A walk down memory lane: Babbo NYC

Babbo
110 Waverly Place (bet. MacDougal & 6th)
New York, NY 10011
212-614-6670

If you want good Italian outside of Italy there is only one place to go, and that place is New York City. When you are there it is perhaps impossible to walk five blocks without coming across an Italian place, and amongst all that quantity there is some quite amazing quality. Insieme and Felidia in midtown, Fiamma in Soho, and Del Posto in Chelsea are all fabulous places to hunker down with a good plate of pasta, mop up the sauce with freshly made bread and wash it all down with a rustic red wine. Apparently Scarpetta in the West Village is worth trying as well. But if you want an experience that is good and true and one that you will remember for months and years to come, then you must go to Babbo.

Babbo is the flagship restaurant of one Mario Batali – he of Molto Mario! fame – who also owns a whole host of other places in New York. Yet Babbo seems to be the one he loves best, and it shows most markedly – from the intimidating menu of dishes, through the excellent wine list, to the faultless and convivial service. Here, more than in his other restaurants, Batali indulges his love of variety meats. It is an offal lover’s paradise – showcasing everything from testa to beef cheek, lamb’s brain to goose liver.

It has been almost two years since I went to Babbo, and it speaks volumes that Morgan and I still remember that night – he more vividly than I. I was in New York for my birthday, and had rounded up Camille, Morgan and Elisabeth for dinner. Thinking back, I realise it must have been a last-minute trip, for we had no reservations and our plan was to show up early and wait for a table. There are four tables by the bar at the front of the restaurant for which no reservations are taken, and whether you can walk in and wait for one of those tables depends on how early you show up that evening and stake your claim for them.

I remember meeting Morgan early for a drink and then stopping by Camille’s house – Morgan fretting all the while that we should have just gone to Babbo and staked the place out. As 8 o’clock rolled around he took on that despondent air of a gambler whose last chances are fading fast before his eyes. He did not have much hope of being seated given that we were going to be walking in at what he considered a late hour, and his head was already racing through the possible alternatives, while his heart steeling itself for the disappointment of having to settle for something else.

But then an amazing thing happened that restored his faith in the restaurant gods. We were in a taxi not quite five blocks away when Elisabeth called, saying that she had just stepped into the restaurant and that they could seat the 4 of us immediately, but only if we were all there. I remember her nonchalant tone as she asked our whereabouts, and I don’t think she realised just how big a deal it was because she asked innocently, “Should we take the table?” I also don’t remember if I thought to control the volume of my voice as I yelled at her to take it, take it, whatever you do, for the love of God take it.

We were there momentarily, and there were lots of hugs all around. I would have given the hostess a hug too if it had been socially acceptable. We had what was quite possibly the worst table in the house, but the fact remains that we had walked into Babbo at 8 o’clock without a reservation, and were seated immediately.

Babbo is housed in one of the converted brick townhouses on Waverly Place, and while it doesn’t have the sprawl and elegance of Del Posto, nor the sleek chic of Fiamma – it more than makes up for it with its amber-hued, rustic interior. Tables are set in close proximity to each other, and the restaurant is always packed. The feeling you get is one of coming back to a cabin or a hostel after a long day of hiking or skiing, and finding other hikers or skiers already putting their feet up and kicking back with their beverages. You half expect someone to hand you a hot chocolate, and judging from the smiling faces and warm, generous manner of the waitstaff, that might not be too far-fetched an idea.

The service at Babbo is one of the best I have ever experienced, and I think that stems from not only the technical expertise (which shall be elaborated upon shortly) but also the hospitality of everyone associated with the restaurant. For lack of a better description, it seemed as if everyone, from the hostess to the waitress, from the sommelier to the busboy – everyone felt a simple joy at being able to be part of our night out. It didn’t seem like they treated their duties as a job or a means to pay the rent. Truly, they were entertaining us, and glad to be doing it too.

But what we were there for was the food, and it did not disappoint. The food at Babbo is simple, by New York standards. The pastas are well-made and cooked to al dente doneness. None of the dishes have too many ingredients, and whatever is on the plate is adorned with no more vinaigrette or sauce than it needs. Eating the food at Babbo is uncomplicated, and consists of no more than putting a fork to the food and bringing it to your mouth. But what a pleasurable experience that proved to be.

Morgan started with an antipasto of testa – pig’s head boiled and deboned before it is braised with white wine, carrots and onions, then forced into a gelatin mold and sliced thinly a la salumi. It was served with pickled pearl onions, topped with toasted mustard seeds and came drizzled in a thyme vinaigrette. He offered me a bite of it, which was how I could tell that he liked it. After all these years of eating with Morgan I had come to realise that he only shared his food when it was good and he wanted you to try some. If it was not good he ate it all himself.

I don’t remember my antipasto but I do remember my pasta dish, Chianti-stained pappardelle with wild boar ragu. Like everything else it was simple, hearty, reached into the deepest depths of your being and told you everything was going to be okay. Camille and Elisabeth shared the pumpkin “lune” with sage and amaretti, which I did not try. Morgan followed the testa with lamb’s brain “Francobolli”, with lemon and sage, and admired its simplicity. The brains were mild and subtle and not too offensive, yet Camille still shied away from it with a look of naked terror on her face.

We ordered a bottle of Sauvignon, Ronco delle Mele from Venica & Venica. I forget the year but I remember that when the server brought the glasses to us we saw that there was already liquid in the glass. When we asked, she explained that it was their custom to pour a drop of the wine into the glasses when they were brought to the table, so that the glass would be infused with the aroma of the wine. When I poked my nose into the glass I saw immediately what she meant – the glass was filled with a heady bouquet, intense to a degree that full glasses never were. It presented a bouquet that was pure and easy to digest, to pick apart and to enjoy. When you smell a full glass of wine there are a lot of competing flavours that are often too complex for an amateur such as myself to isolate and identify. With that glass, filled only with one drop of the wine – I smelt grapefruit, I smelt grass and I smelt peach, and I smelt them all clearly and distinctly.

When it came time to select another bottle we signalled for the sommelier, who came over almost immediately. We explained our price range and talked a little bit about what kind of reds we liked. He had a couple of recommendations and started into them before we interrupted him – wanting to also tell him what each of us was eating for dinner. Upon hearing this he smiled and said, “I already know what you are having for dinner, I went and looked at your ticket before I came over.” At this point we knew we were in good hands, and that further debate was unnecessary, so we went with the first option he presented.

Sadly, I do not remember what wine it was, but it must have been good because I do remember feeling very happy that Elisabeth did not drink – for that meant more for the rest of us. I also remember Elisabeth’s grouper entrée being the standout. I did not have much faith in the fish dishes at a place renowned more for its pastas and organ meats, but her grouper, with charred leeks and a pancetta vinaigrette, was simple and delicious. I had the duck, which was very solid, and Camille had the beef braised in Barolo with porcini mushrooms. Morgan deviated from his one-man crusade to eat the heads off any animals in his path and got the grilled quail with “Scorzonera alla Romana” and saba – which he said could have been a little hotter but enjoyed heartily anyway. It came with salsify – one of his favourite root vegetables (and one of mine) – which had been roasted in Sambuca and which pleased him greatly.

There are many things I like about Babbo. I like its simplicity, I like its neighbourhood feel. I like the hospitality of its staff and their attention to detail. I like the fact that compared with many of the finer dining establishments in the city, Babbo is a little less expensive. It pains me a little bit that I will not be spending my birthday there this year, so let me just say that among the few places that are in my opinion must-visits in the Big Apple (the Met and the No Malice Palace to name just two), Babbo ranks somewhere up there.