This sliver of a room has already won Upper West Siders. Photo: Steven Richter

        It was a rare treat. Just the two of us in the tiny, romantic little sliver of a restaurant with the ridiculous name of Recipe. We’d walked out of a movie (“My Life in Ruins,” if you want to know) and wandered down Amsterdam Avenue never dreaming we’d get in at prime dining time after the Times rave. But a two was about to turn. Yes, it’s really tiny, just 26 seats, eight of them at the bar, tables for two rat-a-tat in a row just inches apart but we get the corner and even our knees seem to fit. Well, almost.  Everyone seems pleased if not proud to be here, including our server as if she has a secret and we are about to discover it.

        I am instantly charmed by the romance of bare brick and filament light bulbs, the water bottle labeled tap water, the little flower pots and red votives, the checked fabric napkins (“Comptoir de Familles,” the label reads) and the salmon rillette on toast sent out as an amuse. I’m less charmed by the idea of paying $3 for bread but I need to know what that’s all about. It’s my job, after all. Granted it’s a generous gathering from Grandaisy and Tom Cat with a good raisin nut roll, baguette and fine pizza bread and comes with honey-slathered butter. I’d rather a free crust or two and less temptation.

 
A luscious crab cake looks even smaller on stylish white plate.  Photo: Steven Richter

        Maybe there could be more grilled calamari and less white beans with a parsley garlic drizzle. Indeed, there is a dollhouse feel with actual dollhouse Staub casseroles in this dollhouse place. The wonderful jumbo lump crab cake looks especially small in its huge and stylish white plate.  But I love the cold corn soup and my wild sockeye salmon with chanterelle brown butter sauce and potato puree, a daily special chosen from the black board. “Rare,” I had said, “but not blue.” And it is perfect.

        The Road Food Warrior attacks the ancho-romesco-painted hanger steak with gusto. (I could do with less sauce.) Lemony cheesecake on graham cracker crust with bit of fresh mango whimsically served in a small jar is…yes, small, but actually enough for us. And $90 for two with tip but no wine where entrées are mostly under $20 surprises me when I see the check. But I’m feeling the thrill of discovery in this miniature seedling by David and Vanida Bank, who own a similar sliver a few steps down the block, the well-received Thai restaurant Land.

        I can’t wait to return but even calling days ahead, I don’t score a table for four.  I get a six on Wednesday – the table that sits open to the street these balmy evenings. Perfect for a group of old friends like us. Perhaps my expectations are set too high. Alas, this is mostly food that doesn’t divide by six.

        Under these trying circumstances, it’s still clear that the crab cake is remarkable. Local beets with goat cheese, lolla rosa lettuce and pecans make a salad definitely worth repeating. I love the miniature tomato and buffalo mozzarella tart with black truffle oil served in a square iron baking pan. The seared duck is fine and the cast-iron seared pork chop is full of flavor though dry, too cooked even for “medium.”

        Half our team is content with the soft-shell crab sandwich.  I find it overwhelmed by bread. As for the mussel dish, it’s not just that there are too few mussels and just four or five tablespoons of saffron sherry broth – it’s that the mussels are puny and overcooked. The corn soup seems listless; corn niblets might help. A generous side of macaroni and cheese with black forest ham, corn and sweet peas isn’t cheesy enough or seasoned enough and…worst sin of all, is utterly crustless. Gulf shrimp pappardelle primavera is scantily shrimped, over-sauced, and not al dente.

        As executive chef, Shawn Dalziel, most recently at Blue Water Grill, shares the creative assignment with his boss who worked for Jean-Georges in the Mercer Kitchen before opening Land. Dalziel’s passion for preserving is where the jars come from as well as the house-pickled chilies. His artichokes pickled in champagne vinegar with mint is one of the night’s best dishes, although all six of us perk up when Dalziel’s desserts arrive: banana Tarte Tatin in a cast iron skillet and a marvelous chocolate pignoli tart with mascarpone ice cream.  That cheesecake in a jar quickly disappears.

        Recipe stands out in the neighborhood for its genuine charm and hospitality and for some remarkable food at gentle prices. Perhaps in light of occasional stumbles, it’s best left to the locals who are already booking weeks ahead or planting themselves on the sidewalk in case a table suddenly becomes free. When last we spoke, the house was still waiting for their liquor license.

        “We have a new favorite place for pasta,” says my friend Karine. “It’s unbelievably cheap.  And they tie a tablecloth around your neck so you don’t spill tomato sauce. Promise you won’t write about it.” How many times have I heard that? I never promise. I figure Quinto Quarto must be special if Karine and her husband are driving all the way down to Bedford Street from the Upper East Side. (Obviously cab fare or the hefty garage tariff would beat up the savings, so Pascal must hunt for a parking spot.) We’re first to arrive and a parade of people are welcoming us. “Waiting for Karine? Friend of Karine?” A pitcher of water with ice has been set on the table, along with a plate of slightly stalish focaccia draped with prosciutto and four chopped tomato crostini. In the back of the room a woman is laughing as a host ties a tablecloth around her neck. 

