Il Mulino

Il mulino is a perfect example of the beauty, wonder and romance that is the Italian language. Out of curiosity, I looked up what il mulino meant in English and I'm still chuckling inside that it means "the flour mill." I know I've heard stranger names for restaurants in New York like Mary's Fish Camp, Friend of a Farmer and the oxymoronic East Village Yacht Club, but would as many people vie for a spot at an Il Mulino table if it was called The Flour Mill? Perhaps.

I've been hearing of Il Mulino since the early Swimster days. We would always talk about going, but like Babbo and a few other big name restaurants, it never happened. We were daunted by the prices -- him being a grad student and me scraping by as a peon in news. Regardless, I would drop the name just as frequently as I if I had eaten there. If someone asked for an Italian restaurant recommendation, I would suggest it. If someone asked for a restaurant recommendation for a special occasion, I would suggest it. I even bought my dad Il Mulino tomato sauce one year as a gift, and it's still sitting in our pantry at home in New Canaan. I believed if I talked positively enough about it and wished it hard enough, karma would set in and I'd experience Il Mulino for myself someday.

Several months ago over dinner, my dad made a bold announcement that he had eaten at Il Mulino with some business associates. I dropped my jaw in my plate. How could he? I felt betrayed, deceived, ditched and above all raging jealousy coursing through my angry stomach.

"Daaaaaah-aaaaaahd!" I shrieked.

"Whaaaah-aaaaht?" he threw back at me.

A discussion on how unfair it was for someone to be eating in a restaurant without full appreciation for its reputation followed and I calmed down when he said we would return as a family to Il Mulino. "Yeah, right," I thought to myself. We were together as a family -- all four of us-- as often as the 2,3 express trains run on a New York City weekend.

It was several months later that my dad exclaimed we were going to Il Mulino. At first I thought it was some sort of sick joke. When he added it was on his company, I started to take him very seriously. I don't remember my parents' wedding anniversary until it's two weeks past, so it was a shock when he mentioned we'd be celebrating his 25th anniversary at work. Dinner would be me, T, Mom, Dad, his two brothers and their wives.

I’m 28. The realization that my dad's been working for the same company for just three years less than I've been alive was hard to grasp. For someone whose longest stint at one job is two and a half years, I find it incomprehensible that it's possible to stay with one company throughout one's entire career. Incomprehensible, maybe, but more importantly, it was admirable.

If you ask any of us, we'll say Dad should have been made the company's CEO ten years ago. Over the past few weeks he hasn't enjoyed a single day off. The last Sunday I was home, he barely came out of his study over a twelve-hour period to get a soda and some of his wild trail mix.

One of the more precious e-mails I’ve ever received in my life was one my dad wrote on what must have been a tortuous day at the office:

"We need to start a family business and we need to start it now. Look up gelato recipes and we'll start a gelato company in Carmel."

I didn’t take him very seriously then, but maybe I should get on that. Dad works hard so we can enjoy a beautiful, spoiled life on two coasts. I look forward to the day he’ll get to work hard on his tan with Mom, on surfing, on playing his guitar, on drinking beer, on fly-fishing and on reading his non-fiction tomes.

It was so important to my dad that we all be together for his big night that he flew my brother out from California for the weekend-- the same brother who couldn’t spend Thanksgiving with us in Connecticut because of work. That and my dad rented a small bus, which I later dubbed the party bus, to bring him and the clan into the city. The rambunctious crew was staying at our home in New Canaan –which is always a recipe for party fouls- and I was to meet them at Il Mulino for what I hoped would be the beginning of the festivities.

At the risk of sounding like a broken record, I arrived not ten minutes, not fifteen minutes, but a half an hour late to my dad’s party. It’s really inexcusable and when it’s happening, I’m physically sick to my stomach. I have this false idea in my head that it takes a half an hour to get everywhere in the city and I’m sorely mistaken every single time I make this asinine estimation. If I added up the amount of minutes I’ve been late to events in my life I could tack on a year of fun that I’ve missed.

Il Mulino’s exterior is not the least bit inviting. I’m sure the mentality is if they let you see all the excitement inside, every man on the street would want to join the hordes waiting for their reserved tables. You don’t show up to Il Mulino senza prenotazione, unless you plan on a) going to confession the next morning; b) losing loyal friends and family; or c) being dumped on the spot by your date or significant other. It’s practically a morsel sin. I say keep the small windows and big curtains-- the better to keep people out with, my dears.

