Alfred slides by the kitchen crew to get to his masterly dining room routine.
Alfred, in his familiar navy chef’s costume, slips by some of the kitchen crew to visit the dining room.
Waiting at a big white marble round are our pals, Art and Lyn, (she lives a few blocks away). They have already had dinner here three times. “May I offer you Prosecco?” the waiter asks presenting the bottle. That provokes a conversation. Is he offering a gift? Or are we ordering it? I explain to him that offering means “it’s on the house.” It seems that’s not what he meant.
I notice the menu charges $5 for a bread basket. I ask the waiter to bring us one. The basket holds ricotta bread, a few rolls, but only three plump, toasted bread sticks. And we are four. “Could we have more breadsticks?” I ask. A server drops off another “bread basket.” A charge for bread is already annoying. Now it doubles.
A fan stops the chef to deliver compliments.
I notice the menu charges $5 for a bread basket. I ask the waiter to bring us one. The basket holds ricotta bread, a few rolls, but only three plump, toasted bread sticks. And we are four. “Could we have more breadsticks?” I ask. A server drops off another “bread basket.” A charge for bread is already annoying. Now it doubles.
I’ve known Alfred since the day in 1985 when he was hired to run the Gotham Bar and Grill.
I’ve known Alfred Portale since he took over Gotham Bar and Grill in 1985 and proceeded to shape it into a three star restaurant. Portale starting over is as shocking as climate change. He comes by to welcome us. I introduce my niece Dana and our friends. We bombard him with compliments. How great the place looks. How good he looks. What a smart-looking crowd. That we’ve already eaten too many breadsticks. That the chichetti look like jewels.
“Alfred was once a jewelry designer,” I offer. “Dana is a jewelry designer too,” I point out. “You probably need to get back to the kitchen,” I say. He surprises me with a kiss and strides off.
The roasted fennel salad is piled with black rice and slices of blood orange.
A fritto misto of calamari, shrimp and white bait is served with a side of Sorrento lemon aioli.
Art wants to know if I’ve ever had blowfish tails. Yes, I have. That stirs up contemplations of fugu poisoning, I urge him to order the blowfish anyway. “I’m sure Alfred wouldn’t want to kill a customer in the first month of a new restaurant.” There are four puffy little creatures on the plate -- one for each of us. And enough calamari, shrimp and whitebait in the delicate fritto misto I order, for all to drag through the lemon aioli. We also share the roasted fennel salad with a crunch of black rice and thick slices of orange.
Risotto alla carbonara is coked with pork cheek, a farm egg and parmgiano.
Cavatelli di ricotta is served with spicy arrabbiata sauce and cilantro pesto.
The sirloin comes in thick rare slices with crisp Brussels sprouts leaves and fabulous parmigiano potatoes.
Both the cavatelli di ricotta with cilantro pesto and the carbonara risotto with pig cheek and farm egg are over-salted, but we finish them off anyway. Art and Lyn will share the roast chicken with wild mushrooms. Dana and I are dividing thick slices of wonderfully rare bistecca with scattered crisps of Brussels sprout leaves and crunchy parmigiano potatoes. And hear this: I never have to ask for serving spoons.
The olive oil torta is served with blood orange marmalade and a scoop of vanilla ice cream.
The tiramisu is made with milk chocolate mascarpone, ladyfingers, candied cocoa nibs and espresso gelato.
My regular dining friends are accustomed to sharing, of course. I send the steak their way and take a generous helping of their blue corn polenta. We have not even discussed desserts but the waiter is putting out small dessert plates and then the center of our marble table fills with olive oil cake, milk chocolate tiramisu and vanilla panna cotta with a cookie rooftop. Looking at the bill now, I realize dessert was a gift of the house. Since our companions treated with wine, our dinner for two with tip is just $113.
Vanilla panna cotta is layered with fig jam and topped with a honey Florentine crisp and walnut gelato.
I won’t try to pretend this is a serious critique based on just one meal. It’s a narrative of one foursome’s evening. Let’s just agree Portale and his crew are doing well for his early birds fans. With the changing seasons and more visits I’ll want to say more.
126 West 18th Street between Sixth and Seventh avenues. 917 781 0255, Monday through Thursday from 5:30 pm to 10:30 pm. Friday and Saturday 5 pm to 11 pm. Sunday 5 pm to 10 pm.