Babbo

"We have to try this restaurant called Babbo," said Swimster, nearly three years ago.

"Bah-what?" I asked.

"Babbo. It's sick Italian. Mario Batali owns it. It has the craziest menu. They have sweetbreads, tripe and testa," he said.

I had never heard of sweetbreads, nor had I ever heard of Mario Batali. For all I knew, his family designed Italian motorcycles. Wait, that's Marcello Ducati. But if Swimster said it was good, I believed him. This was coming from a young man who taught me about Chateau d'Yquem, Opus One and the Inn at Little Washington.

Babbo, which is "Daddy" or "Papa" in a specific region of Italy, sounded too informal and silly to be a fancy restaurant-- especially one you had to call months in advance for a reservation-- and yet I was intrigued. Swimster and I never ventured to Babbo for dinner, but we did stop in for an after dinner drink. The sampling of breadsticks and wine was a tease and I knew I would have to go back for more.

A couple months ago, BeanieBaby and I enjoyed margaritas and dinner at Cowgirl, and we discussed a plan to eat in as many good restaurants as we could before she moved to Boston for graduate school. One of the first restaurants she suggested we try was Babbo.

To me, Babbo stood for the impermeable and unattainable. I believed I could call as many times as I wanted and I would never get through. I thought it would sit on the top of my list of dream dinners forever, that is, until BeanieBaby e-mailed me and said, "We're in!"

I couldn't believe it. It was as if I had finally arrived. Not only was I going to eat in one of the city's, if not the country's, most famous restaurants, but I was actually making enough money to eat there and pay my own way. Jewish girls have their bat mitzvahs at 12, Southern girls have their debutante balls in their late teens, socialites have their "Sweet 16" parties, and I have dinner at Babbo at 27. It's all coming together quite nicely.

I walked into work the day we had reservations and heads turned. I wore my cream tuxedo pants, high heels, I straightened my hair and I put on mascara. I looked like I was headed for the Metropolitan Opera across the street, rather than a day in the newsroom behind a dusty desk. It was quite a departure from my T-shirts, corduroys and bed-head.

"Dang, girl! Where are you going?" asked one of my co-workers.

I explained I was going out to dinner with some friends, and that it was a big deal to me, as a foodie. I told her about my blog and I am thrilled she has since started reading it. She happens to be our copy chief and I told her anytime she feels like editing my posts, I'd be in favor. Lord knows, I could use some help.

"I've never heard of it, but I hope I see pictures on your blog," she replied with a big smile.

At work all I could think about was Babbo and the dinner we'd be enjoying that night. My friends and I wrote a slew of e-mails back and forth, one more excited than the next, and six o'clock could not come quickly enough.

I met Fashionista for a pitcher of $4 sangria (our newly discovered fabulous deal) at La Palapa before it was time for our reservation.

We walked into Babbo through the crowded bar area and the place was buzzing. I noticed several people sitting at the bar had place settings -- this must be a convenient alternative to calling a month in advance for a reservation. It must also add to the waiting factor if you're looking for a spot at the bar. In addition to the hostess stand and coat check to our left, there were a couple of tables. According to BeanieBaby, one of Babbo's well kept secrets is that you can eat at these tables without making a reservation. I would consider going this route if I wasn't claustrophobic. I can't stand eating at a table where people are hovering over you, sipping their cocktails and staring at your every bite to see if it will be your last, so they can sit and enjoy the much sought-after meal.

Once we all arrived at Babbo we were seated immediately. Our table was directly off the large staircase at the back of the dining room. I didn't even realize Babbo had a second floor. The most beautiful element of the dining room, aside from the dishes we were about to inhale, was the enormous centerpiece. Behind our table stood an immense flower pot. I am no florist and had no idea what the plant was, but while serving an aesthetic purpose, it also helped separate you from the rest of the dining parties. It made us feel like we were in our own private section.

As I walked through Babbo to our table, I felt like I needed glasses to dim the glow. It wasn't the lighting that was too bright, but everything was shiny and polished, from the glassware to the wood and utensils. The dining room was crisp and clean and even the servers in their crisp white shirts and ties looked pristine. This added a touch of elegance to an otherwise simple setting.

We looked over our menus and were excited to try a little bit of everything. We decided on three appetizers and four pasta dishes.