I needed boxing gloves and a gladiator’s shield to get myself through the people standing at the small bar and the forest/kitchen at the front of the restaurant. I was a girl on a mission and barely looked anyone in the eye for fear of being stopped and tacking on extra seconds to my tardiness. All the sudden, I saw nothing but black shiny shoes and I stopped dead in my boots. I shrunk three inches and looked at the large Italian man in my face and squeaked, “I’m here for the N party?”

I went from needing extra muscle to handle the Mulino-mania to needing to shed 20lbs in order to squeeze around the maze of tightly-jammed tables. I barely fit before dinner, what would happen after the meal? Just like I am shocked I don’t see more pile-ups on the Manhattan avenues, I was shocked half the patrons didn’t have marinara, cream sauces and meatballs all over their heads and laps. It takes true talent and patience to serve food, let alone drinks, at Il Mulino. The stark but elegant space is not only working against those dying to eat there, but it’s working against those sweating it out on the floor as well.

I sat down to hugs, kisses, my own loud sigh of relief and a few expected “allelujahs.” Seconds later, hands were passing me plates and bowls and forks of antipasti. My favorite was the big rough chunk of parmesan sitting on my bread plate. This was one of the first treats they brought to the table. Il Mulino was a restaurant after my own heart (and stomach).

Dad handed me some zucchini slices that were amazing. They were lightly fried and razor-thin verses the hockey puck-sized McZucchini I often see. The bruschetta plate had gone empty by the time I arrived and Mom insisted on asking the waiter to bring us more just so I could try. The tomatoes were so soft and juicy they tasted like roasted red peppers. After the apps parade I wasn’t sure what else I could possibly fit in my stomach, besides the incredible mystery bread in the bread basket. It was foccaccia but tasted slightly firmer than most foccaccia and it was completely soaked in butter like a sponge. I wish they sold these by the pack. I really could have gone home content, that is, after my perfect 10 dirty martini.

The service at Il Mulino was probably the best I’d ever had in the city, which is saying a lot of these waiters who were all Italian and who spoke English as a second, if not third or fourth language. It seemed each table had two servers. Ours that night were the tall, beefy Tomaso, with a wide grin and shiny black hair, and his shorter, smiley sidekick Diagio. They appeared magically whenever a thought popped into our heads of something we needed. More butter? Poof. More vodka? Poof. More bruschetta for the latecomer? Poof.

The most impressive part of the evening, besides the gigantic whole fish that were served and the grappa barrel at the end of dinner was Tomaso's Shakespearean-like performance upon reciting the specials. Tomaso, in his adorably charming Italian accent, rattled off at least a dozen specials without stumbling once. Just like I am with listening to directions, I'm lucky if I retain one special item. As soon as I heard lobster ravioli in a tomato cream sauce my mind shut down and I didn't hear another word. Mom had the best idea of the night when she started listening to a waiter explain them to the table next to us. One time through for this A.D.D.-struck family wasn’t going to cut it.

The evening after my first martini is mostly a blur. If you can get drunk off food, it happened to me at Il Mulino. With every bite I came closer to an eater's high. Food was coming at me from every angle at every minute. It was overwhelming. There was black squid pasta across the table in front of D, there was vongole oreganata in front of Dad...

and the richest escargot I've ever tasted in front of T. I couldn't tell which was bolder -- the thick red tomato sauce or the juicy plump snails.

Eyes were popping, lips were smacking and even tears were flowing.

After we ate our appetizers, a surprise plate came to the table of wide noodles and tomato sauce. Dad asked for a side for the table of pasta since most of us ordered fish and meat. I assumed it'd be served with the entrees. Well, they brought out eight beautiful small bowls for everyone before dinner, whether you liked it or not. I may have ordered pasta as my main dish, but I had no objections.

I don't remember the moment he switched from being our great and fearless waiter Tomaso to the smiley and flirty Casanova but as my food-drunkenness progressed, Tomaso started to lay it on thick; and my giggly, rosy-cheeked mom across the way (who was two deep in cosmos) wasn't helping the situation. She volunteered my name and it was history. The rest of the night, whenever he would come to the table, which was every two minutes, I would get a smile, he'd say my name in this devilish and sexy (so Italian) manner and the whole table would crack up at my blushing face. Had I played my cards right, I probably could have scored a table whenever I wanted at Il Mulino, but alas, I wimped out on the follow through.

