberry something or other. Sans Charlotte I would've been more vigilant about noting the ingredient deets. Needless to say, natural avoidance of excessive alcohol consumption is another benefit of watching over an active toddler.

Good thing I was feeling under the weather when Amanda and I decided to take a load off and gaze at the southeasterly vista from the 35th floor at the Mandarin Oriental lobby lounge. Despite having avoided $17 specialty mixtures, a pot of tea and little snack set us back a couple of Andy Jacksons. (The tab was in this range for a few drinks and bottled water at The Modern's lusciously sleek bar room.)

Consider it rent for using a few feet of room in some snazzy real estate. And another justification? The best bathroom in the west Midtown area. In the future, I'll use that treasured amenity without buying overpriced consumables and without compunction. Especially when we enter the era of the $20 cocktail.