Casa Mono
52 Irving Pl. (E. 17th St.)
212-253-2773
There’s something to be said for the privilege of watching a chef make your meal. As diners, we rarely acknowledge the leap of faith required every time we go to a restaurant. I, for one, usually end up feeling toxic after eating out too much. This feeling inspires all sorts of questions that perhaps I shouldn’t be asking. For instance, what is in my food? What kind of oil are they using? How much do they put in there? And how many rounds of cooking has that oil seen? How many hands have touched the food I eat? And where have they been, anyway? These are all things that shouldn’t cross my mind, but do from time to time.
When my small party and I arrived at Casa Mono, the Catalonian addition to Mario Batali’s robust Italian empire, I was quick to note that the behind-the-scenes chef does not exist here. Like sushi chefs or taxi drivers, the cooks at Casa Mono work in full view, with only a symbolic glass panel separating them from their customers. That night, my two guests and I had what were easily the best seats in the house. Right in front us were the squeeze bottles full of olive oil, tubs of garnish and condiments, the lush, market-fresh ingredients and the two chefs in a constant discourse with them all.
Relative to the considerable amount of buzz it’s received, Casa Mono is actually quite tiny. Though reservations are theoretically possible here, when I called on a Saturday afternoon, the restaurant was booked through 11 pm. If we hadn’t snagged those three counter seats shortly after the 5:30 opening, we would have been waiting at least 45 minutes for a vacancy. (You can wait at Bar Jamon next door, part two of Batali’s Spanish venture, but again, only in theory–the night that we peeked in, it was packed).
From the first moment that we sat down, I was mesmerized. I hadn’t realized it, but I’d been watching one chef’s dexterous hands so intently–tossing oiled brussels sprouts onto the plancha, the hot metal surface on which most of the cooking is done, spooning out pools of romesco sauce–that about 20 minutes passed before I even glanced at her face.
Watching how every dish was prepared–simply, expertly and with beautiful ingredients–made choosing very difficult. Small artichokes drizzled in olive oil, heaps of sliced rare skirt steak, a duck egg with an obscenely large yolk and salt-cured tuna–these were all dishes that I didn’t order. But to see them made them memorable. To contradict the Mad Hatter, at Casa Mono seeing what you eat and eating what you see seems like a reasonably sound interchange.
Casa Mono’s menu is equally straightforward, perhaps the least pretentious I’ve encountered at a restaurant of its caliber. What could have been written as "Grilled Lollipop Lamb with Sunchoke Chips and Preserved Lemon Rind" is simply "Lamb with Preserved Lemon." In fact, not one menu item has an explanation (or an exploitation) or uses more than five words. If you desire more words, the waiters will provide them.
While the menu showed restraint, there was little holding back where food was concerned. We first ordered wine, probably the most generous by-the-glass serving I have ever received. I had an easy-drinking Garnacha Tempranillo Abrazo Crianza ($9) poured in a chubby glass and accompanied by a miniature carafe, which amounted together to about half a bottle. This was only one selection from an extensive list of Spanish reds, whites and cavas by the bottle and glass.
After complimentary olives and rolls, both very good, our first plate came out. Our overly enthusiastic waitress recommended far too much food–nine dishes for three girls. It doesn’t sound like much, but the portions, described as tapas-sized, are actually quite large and potent. I’m sure I would have enjoyed the meal more if I hadn’t been force-feeding myself for most of it.
First came scallions with romesco ($4), long green onions doused in olive oil and thrown on the plancha, with a healthy portion of their house-made romesco, an amazingly fresh paste of hazelnuts, tomatoes, onions and chili that had the taste and appearance of steak tartare. (No, I’m not crazy. I pow-wowed with the chef about it–he actually thought so, too.) Then there was the very basic but highly edible Jamon serrano a mano ($10), a spartan plate of hand-carved, dry, nutty Spanish ham. (These pigs are apparently raised on a diet of walnuts.)
By this point we had amassed four plates on the counter: chipirones with rice and beans ($12), tender baby squid with beans shaped like good ‘n plenties, bacalao croquetas with orange alioli ($7), breaded deep-fried salt cod that made for dainty little fishcakes.
After the first round me and the girls were all right, but the food just kept a comin’. By the time we got the exquisite wild boar with escalivada ($15), soft scarlet slabs of well-seasoned meat on saffron honey, with zucchini, red peppers and eggplant, we were eating just to taste.
It tasted wonderful. No flaw was detectable in the lamb with preserved lemon ($15); the guinea hen with cardoons, a fennel-like vegetable ($13), was crackling hot and fatty, and paired well with a glass of caramel-y brandy. The sweetsbreads with fennel ($12), seriously dense and sauteed to a crisp, put me over the edge. This delicacy is intensely rich, and if your appetite is anything like mine, there is enough organ on this plate to satisfy three people. Brussels sprouts a la plancha ($5), was one more dish that, while very good, I could hardly do more than taste.
In one final push, we went for a dessert. Unlike the enticing dinner menu, none of the desserts really spoke to us. Our waitress was gushing about the batter-fried sweet bay leaves ($6), which, with the exception of the foul goat- cheese panna cotta at WD-50, is one of the most bizarre desserts I have ever eaten. First off, in order to "consume" these, you must drag the dough off of each leaf, artichoke style, with your teeth. You do not eat the bay leaf: It would probably slice up your intestines. As part of the eucalyptus family, the sweet bay leaf has some kind of medicinal quality.
When I scraped the dough off the first one, my tongue tingled. After the second or third, I got chills and my scalp started to contract. Then I remembered Jeffrey Steingarten’s article in Vogue about his allergic reaction to taro leaves, and wondered if my tongue was going to swell up in my head and someone would have to administer an adrenalin shot.
Thankfully, the feeling passed. Though it reminded me, once again, that eating out does require a leap of faith.