What happened next was something straight out of "Punk'd." All of the sudden we were surrounded by four waiters with enormous platters-- big enough to hold our family's 26lb turkey-- with four gigantic fish on them. I thought it was a joke or a mistake. They whirled around us lowering the platters for moments in a tease-like fashion so we could see the fish before they would move around the table to the next person. Nobody in our party was serious enough about fish that they'd order it straight off the boat. After this fish dance, the servers disappeared as quick as they came. A few short minutes later, the branzino looked like this.

Have you seen anything more plain and beautiful in your life? I don't know how they did this so quickly, but I'd really like to learn the skill. I'd surely win some man's heart by displaying such rapid-fire skinning and deboning talents. It tasted just as good as it looked, if not better. I've never had such a soft, light but thick and fluffy fish.

Mom ordered the piccata di vitello al limone, or veal piccata minus the capers. This won the third place ribbon of the night, behind my ravioli and Dad's branzino.

I looked at my plate and wanted to dive in face first. These raviolis were no joke. It wasn't ravioli with lobster, it was lobster with ravioli -- they were busting at the ridges with the sweet meat. My eyes proved a lot bigger than my stomach and I could have eaten the sauce separately as a main meal. I ended up taking half the plate home in my fancy Il Mulino bag (and it was just as good the next day).

Aunt E ordered the rack of lamb. The generous portion of lamb was too much for her to handle, and like me, she too went home with half. My aunts and uncles were a little flustered with all the picture taking at the dinner table. They've never witnessed me in my blogging glory. I could sense Aunt E was thinking, "Get this over with! I want to eat," and by the looks of that plate, could you blame her? I didn't get a bite, sadly, but I kept busy with Uncle G's sole and Dad's branzino.

T ordered the saltimbocca, or veal sauteed with sage and prosciutto. T reminds me of Swimster in that he always orders whatever the weirdest sounding dish is. I don't know where he acquired it, but since he was little, T's always had this thoughtless bravery that I envied. I recall trying a small bite of the juicy veal and thinking, man, I wish I could make this at home.

We had to end the night with desserts on principle. Dad ordered a few for the table and I vaguely remember scarfing down mascarpone with fruit. We kept passing each dish around, but I tried to keep that one on my side of the table at all times. There's nothing like some thick Italian cream cheese to put an exclamation point on a wonderful meal.

But wait. It's not over. Tomaso, on one of his flirty jaunts to the table, brought over -- in what appeared to be a keg-like container-- grappa for the table. He propped the barrel onto the table right next to me (I thought it was going in my lap) and ignoring all questions, concerns and fake shouts of horror, started ladling out eight glasses. He wouldn't take no for an answer. The focus of my post has been the food, but don't be fooled. There was just as much alcohol being consumed at our table as food, and the last thing any of us needed at this point was 100 proof liquor. But, I am a member of the N family, and we've never left anything on the table in restaurants, or at home, so out of sheer respect and consideration for our server and Il Mulino, we powered through every last drop.

Our dinner at Il Mulino was a little under two months ago, and since we walked out closer as a family then when we walked in, I've had thoughts and above all, worries, of how I was going to do it justice. Writing about the dinner wasn't even what scared me the most, what scared me most was writing about the occasion. How do you write about a celebration that was 25 years in the making? The company may have been paying the bill on that one special night, but Dad had been paying the company with his life over the past quarter of a century. Il Mulino was the only place in the city we could have gone that would have felt as appropriate and deserving of this feat. Il Mulino's food was simple in its presentation but elaborate in its flavors. Just like my Dad shows heart and passion in all he does, we were served this same heart and passion at Il Mulino.

Towards the end of the evening, we learned that our waiter Diagio was celebrating his own sort of anniversary. He was one of the first people to work at Il Mulino 26 years ago when the Masci brothers opened the restaurant. Diagio explained to us with a warm smile that he returned home to Italy for several years before moving back to New York six months ago. He was very proud to be one of the originals, and we were very honored to be served by him. Diagio is part of Il Mulino's rich and successful history and after a special night of family and feasting, he became part of ours.

86 W 3rd St, between Sullivan & Thompson St.
212-673-3783