        Quinto is small (just 45 seats plus 14 in the garden behind), growing darker and hopelessly romantic as the sun sets, with tall tapers flickering in the breeze from doors flung open to the street: rosy bare brick, beams, posts in odd places and metal street signs in Italian. I sneak a peek at the menu: $6 salads, $11 pastas. It doesn’t have to be great. Good enough will do.

        Suddenly everyone is dancing attendance. Karine has arrived. Kiss kiss. Pascal is parking. More focaccia with prosciutto hits the table. Let’s order now. He’ll come eventually. Should we start with salads? I ask. “Well, we have to have our favorite pastas,” she says. “Maybe we don’t need entrees. Maybe we’ll skip salads. The lamb chops were terrible. So overcooked.” She makes a face. “We couldn’t eat them.”

        “You want them rare.  We can cook them rare,” one of her several suitors, overhearing, offers.

 
The waiter divides a bowl of cacio e pepe into four portions. Photo: Steven Richter

        “Pasta, we want your fabulous pastas,” says Karine. She orders her favorites. “And we want the carbonara too. Where is the carbonara?” she studies the listing. “This is all Roman cooking,” she points out. The owners – Walter Bonatti and Mattheo Braghieri – have two Roman places in Milano. “Very successful. Carbonara is Roman. They have to have it.”

        “Well, we do the carbonara on the brunch menu,” Bonatti says. “It has the eggs and the guanciale for the bacon. Perfect for brunch. We can make it for you, of course.”

        A salad appears, “gift from the house,” fennel and pitted olives on slices of orange. And then Pascal arrives, a bit disgruntled from his torturous parking duty, and is assigned the wine list. (Never mind that a woman’s work is never done, manliness is relentlessly demanding.) He chooses a Chianti and sniffs it happily as the pastas arrive. A waiter dishes up the cacio e pepe.

        As promised, all the pastas are good: Bombolotti alla gricia, with onions, pork cheeks, pecorino and a small hit of chili pepper. Spaghetti cacio e pepe, sticky from its melting of sheep’s milk cheese. The bucatini all’amatriciana with carrot-and-celery fortified red sauce, again with pork cheek, pecorino and pepperoncino. (But no tablecloth drapings.) The eggy carbonara. And what is this green stuff? A gift from the house, “We always send out an extra pasta.” Penne in basil-pistachio pesto. Delicious, I admit, but strangely lacking garlic.

        No one is hungry anymore, but it’s too late to cancel our two entrees – soft sausages cooked in white wine and roasted lamb with roasted potatoes: some meaty chunks are tender, some are tough and dry. Although we did not order them, there are tiny lamb chops too, costolette scottadito – lamb ribs “with olive oil, black pepper and aromas” on the menu. “We did them the way you like them,” Bonatti says proudly. And they’re not bad, certainly not hideous, but mildly pink – not rare as we prefer.

        “What does the name mean?” Karine asks as everyone exchanges cards. “Quinto” means fifth, and “quarto” means quarter – it is the term for offal, the animals fifth quarter – a great specialty of Rome.

        So far the optimism expressed in the on-line menu that lists tripe, oxtails and pajata (the cooked small intestines of an unweaned calf) has yet to emerge in the reality of Bedford Street, although Quinto does pajata with pasta for lunch where they have a four-course $20 prix fixe. “We get a lot of Italian Students,” Braghieri offers.

Chicken family style looks messy but is actually good enough. Photo: Steven Richter.

        I am forced to dash the excitement of our dinner companions just two weeks ago when we return to taste more. My friend Bobby has Googled the place and is primed for offal. He is disappointed that what the menu calls ribs are really overcooked lamb chops. “I’ll have the rabbit then,” he says. That second dinner confirms the first. The salads are serviceable: fennel with orange and black olives and the artichokes under arugula and shards of pecorino are far better than watery lentils. I’ll add the pleasantly chewy homemade lombrichelli all’ Etrusca with tomato sauce, hot pepper and pecorino – to our list of favorite pastas though the amatriciana is a swamp of tomato sauce tonight. Chicken Cesaretto smothered in red sauce with chunks of roasted potatoes is just as messy-looking but juicier than overcooked rabbit Viterbese. 

        The orange marmalade crostata and the apple torta are wrapped in the same oddly likeable primitive pastry: a forkful makes for the sweet ending you might crave. Quinto Quarto is definitely good for the neighborhood. And you might go a long way for the affectionate welcome, the charm of the room and the cheap and luscious pastas. But remember, I didn’t urge you to make the pilgrimage or to order an entree.