The prosciutto San Daniele riserva was served with black pepper fett’unta. I didn't know what fett'unta meant until I looked it up and it means bread soaked in olive oil. I wish the dish came with four pieces of toasted bread because cracking the two we had in half -- to split between the four of us -- was a little difficult. I think I had a few crouton-size pieces with the soft, delicious prosciutto.

The highlight of the appetizers was the grilled octopus with borlotti marinati and spicy limoncello vinaigrette. Everyone else was a little frightened at the thought of eating octopus for dinner, but I assured them it would be great. The texture is a cross between lobster and calamari. Even just a tiny fork of this octopus was packed with a mouthful of flavor. It was drenched in a sweet vinaigrette that made for a pleasing blend of salty and sweet. We kept nibbling at it and every bite was better than the previous.

We also tried the three goat cheese truffles with peperonata. The goat cheese balls were rolled in their respective pepper: red, black, and yellow. I took a couple photos of this and AlleyCat kept making me re-do them in order to show off the different colored cheese balls. She was right on the money.

Fashionista tried the black spaghetti with rock shrimp, spicy salami calabrese and green chiles. The black spaghetti was a show stopper. I would definitely go back and order this. As soon as the plate hit the table I got my fork ready to roll up some of the spaghetti and salami. The pasta was fresh and al dente, the shrimp were lightly cooked and the salami added a salty bite to the mix. I think they overdid it on the amount of salami in the dish, however. After Fashionista had eaten all she could, there was still a ton of salami left on the plate. That aside, this is one of the freshest, best pasta dishes I've ever seen or tried in any Italian restaurant.

AlleyCat ordered the linguine with clams, pancetta and hot chiles. AlleyCat had a hard time deciding what to order, and when she asked our waiter, she let him make the decision for her. I think once she saw everyone else's meal she wished she had gone with her instinct. For some reason, linguine with clams never delivers -- it tends to be on the bland side. Disappointingly, Babbo's was no different. We all wanted to order something different and unfortunately, AlleyCat went with something other than her first choice. Next time AC, we'll let you pick first.

I ordered the mint love letters with spicy lamb sausage. The name is what really got me. I was intrigued by the thought of eating ravioli in the shape of envelopes. I hate calling them ravioli -- it's such an unglamorous word -- but truthfully that's what they are, with a Batali twist. The pasta had a thick texture, and unlike many restaurant raviolis, was cooked al dente and maintained its firmness. I've never had mint leaves in tomato sauce and they added a distinct sweet bitter flavor to it.

BeanieBaby tried the fettuccine with house-made pancetta, artichokes, lemon and hot chiles. This got the second place ribbon at the table for best dish, after Fashionista's. Just look at those chunks of pancetta. How can I ever going back to eating store-bought bacon? I loved that Batali's pasta dishes are not drowned out by a sauce of any sort. The pasta and the accompanying ingredients -- whether it's salami, rock shrimp or pancetta -- are what should and did stand out at Babbo.

I ordered us a side of rapini with roasted garlic just to add one more item to the "tried" list. I was eating the garlic cloves by themselves and the rapini, though well cooked, still had a bit of snap in their stems.


Even with all this food in our tummies -- we all cleaned our plates -- we still had room for the finale. Upon spotting the dessert at the table of businessmen next to us, we copied them and ordered the banana bread with banana gelato. There was a chocolate-y hazelnut flavor to the banana bread and a warm moist bite tasted great with a scoop of the creamy gelato.


Our server was a friendly young man and he took very good care of us. We were treated like royalty at Babbo. A different employee came to our table for each individual item that was brought to the table. And though we couldn't afford any of the fancier wines on the wine list, the resident sommelier did stop by our table to take our wine order. The service at Babbo is unparalleled in this city. Everyone we dealt with was friendly and there wasn't a pretentious soul among them.

I left Babbo extremely pleased. The most shocking part of the night was the bill. I couldn't believe how reasonable it was. I've spent almost twice the amount I paid for a meal half as satisfying. If it wasn't for the planning that goes into making reservations for a dinner a month away, I would be eating at Babbo a lot more frequently. I'll just have to swallow my claustrophobic tendencies for a night and perch myself at a table in the front, or sit at the bar and order the black spaghetti and a dirty martini.

