Babbo

Because the universe is finally, after many long years, being nice to me (new job, new man, more money, etc.), I decided to celebrate on Friday night. In typical Jenny fashion, I took myself to Babbo, Mario Batali's flagship restaurant near Washington Square.

I'd never been, and I somehow--more evidence of the universe being nice to me--managed to snag a reservation within 24 hours of requesting one. It was exactly what I was expecting--sublime Italian food, in upscale surroundings, the perfect celebration vehicle. The only off note was the new guy; while happy to be there, I think he was just humoring me and my foodie passion. He wasn't nearly as excited about it as I was, but then again, few people would be. I don't know anyone else who would quiver while ordering grilled octopus and sweetbreads.

But order the grilled octopus and the sweetbreads I did--and the pig's foot, and the proscuitto, and the beef cheek ravioli, and the black spaghetti with salumi and rock shrimp, and the braised beef, and a $90 bottle of nebbiolo. Needless to say, I had to be rolled out of there at the end of the evening and into a cab, whereupon I promptly fell into a deep and satisfying food coma. I entered that zen-like state that (in me, anyway) can only be induced by stuffing myself to the gills on perfect food, accompanied by half a bottle of really good wine. I had aspirations of the cheese plate and the grappa tasting, but alas, even I can only eat so much. Now I have visions of returning, and eating at the bar all by myself, and dreaming happily of butter and pork fat and good wine and more grilled octopus.

Babbo, like Mario Batali, has had inconsistent reviews of late. While some people claim his menu has faltered, I found no fault with anything I ate or with the service, which was excellent. At first I feared the sommelier had recommended a too-light wine; but it opened up nicely about halfway through the pasta course. I'd much rather eat at the bar at Babbo than anywhere in Otto, his nearby pizza restaurant, which is predictably loud and crowded. The evening just reconfirmed what I discovered on Thursday night, at A Razor, A Shiny Knife: I prefer my food simple, uncomplicated by chemistry experiments, and really, really good.