Castellano: Venetian Vanities

          Now, why does Castellano, the irresistible grafting from Venice onto West 55^th street, invoke dark thoughts of Caligula? The noise level, perhaps. Is it the cacophony of hell’s antechamber or Venetian carnevale? See the handsome old emperors of Manhattan catching the switch of purposeful derrières across the room—all the pretty boys and girls, vacant faces in night-white pallor, eyes wide, anesthetized for whatever sacrifice the evening may demand. How quickly they found Castellano.

         Out front for his following is the proprietor, model Michel Castellano, with two chefs from Harry’s Bar in Venice. Of course they’ve come: lovers of Venice, risotto fans, the punk internationals—rich and runny-nosed, all working for their daddies—mini-movie moguls. And that amorphous drift of nubile beauty we think of as…models, creatures with startling shoulders, stunning torrents of hair, an iridescent perfection of teeth, once in a while (not often) even breasts, with men only two or three times their age who are likely to be found on other nights at Le Cirque with their wives. And the costumes here: skirts short, shorter; black leather in brief and at length; angora leg warmers; fanny huggers; epaulets; sable tails; see-through; faux-strumpet.

          Narcissists nibble, but some of them eat, and for now they can eat surprisingly well at Castellano. Splendid fish, exquisitely just-cooked, is perfect fare for the calorie-shunning Loreleis. And rich, creamy risottos make hearty fuel for squash players, ballet dancers after the curtain, and the undernourished nymphet being treated by a rich friend. So here we are…no $9 cab ride downtown to a converted warehouse, no unseemly trek to a cleverly unrestored diner on a construction site—the usual price we pay to play with the dernier criastes. Castellano is directly across the street from City Center, a couple of blocks from Carnegie Hall, an easy hike from Broadway, Lincoln Center, most midtown cinemas. Although, as is clear from the limos kneeling in wait out front, not everyone walks.

          Modestly artful, the walls are primed and toned to look like pale terra-cotta. Shell-shaded lights spot ironic Brassaï photos of Paris in the twenties and thirties, casting a soft aura of flattering illumination. I’m not sure Castellano’s crowd gets up for lunch. At noontime the room can be very calm. No trouble, either, getting a last-minute table at 8:30; the crush dines fashionably late. After 9:30 a promised 10-minute wait at the bar may stretch to 40, and once a waiter predicted a 35-minute delay for cappuccino: “There’s a big party ahead of you at the espresso machine.”

          What a stroke of psychological savvy—the preening steps descending to the maître d’s post. Seats on the narrow balcony are prized—a better eye on the theater of arrival-departure, the kisses, the adjustments of costume, streaked-blond manes, wild-wolf greatcoats, and abbreviated tunics. There is a corner table on the right as you enter where, it is said, you can actually hear yourself think. Nowhere else in the room is that possible.

          “Excuse me,” says the waiter. “I didn’t hear you.” Of course. How could he? The original maître d’, from the Danieli, has decamped, and the top chef, Ettore Alzetta, of Harry’s Bar and the Cipriani, in Venice, went home with a complaining gall bladder. But his second for a decade, Vanni, the tall, mostly glowering, bearded hunk, prowls the room, handsome as any client. No one seems to note or care that the bartender is sipping wine with his feet up, that the service is peppy and amiable, or bored and indifferent. After all, “informal” is another plus on the night-stalking circuit.

          You’ll get no guarantees from me about the kitchen. In seven meals here I’ve been pleased, at times astonished, by the perfection of seafood and risotto, but twice confronted meals so ghastly I wanted to sue for malpractice. Half of the cold table’s offerings are curiously bland and definitely need lemon and fresh-cracked pepper (which is offered) plus a dose of olive oil (which is not). For $8.50 the waiter may offer a sampler: escarole, steamed zucchini, asparagus, excellent eggplant and mushrooms shot through with whole peppercorns, thins of raw white mushroom tossed with shavings of Parmesan, white-bean salad, a dab of the house’s most perplexing insalata di mare (by itself, $9.50), usually a toss of delicately cooked shrimp, squid, mussels, littleneck clams (lemon and a crunch of something green wouldn’t hurt; twice the smell of something spoiled was overwhelming). The famous carpaccio ($9.50) of Harry’s Bar, thin slices of tenderest raw beef (sometimes temperature-perfect, sometimes too cold), wears a Jackson Pollock dribble of sedate mustard mayonnaise. But the thick bean purée chockablock with pasta e fagioli ($6.50) is tasty—fuel for climbing the Himalayas.

          A big fuss is made over tagliolini con piselli ($12), buttery noodles with overcooked peas. Ravioli ($12) can be tough, dry, and tasteless, but cannelloni at lunch is a trio of zestily stuffed pasta rolls, deliciously sauced. And the risotto ($20 to $22 for two) is worth crowing over, served nero (with squid in its ink) or frutta di mare or even primavera, although one evening the usually creamy al dente rice had been cooked into sludge.

          The true triumphs here: thick boiled salmon ($18), pink at the heart, as ordered; lushly fresh striped bass, “just-cooked,” as requested; exquisite pompano ($16), perfectly done, though lonely without a sauce. The waiter brings rather bland mayonnaise…that helps. Thick grilled veal chop ($18) is blushing at the core, tender beyond imagination. At times there are scampi, split and delicately grilled ($22). Stinco di vitello ($16)—a roast veal shank carved tableside—may seem a bit dry, a whit boring, or just what the diet doctor ordered. One evening the chef couldn’t get the red snapper “underdone,” even for a recognized restaurant critic. And liver veneziana “very rare” is apparently impossible. Cut in thin curls, beige and off-tasting, it is tossed with sublime caramelized onion, served with a sad rendition of polenta. Vegetables can be bland and overcooked or tasty, tangily seasoned (maddening inconsistency).

          No one here is passionate about dessert. The house special: tiremasu, espresso-soaked ladyfingers in a mascarpone cream dusted with cocoa. One bite is enough for me, but some friends can’t get enough of it. Homemade fruit tarts are decent—best was a fresh pineapple—and the fruit salad is lovely. A new wine list celebrates Italy in depth, and spring-menu prices have gone up.

          In a small town there might be a single bar, the local hangout. Manhattan is a jigsaw of superspecialization. Preppies cluster with preppies. Athletes congregate. The rich feel richer surrounded by the rich. People like to look at good-looking people who look the way they think they look. At the moment, narcissists are studying their reflections in one another’s eyes at Castellano. Paparazzi playthings, they would kill to see themselves in black and white.

          No wonder Castellano manager Reto Cantone, international nomad now in his first restaurant venture, is unsettled at the unfortunate aftermath of a rave review in the English-language newspaper of record. Those undesirables-that-follow-the-stars hogging Castellano’s precious tables make him fret. But fashion has a wicked backlash. If his darlings hop off to next week’s feeding smash, he may learn to love the uncapped smiles of the bourgeoisie.

138 West 55^th Street, between 6th and 7th.  212 664 1975.

Monday to Friday from 12:00 PM to 02:30 PM, Sunday from 05:30 PM to 11:00 PM