I e-mailed Swimster after our feast and asked, "Guess where I finally went to dinner?" I still have yet to hear from him, as he's slaving away in London, and I'm sure missing the New York restaurant scene. Maybe he'll read this with an envious smile.

I'm glad he introduced me to Babbo, but I'm even happier I was finally able to experience it with friends.

The next time a friend asks me, "Bah-what?"

I can now say with assertiveness, "Babbo. It's sick Italian."

110 Waverly Place, at the corner of Washington Square Park
212-777-0303

to keep reading

Guess the Meal

My friends and I were out celebrating a birthday and watching the Final Four tournament at Town Tavern in the West Village. If only the Hoyas had gone all the way I would have won my office pool.

The party planner ordered pizza delivery to the bar since Town Tavern doesn't offer food to its customers; but after eating one too many slices on every one of my office's "Pizza Fridays," I had no stomach for pizza. One friend suggested we grab take out sandwiches from a place nearby. Here's what we came back with.


This was one of the best sandwiches I've ever tried. Above you'll see my friend's version with the mystery spot's tater tots replacing the usual lettuce and tomato as sandwich garnish. I opted to leave mine plain, but I still enjoyed the taters on the side -- so did everyone else in the bar, unfortunately, even after they pigged out on pizza.

Any ideas? Shoot me your best guess, and even if you're wrong, I'll welcome your great sandwich suggestions.

In other news, check out which restaurant failed its health inspection but will remain open.

to keep reading

Breakfast at erwin

erwin, 2925 N. Halsted Street, Chicago, Ill. 773-528-7200

"To be continued...and hopefully before any more cocktails and before our second trip to Chicago in April."

That was the ambitious statement from my last Chicago post. I leave in less than 24 hours for my second trip to Chicago to see Hawkeye, and I haven't even completed writing about our first trip in February. Suffice to say, my self-imposed deadline is just around the corner and I'm determined not to leave without completing this post. I better get going.

Sunday in Chicago revolved around two events: breakfast at erwin and seeing Hawkeye's favorite musical Wicked.

One too many fruity cocktails, followed by one too many beers, made getting out of bed Sunday morning quite a struggle. The only way we were going to feel any better was by putting some food in our system. Hawkeye's buddy CB waits tables at a place called erwin and we were determined to eat there while he was on duty.

We got ready as quickly as we could, without letting the cobwebs take over, rushed downstairs and scurried into a cab. After several minutes into the ride, I spotted a forest green awning with "erwin" on it.

"STOP!"

I have the good eye in my family, and now I know I have the better eye than Hawkeye. In our excitement to put food in our hungover bellies, we practically forgot to tip the driver.

The host greeted us with some friendly trepidation. I'm sure we were looking as haggard as we felt. Hawkeye was initially concerned we might get CB in trouble by requesting to be seated in his section. He mentioned to the host we were CB's friends and before we had a chance to ask, the host offered to put us at one of his tables.

We sat for a few moments, taking it all in. The room was empty, except for a few other small parties, but I knew the quiet wouldn't last long. The decor was simple. Besides some clean mirrors on the far walls, there was nothing flashy about erwin. Coming from New York, where it's often more is better, I felt very relaxed. There were no frills or gimmicks, just tables, and the occasional server gliding in and out of them, doing his or her preps for the busy brunch ahead. Erwin was warm and comforting, and the perfect cure for any morning blues.

We sat on a mini-banquette behind the bar. Hawkeye had his back to it, and I faced the stacked shelves of liquor. This was probably a bad idea. All I could think about, with the big bottles staring down at me, was which lucky one I would try that morning with breakfast. Hawkeye expressed some concern and I quickly replied with some attitude, "I'm on vacation."

"Hey guys!" CB appeared, half cheerful and smiling, and half jealous that he wasn't sitting with us, enjoying a work-less weekend morning.

We rehashed some of the previous evenings adventures, inquired how we each were feeling, then CB asked if we wanted a drink. Hawkeye shook his head in ''no way" fashion, and I did the opposite.

"Bloody Mary!"

I watched CB go behind the bar and this is what he came back with. I could have ended my breakfast with this. Just look at it! I think it had something from all five of the food groups, except steak. It was spicy and salty and sweet all at once.

