The Scene: Morandi

When looking for a restaurant, I tend to avoid brand-new places, since there are inevitably service and menu kinks yet to be sorted out, and I rarely feel like mingling with the hordes of trendoids who sustain themselves not with food but rather the breathless P.R. missives that determine if a new restaurant has even a fighting chance on the Manhattan battleground. Morandi, maestro Keith McNally's latest offering, has been open for six months, and is, to no one's surprise, a big hit.

If you're looking for a quiet, intimate dinner, the newest jewel in the McNally crown—his first foray into Italian food (and décor)—is definitely not your place. If you've been to Balthazar, Pastis, or Schiller's Liquor Bar, you know that these restaurants, however good the food may be, are all about the crowd. And the crowd is loud. At one point during the meal, between the aggregate noise within the restaurant and the roar of a motorcycle from the street, I experienced a foreshadowing of old age: I could see my interlocutors' lips moving, about two feet away, but I couldn't comprehend a word. The conversation could have turned to the sex appeal of Karl Rove, for all I know; I just nodded politely, obliviously. 

A gaggle of tanned and toothy women from the 'burbs were cackling away at the bar, gesturing pointedly with their French-tipped hands, to best flaunt their "rocks." A pushing-forty playboy, who was either Italian or desperately trying to be, held court in the middle of the bar and chatted up all women in his periphery. Everyone in the entire place, with a few exceptions, wore essentially the same uniform. For the men, this meant: striped shirt, open collar, jeans with belt, super-bleached teeth. For the women, boldly patterned summer dress cut to show lots of cleavage, coiffure streaked with highlights, super-bleached teeth. Don't get me wrong; most people there were attractive and seemed amiable, but the monotony was a bit vexing.

What's that? Oh, yes, the food...

A table was set for our party of three, and we were able to decide very quickly what we wanted. Our molto italiano waiter played up the "fresh off the boat" charm as he stumbled lovably over the specials he must have had recited dozens of times throughout the evening. We ordered a carafe of Sicilian Nero d'Avola "Chiaramonte" ($38) that filled the little juice tumblers reborn as countrified wine glasses several times. A delicious salad of heirloom tomatoes, basil, and burrata came to the table within perhaps three minutes of ordering, and it was a glorious summer day on a plate. For all its glory, however, it is a mystery to me why a caprese salad requiring very little effort besides slicing tomatoes merits a $17 price tag. Perhaps the cheese was made in casa, but I'm sure that salient point would have been highlighted on the menu. We then tucked into a bowl of pasta con le sarde ($15), ordered at my insistence. Thick ropes of perfectly al dente bucatini ensnared raisins, pine nuts, and chewy, fried bits of sardine to create the kind of deeply satisfying dish that would be perfect to eat straight from the pot while tucked into bed, watching movies on a rainy weekend.

After these perfectly lovely courses, space was cleared for the main act: the bistecca per due ($78), a massive hunk of grilled porterhouse about two inches thick, sliced into manageable pieces and accompanied by golden-roasted potatoes and a head of garlic, all strewn with rosemary. The steak, meant for two to share but easily enough for three or four, was delivered to us textbook medium-rare and it was awesome to behold. The shocking red flesh glistened luridly beneath a perfectly charred crust. The rich flavor of the meat reflected the magical, mellowing transformation of aging that makes restaurant steaks so superior to what is offered at the supermarket. We picked the bone clean. This was absolutely a top-drawer steak, certainly the best in recent memory.

We were too overwhelmed to even consider dessert, but that steak high lasted for the rest of the evening. I will definitely come back and sample more of the abundant menu, provided I'm feeling flush and there is a table in the furthest corner. But if I spot that sizzling steak at another table, I may be forced to order it again. Noise, schmoise. Faced with such magnificent food, what is there to utter, really, but expressions of praise? Anyway, it's impolite to talk with your mouth full.

Morandi
211 Waverly Place
New York, NY 10014
212.627.7575

Comments

[Christina]

What a fun review! Morandi has been on my list for a while, I'll have to try it!