The 83 ½ affogato with Pernod-scented zabaglione is the best I’ve ever tasted.

          I confess to Upper West Side myopia – I love to walk to dinner.  I don’t deny an obsession with what the city’s star chefs are up to. My reluctance to hit Brooklyn or the Lower East Side without a reservation is obvious. But I think I’m properly sensitive to the lament of friends who insist there’s almost nowhere to eat on the Upper East Side.

 
Burrata atop a hill of farro, red onion and marinated artichokes in anchovy vinaigrette.

          That explains my haste last week to gather a trio of uptown swells at 83 ½ way East on 83rd Street, as soon as I got the email blast that it had reopened with a Sicilian slant and a new chef from Boston. Reopened? It seems I missed the drama of its abrupt closing four months into a liaison with the notoriously roving chef Ryan Skeen.

Among the “Stuzzicare,” are suppli, rich and crisp fried tomato risotto fritters.

          Running a neighborhood pizzeria for twenty years had not quite prepared Vincenzo Mangiafridda and his family for pig’s head and lobster terrine or the combustion of an open kitchen framing the temperamental Skeen. But let me skip now to last Tuesday. I’m early. Passersby study the menu and move on. I’m sipping a zingy “Spring Spritzer” with Aperol and rhubarb puree in a monster wine goblet, wondering why the host is sitting newcomers four inches from my chair in an empty room.  Former Daniel sommelier Jean-Luc Le Du did the original wine list. I wonder if he did the cocktails too.

This is a double order of grilled asparagus contorni, my inspired choice.

          Never mind. We’re quickly dabbing chickpea and roasted vegetable puree on warmed bread and sharing “Stuzzicare, small plates,” the menu says, literally, “to tease,” $5 each or 3 for $13.  The service alternates between friendly, effusive and wrong table, but that’s forgivable given a lemony caponata, the familiar eggplant stew with pine nuts and raisins to pile on toast, and fricco, parmesan crisps that we’re dragging through a thin “aioli” of Calabrian chili and honey. Only the watery housemade ricotta with pesto disappoints. My friend finds her Sicilian gimlet with homemade limoncello pleasantly refreshing.  She gives me a sip. I agree.

 
This is a double order of grilled asparagus contorni, my inspired choice.

          Burrata crowns a pileup of farro, marinated artichoke and shaved red onion in anchovy vinaigrette. We share that too. From “ALL PASTA IS PROUDLY MADE IN HOUSE,” all of us are pleased with the savory tagliatelle tossed with zucchini blossoms, ash-cooked tomatoes, anchovy and capers. They like the fresh pea-flecked carbonara, too, but I find the homemade spaghetti soggy and soft.   

Grilled flat-iron steak, rare and reasonably tender, with wonderful potato croquettes.

          In fact, the food is remarkably good for what feels like a still just-hatched stage. They would come back for the flat iron steak with pepperonata and luscious little potato croquettes (never mind its wildly over-salted arugula). The crispy breaded veal tonnato is not so crispy but full of flavor, with a feel of the garden in radish shavings and “native” pea shoots.

Chef Will Foden was imported from Boston to take over Ryan Skeen’s open kitchen.

          Alone in the small, open kitchen, Will Foden, the new chef import from Boston, not exactly Sicilian, swivels from oven to counter, arms flying to feed the late comers. The serving crew seems to have expanded too, now bringing us a very good chocolate torta and $3 scoops of ice cream, plus, a gift from the house.  Is it a milkshake?  No, just the best affogato I’ve ever tasted in a tall glass, hazelnut gelato in hot espresso layered with Pernod-scented zabaglione.

I start with a margarita and guacamole, pretending calories don’t count.

          The look of the new Cocina tickles my funny bone.  My taco-seeking pal and I giggle at the collection of saints and devils on the wall. Mona Lisa with a fish on her head, a classic Christ on a classic cross, some rustic kitchen tools. A triangle of stucco slapped onto the bare brick to suggest a just-excavated anthropological site. But the $12 margaritas are impeccably 21st century, frosty and balanced.

          It doesn’t take brains or 44 years as a restaurant critic to order guacamole in any spot that offers it. Never fight it. We’re dipping up good enough ‘guac’ with blue corn chips. Crumbly avocado cornbread comes baked in a corn husk – a little dry, not enough avocado flavor. But Oaxaca queso fundido with meatballs and chorizo and a hit of jalapeño makes up for that.

If you must have chicken, make it the red mole bird with chipotle. Add beans.

          You can order quesadilla made with  homemade tortillas and poblanos in any of eight flavors. I lobby for pork shoulder or cactus, but we’ve already committed to tacos.  My companion starts with half a chorizo taco. I pile some beef cheek into one tortilla. Then we trade.

Mango and avocado add fruit and voluptuousness to mixed seafood ceviche.

          Lime and jalapeño flavor a lightly spicy, mixed seafood ceviche – shrimp, octopus, conch and onions with jicama, and verdolaga (cultivated purslane). The bartender, a macho hunk in black leather, flirts as he delivers a second margarita to my companion.  “He’s the best thing on the menu,” I tease her.

I’m recommending braised pork shoulder with chayote, favas and tomatillo salsa.

          But the braised pork shoulder and the herb-stewed short ribs are worth a trip too. Was it the waiter who recommended them? Both the pork with favas, huauzontle greens and tomatillo salsa, and the fatty beef with hot puya guajillo chili are piled high with sides. Green beans, corn, chayote.  Amazing economics considering entrees are just $13 to $16. All sorts of extras like steamed saffron rice, pico de gallo, stewed beans, or fried plaintains are just $2 or $3.

          I wouldn’t mind seeing a little more economica attitude on Amsterdam and Columbus Avenues. Of course, even with dark chocolate sorbet and dulce de leche gelato just $4 a scoop, $12 margaritas will tend to inflate the bill.

          I’m not promising this is the authentic Mexican restaurant everyone I know is always looking for. (That was probably Zarela’s. Did you appreciate it enough?)  I wander back a week later with my next door neighbor and there just happens to be the same empty table. The avocado corn bread is more moist this time.  And the bartender has gone the way of all flesh. On to a busier bar, I suppose.

Roasted pineapple and a rich chocolate dessert arrive in small terra cotta bowls.

          Mango and avocado add a sweet freshness and voluptuous satin to grilled calamari with yerba buena herbs and pumpkin seed salsa. When I give my friends free rein, they tend to order shrimp and chicken, neither of which I really trust since I hate white meat and overcooked shrimp. Keep that in mind. Tonight’s roasted half chicken is fiercely ordinary. Chicken chipotle is better, if you must have a bird. 

          I am tempted by roasted pineapple, and the chocolate tart. It’s studded with walnuts, hazelnuts, pecans and granola, and served with sour cream gelato. That definitely inspires a walk home. As I said, good for the neighborhood.