Hawkeye decided he'd go with some coffee, minus alcohol. Instead of a mug of coffee, CB cracked us up when he dropped an entire thermos on the table, as if we were headed off to Lake Michigan for a summertime morning picnic. For a starter, and to get some immediate sugar in our system, I ordered the fruit bowl. I loved the fresh bananas on top.


For my breakfast I ordered scrambled eggs with country potatoes, multi-grain toast and either basil sausage, capicola ham or applewood-smoked bacon. I chose the basil sausage, because according to CB, his boss Erwin made it himself.

I didn't know which aspect of this breakfast plate I liked best. The eggs were piping hot, thick and the perfect blend of soft and well cooked. The sausage was rich and tasty. And the bread. Oh the bread! As soon as I bit into it, I said, "Oh my god. This is not just ordinary bread. This has got to be homemade." It was thick and had texture. Erwin's whole wheat bread is to the generic slice as Kobe beef is to the standard strip. I confirmed with CB that the bread was made in house and I told him to tell Erwin himself it was incredible.

Hawkeye ordered the eggs Benedict with capicola ham and country potatoes. I'm not a huge Benedict fan because I'm not crazy about Hollandaise sauce. But I could tell Hawkeye was every bit as pleased with his breakfast as I was with mine. CB even threw in some of the applewood-smoked bacon. It was thick and crispy and there was no visible fat on any of the pieces.

Towards the end of our breakfast, CB introduced us to a very special somebody -- Chef Erwin Drechsler. I couldn't believe he came out of his busy Sunday kitchen to meet us. We talked about the day ahead of us and where we should be going in his city, I raved about the food, and how grateful we were he came out to say hello, then he headed back into the kitchen. I debated giving him my address, or suggesting he should ship out his bread, bacon and sausage, but decided maybe I should wait until the next time to be so pushy.

There were plenty of desserts on the menu that sounded delicious, and it was hard for us to pass them up, but if I put anything else into my stomach, I would have had to curl into the fetal position in the hotel bed.

The rest of the day revolved around seeing Wicked and going to dinner. Wicked was incredible. If you haven't seen it, and you're a musical person, go see it. Hawkeye appreciates musicals like I do and gave me some good advice. He told me to listen to the music before our date and I did. It made such a difference. The musical numbers were outstanding -- tears welled up in my eyes several times during the performance because the singers were that strong -- and I'm so happy I've finally seen it. I'm sure my roommates are too because I'm no longer dancing around the house belting "Defying Gravity" in search of green face paint and a broom.

Unfortunately, our high Sunday fell flat on its face with the final meal of the day. I spent hours scouring Chicago's Chowhound and other various foodie sites and found an adorable looking French restaurant Bistro Campagne. When I stumbled upon its website, this is what grabbed me:

"His commitment to organic agriculture leads him to seek products from local organic farmers throughout our midwestern growing season, and even from organic farms on the west coast throughout winter."

Why wouldn't I want to try this place?

In my blogging experience, I once read, "Who are we, bloggers, to eat at a restaurant once and write up a horrible review?" If you're not eating at a restaurant multiple times, like our fellow food critics at most publications, then the chances that you might catch a restaurant on a bad night are extremely high. Is it worth giving a restaurant a bad reputation in only one sitting? To me, I don't think that's fair, and that's the reason I will refrain from writing in full about our dinner. I will just say I hope we did catch Bistro Campagne on an off night.

Our server was adorable, and felt terrible about our disappointing meal. She almost made up for it with her dessert selections for us : a caramel bread pudding

and this chocolate souffle.

It was a good lesson for me. Instead of being Mona the dining explorer when venturing into a foreign city, I need to listen to my friends' food picks. RaiderofChitown sent us a huge list of places, but since I received it after I made the BC reservations, I ignored them. Bad move.

That last meal aside, it was another great day spent in the Windy City. In a few hours, I will be spending a few more great days there, and if I'm lucky, I'll get another slice of Chef Erwin's ''wonder'' bread.

to keep reading

Billy's Cupcakes

Here's a cupcake for your Easter weekend. I worked Oscar night with a few other lucky souls, and one of them brought in cupcakes for us. It's a good thing because I needed a serious sugar boost at three o'clock in the morning. When I asked my co-worker where the pastel-frosted masses were from, she said with gusto, "Billy's!"

