Babbo

Ed had been talking about Mario Batali's restaurant Babbo for ages. He'd been several times, once years ago when he was visiting the city and one or two times since moving here, but I'd never gone with him. The problem, though, was that it's just about impossible to get reservations unless you call several weeks in advance. So last night we decided to just wander over and see if we'd get lucky. We did.


Babbo is in the west village, about a 15- to 20-minute walk from our apartment. I had gone for a run earlier that evening and taken a very leisurely shower, so we didn't get out the door until probably 9:30. But the restaurant was still busy when we arrived, with lots of people standing around the bar (seats were reserved for dining only) waiting for tables. We were told it would be half an hour, but we were deposited into a cozy little two-top table within about 20 minutes. From it, we had a view of the herbs, tomatoes, and, oddly, marigolds planted in the window boxes outside.


The feel of the downstairs was cozy - I did not see the upstairs - and it was sort of hard to believe I was in one of the best restaurants in New York. There was no hint of snobbery (perhaps this was due to their musical selection: mostly the Red Hot Chili Peppers, Moby, and the Foo Fighters), and I was surprised to see that, while this was no Gray's Papaya, the prices were actually pretty reasonable. After about ten minutes of staring at the menu, I finally narrowed it down to just a few items, which was challenging because I'd never heard of a lot of the dishes; since they were under the Primi menu, though, I figured they mostly different kinds of pasta. I decided on a wild mushroom sformata to begin and sweet potato lune (pronounced "luna") to follow. Ed chose asparagus with a soft-boiled duck egg on top followed by paparadelle with wild boar ragu. It all sounded pretty good, but I had no idea how good it was actually going to be. 


While we waited, we sipped wine from, what I am told, is an excellent selection, though I know very little about wine and have to trust that this is true; I can affirm that I liked my glass very much, and that the portion was generous. We were also served a tasty little pile of sauteed and seasoned chickpeas on a piece of bread as a gratis appetizer. I was pretty hungry when our first courses arrived, but it was worth every minute of the wait. A sformata is sort of like a custard. This one contained pureed wild mushrooms and who knows what else, all poured into a mold and baked. More mushrooms were scattered on top, and there was a streak of balsamic vinegar drizzled in a circle around the food. It was absolutely sublime. The custard was just the tiniest bit sweet, but also very creamy and earthy. The texture and flavor were lovely, but it was the contrasting, sweet bite of the vinegar that really made it for me. Ed's asparagus was perplexingly good, as it looked a lot like several pieces of steamed asparagus with an egg and Parmesan cheese. I have no idea what that genius Batali did to it, but I fully support his methods. 

I savored the sformata for as long as I could, but eventually, alas, it was gone. I figured my main course was probably going to be a disappointing sequel - how could anything top that blissful mushroom concoction? - but I was wrong. My lune were superb. They were tender pieces of ravioli, filled with sweet potato and doused in sage butter. Heaven. Each ravioli was small, but I cut each one into quarters to make it last longer. Ed inhaled his paparadelle, and I don't think they even had to wash our plates by the time we were finished.


The nice thing about high quality restaurants is that they're careful to keep the dishes small. This is probably to ensure quality control (or to keep down costs), but as far as I'm concerned this policy exists solely to ensure that I have room for dessert. I gazed at a saffron panna cotta for a while but couldn't resist a polenta and peach upside down cake served with a dollop of something creamy that tasted like almonds. It was sweet, light, and fruity, and the almond flavor was the perfect accent. 


I wish I could say everything about our meal was elegant and satisfying. The couple next to us, however, kept me grounded. They looked to be in their mid-40's, though the woman was doing everything in her power to take two decades off that number. It wasn't a successful attempt. She had dyed black hair, orange skin, and too much eye make-up, and wore glammed-out rockstar jeans with a tight, white tank top. The diamond in her engagement ring was absolutely enormous; I've seen bigger ones, but mostly in museums. I'd estimate that she had approximately 20 brain cells, and none of them were working too hard. I think she was tipsy on top of that, or at least I hope she was, because I'm not sure what else would explain the graphic acts she was performing with her coffee swizzle stick for her husband's benefit. (This is a family show, so I won't go into too much detail.) Her husband appeared to be charmed by each empty headed declaration and crude gesture. I suppose it would have been awful if it weren't so amusing. I wished for the 5,000th time that Ed and I could communicate telepathically. 


It always amazes me that even places like this don't keep the riff-raff out. Still, for the opportunity to eat more sformata and lune, I'd happily be roommates with that woman. Well, maybe.