June 28, 1975 | Vintage Insatiable
Nanni’s Il Valetto

        Northern Italian gastronomic macho has invaded what was once the Running Footman, a weakly chic 61st Street restaurant of virtues small enough to dance on the head of a pin. With a wry sense of linguistic continuity, the Running Footman is now Il Valletto -- the valet -- and the pink tablecloths are still there, the same striped velvet and roseglow lighting, the same cacophonous acoustics. But there is a feisty little man in a chef's coat strutting through the house, looking, to be frank, misplaced in so much elegance. That is Nanni. And Nanni makes the difference to celebrate.
   
        No, Nanni has not abandoned his seedy little trattoria down on 46th Street. He is commuting, he insists, though clearly he is keeping a firm tether uptown (in five visits, I always found him there), an investigative foray to 46th Street one night for dinner revealed…incredibly (could he be twins?)…Nanni, just hustled down from Valletto. Nanni's uptown confrontation with eleganza attracts a motley following: little old ladies who don't realize anything is changed and wonder why the Running Footman's menu is suddenly printed in Italian; demanding mouths beneath floating blondined hairdos -- "That is not a Long Island hairdo," a lay anthropologist observes. "That's New Jersey hair. She weighs 112 pounds and her hair weighs 14." There is Ben Gazzara at the bar extolling the virtues of voluptuous women to a very thin and thoughtful blonde. And Gay Talese. The lame and the blind are guided up the two little steps, and, out of the past: Carmine de Sapio.
   
        Nanni is everywhere, barking commands at the staff, greeting old friends, teasing seducible appetites with surprises not listed on the menu -- a sublime tripe stew or heroic chunks of wild boar, moist and rich in a masterful glaze of sauce. "Whata you wanta?" he asks. "Meat or fish?" Not exactly suave, grinning over the anemones.
   
        Most of the great triumphs in five tastings at Il Valletto were not on the menu: the boar, that tripe, an ambrosial risotto smothered with the supernal earthiness of fresh white truffles, another risotto (perhaps somewhat overdone, but still extraordinary in a heady marriage with wild mushrooms). Nanni's splendid pastas have made the uptown transition -- modestly priced, perfect to share. Gnocchi, those tender little lumps of potato and flour, are memorable in sauce alla Nanni -- cream tangy with wild and domestic mushrooms, prosciutto, and a subtle essence of tomato.  The same sauce cloaks tortellini (or fettuccini, if you will). Basil is in season now, and Nanni's pesto sauce -- that pungency of basil, garlic, and cheese -- is legend, though the pesto he'd nursed through the winter to indulge us in January was a poor imitation.

        Il Valletto's performance can be uneven. Nutty bay scallops and shrimp tossed in oil with a bit of garlic and wine were sublime one day…the shrimp tough at a later dinner. Mussels and clams in a moist dusting of garlicky crumbs are unimpeachably handled, yet somehow boring. Bass poached in a light tomato broth is, again, impeccably done, but uninspired. Rollatine of veal was both tough and mundane. A dramatically fine sauce was quite wasted on a thick, tough, gristly veal chop. And one noon the linguine was proof that pasta can indeed be troppo al dente, though undercooking is the more common sin in this town. Liver, though not rare as ordered, was wondrously moist and almost sweet in a sauce scented with wine and bay leaf. And the vegetables here are like precious jewels. The spinach is buttery and green. Crisp Kelly green broccoli is confetti'd with bits of browned garlic and sprinkled with Parmesan.  Escarole, zucchini, broccoli rabe -- all are treated with reverence if not awe. On balance, the mouth's pleasures here far outmatch the disappointments.

        The service is uneven too. I suspect Nanni inherited the Running Footman crew and makes do. There is an unsmiling, uninterested captain and a waiter who can take an order but is unable to explain how a dish is made. And there are swift obsequious chaps who over-elegantize, asking in French, "Avez-vous fini?" But there are also men who clearly believe that to be a great waiter is some ultimate fulfillment. "Do you like the salad?" our waiter asks. It was a perfect toss of endive and rugola, skillfully dressed. "I made it myself," he boasted. "With lemon because lemon is good for the skin." Then he wheeled a cart up two stairs to present what must be the most spectacular offering of Italian cheese anywhere in New York -- creamy blue-veined Gorgonzola, soft piquant tallegio, crumbly Parmesan, Romano, fontina. Uptown elegance has also prompted some effort with desserts. Besides Nanni's fine zabaglione, there are rich, liqueur-soaked cakes and strange inventions melding amoretto crumbs in frozen cream or crushed strawberries in zabaglione. Alas, a pear peeled with surgical precision at table by our waiter was not ripe.
   
        Wines that once were all tagged at $7 are now $8 to $16. The verdicchio of Battaghia, generally a drinkable wine, tasted strangely organic one night, "as if they forgot to remove the walnut shells," a cynic suggested. Fontana Candida is a pleasant Frascati at $10. And a Chianti Classico from Nozzole served at room temperature one evening was perfect, mellow and full.
   
        Nanni uptown is somehow less of a miracle than he seemed in that tacky little nest on 46th Street, perhaps because dinner here can easily run $55 for two. (Though the prudent might do it for less.) We come expecting unrelieved miracles, knowing…at his best…what a master Nanni can be.

Il Valletto, 122 East 61st Street.



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