"Billy's? Wow! I've never heard of it," I responded.

"Are you serious?" she asked with her neck jutting out incredulously.

"Yes?" I answered sheepishly. I decided to leave out the part about my food blog.

I know it's silly. I run this blog, but I often find I'm the last to hear about a good thing. Maybe because I work in the news business, and when I leave the office I avoid the news for the little free time I have. If you ask me a current events question, like what's the name of the female British soldier who was held captive by the Iranians, I'll tell you, along with the names of the other fourteen soldiers. But ask me what restaurants are opening and closing each day and I'll give you a blank look. I'm trying to get better at this (see Morandi below), but it's taking a little time.

Billy's cupcake was excellent. It was fluffy but dense. It was moist and the frosting was just right - I didn't feel like I was biting into sugar cubes. If you put a Magnolia, Buttercup and Billy's cupcake in front of me, I'd be hard-pressed to differentiate one from the other. It seems like the birthday cupcakes of my youth have been replaced by the sweet sensation of these three cupcakes.

I checked out Billy's website and learned it serves everything from carrot cake to my favorite red velvet cake, to cookies and muffins and an icebox cake that would make my mom weep. I look forward to trying more of Billy's sweet offerings, and maybe next time I'll be able to enjoy it when the sun's still shining.

Happy Easter to all of you, though it certainly doesn't feel very Easter-y outside. What is your favorite New York City cupcake?

184 9TH Ave., between 21st and 22nd St.
(212) 647-9956

to keep reading

Morandi

My friend FunStar and I have been trying to get together for dinner since I left my previous job almost two months ago. Like BeanieBaby, of Cowgirl fame, she's been very eager to be written up in the blog.

"What's my name going to be?"

"When are we going out to dinner so I can be in the blog?"

"I WANT TO BE IN THE BLOG!"

On more than one occasion, FunStar cracked me up with her emails and comments similar to the ones above. I wonder if she realizes I only get close to 200 hits a day, and to be mentioned in my blog is no big deal. Frank Bruni will not be calling to take us out to dinner, Mario Batali will not be inviting us to a chef's tasting, and this post will sadly not be appearing as a column in any food and wine publications. Nonetheless, FunStar, if you're reading this, I hope you enjoy your debut post!

A few months ago I started subscribing to Urban Daddy, or rather, I had to e-mail them for an invitation. The process was pretty ridiculous. I'm not sure what they looked at, and what their prerequisites are, or how I passed them. But about a month after I asked to be invited to receive their e-mails, a daily Urban Daddy e-mail began to appear in my inbox. Urban Daddy is the stepbrother of the flirty and ultra girlie Daily Candy e-magazine. You can subscribe to daily e-mails from both, confirming you're not missing a tasting, a restaurant or store opening, a sample sale, or as posted in a recent Urban Daddy mail, the chance to rent yachts on a weekend basis.

I am not a huge shopper, nor do I have enough money to spend on yachts, but for some reason I find Urban Daddy much more useful than Daily Candy. One week I read my Urban Daddy e-mail and shrieked with excitement at work.

"What's up, M?"

"Phone, phone, where's the phone, how do I dial out??"

Keith McNally, of Pastis and Balthazar, was opening another restaurant. Morandi would be serving Italian fare in the village. I immediately grabbed my phone, made my first personal, out-of-office phone call and tried making a reservation. I dialed and repeatedly got busy signals. Everyone else just read the same Urban Daddy e-mail, apparently. I fidgeted at my desk and tried to double task. I e-mailed FunStar as I held the phone on my shoulder, and cursed my archaic phone for not having automatic redial.

Surprisingly, after only about fifteen minutes, I got through. Thank goodness. I am the first to admit I cannot walk and chew gum at the same time. My seatmate, ClarkKent, laughed and made sure to point that out. FunStar responded and was psyched about my choice. Game on!

I left work early to make it to Morandi on time for our six o'clock reservation. I know, who eats at six o'clock? I wasn't thrilled about the time, but it didn't matter. For the first time, I was ahead of the curve, and eating in a new restaurant that had just opened.

I walked in and was immediately welcomed by the hostess and the glowing warmth inside. The ceilings were low, I noticed stone on the walls and at my feet, and the wooden beams made it feel cavernous. Atmosphere in a restaurant is what gets me off the bat, and while I loved Morandi's dark, intimate feel, the rustic Italian setting seemed slightly forced. I was tempted to feel the stone on my fingers to test if it was faux-rustica.

I beelined for the bar straight ahead and squeezed in on one of the last remaining stools. I read about a cocktail you shouldn't miss and when I asked the bartender which one it was, he gave me a solid reply, "All of them." I started off with a dirty Goose martini then went on to a sweet and sour berry bellini. The bartenders at Morandi were young, adorable and very very friendly. It was so refreshing. I bonded with Peter and told him I would return to Morandi just to sit at the bar and eat with him. I also mentioned I admired his uniform. Him and his partner in beverage pouring were sporting white jackets, almost like lab coats, with shirts and ties underneath, and they had MORANDI embroidered on their chests. They looked really smart. I wonder what it'd take for me to get one of those.

FunStar arrived and the hostess immediately came up to me and walked us to our table. The staff was extremely catering and friendly. I'm sure I could have sat down without FunStar, but I didn't want to leave the bartender or the friendly businessmen I was chatting with.

We sat at a small table next to the windows. Morandi's windows are frosted, but FunStar kept pointing out lone walkers on the street who would put their eyes up to the small strip of clear glass. Had I been facing them, I would have motioned with my hand to come on in and enjoy the friendly atmosphere.

Our server came to the table and asked FunStar if she cared for a drink. It took him several minutes to bring her her cocktail but we had bread to nibble on in the interim.

The menu was small and manageable. We immediately picked out a few things we thought sounded good and went from there. Our server asked if we'd care for some prosciutto.

"Of course!" We both chimed in unison.

FunStar and I neglected to look for it on the menu as we mistakenly thought it was something they serve all their patrons. This wasn't the case. I let out a muffled yelp when I saw it on our tab at the end of the night. The prosciutto di Parma con gnocco fritto was a whopping $16. That was more than what my entree cost. While it was scrumptious, and we especially enjoyed the fried gnocchi dough, which tasted like a softer and chewier version of a fried wonton, we felt slightly misled. Don't think it's like they're offering you complimentary water or salsa. The prosciutto and cheese plate is a meal in itself, so expect to pay for it.

For my entree, I chose the pizzoccheri al forno, per the server's suggestion. When I asked him what it was, he explained it was an Italian version of mac and cheese. It was made with buckwheat pasta and baked with cabbage, speck and Bitto cheese. It was extremely rich which helped me eat it slowly. I was nervous I wouldn't like the buckwheat pasta, being a homemade pasta snob, but with all the ingredients and rich cheese, the pasta could have been undercooked, overcooked, or rice-a-roni and I wouldn't have known the difference. Speck, I later learned, is a variety of cured ham even more flavorful than prosciutto. I will now be inquiring at my local Italian deli for Speck.
When I saw meatballs on the menu, I decided we'd order a side to share. Man, was this a smart decision. The polpettine alla Siciliana came with pine nuts and raisins and they were piping hot. I've never tasted such a dynamic meatball. I hope I haven't offended my Dad or his family's name when he reads this. They were a little blackened on top, which I loved, and the meat was juicy. The sauce poured over them was even delicious and thick.


Below was our dessert. I didn't think it could get better after the meatballs, until I tried the frutti di bosca. It was like a gourmet bomb, covered in razzle dazzle berries. FunStar and I were fighting over the last bites. Just look at the lava-like berries pouring off this thing. I'm not sure which I liked better, the crepe part or the berry part.


My friend BeanieBaby isn't the first one to tell me the one problem with my blog.

"M, you like everywhere you eat!"

Many of you may agree with this assessment. I laughed and admitted she was right, and I took this into consideration while dining at Morandi. I was really hoping that I'd leave thinking, "Stick to the French bistro, s'il vous plait, Monsieur McNally." But quite the opposite happened, and here I go again with another positive review. The farmhouse setting may have felt a little over the top and like I said earlier, like faux-rustica, but there was nothing faux about the dishes and their flavors. And the staff couldn't have been more amiable. I was reminded of my disastrous introduction to the Waverly Inn (see BeanieBaby, I have written something sour) and thought, rudeness and arrogance are not prerequisites to a restaurant opening.


211 Waverly Pl., at Charles St.
212-627-7575

to keep reading