Roman a Chef

| 11 Nov 2014 | 11:39

    The Italian invasion continues in the Lower East. On the strip of upper Orchard St. that is a window-shopper’s paradise, an inviting, crisp red awning beckons. Across the street we spy my former hairstylist in her attractive shop, Arena. Of course, I should stop in and say hello, as she’s urged me to do on the phone, but my hair is so unkempt, I’m too embarrassed. Better to duck into Basso Est unseen.

    Within: an open kitchen, bar, many garish and somewhat crudely executed paintings in blues and yellows, and hanging lamps with deep ruby glass shades that garner gazes. Tables are set with white china and tablecloths. Sitting at them is a well-heeled only-in-New York adult uptown crowd. One wears a flag pin on his lapel. Another group orders champagne. Are they lost? No, turns out some of them are carrying a magazine clipping announcing Basso Est’s opening; the chef is teased about his picture. The gent next to us tells us he had business downtown during the day, spotted the enticing classically Italian posted menu and so returned for dinner. It’s a smallish place, but a large party looks comfortably seated. On this Thursday night, a party atmosphere defines the room.

    My glass of sparkling wine holds a scant serving, but there is a slight sweetness to it. The artfully bottled, deeply flavored extra-virgin olive oil and dark balsamic vinegar on the table prove good company for the house mesclun salad. The waiter recommends the stuffed artichoke appetizer ($6.50)–"if you like artichokes"–and my date for the evening, Mrs. Baker, laughs, as she’s seen me consume many. I like artichokes so much, I usually have two of those big globe ones at a time, no butter necessary. Basso Est’s have a topping of fine, toasted breadcrumbs, and capers here and there spice up the white wine and lemon sauce just enough without being annoying. Crucially, the flesh of the heart is not overcooked. If you are defective and don’t like artichokes, you could go with the grilled shrimp and white Tuscan beans, sauteed in extra-virgin olive oil and rosemary ($7.50)

    I don’t order the bucatini because, although I love its texture, the hollow noodles are generally too hard to wrangle, and I usually wind up spattering someone when I attempt it. But Mrs. B. is more confident in her knife and fork skills. The large bowl of bucatini alla matriciana ($9.50) that is brought to her has onions, pecorino and heavenly squares of chewy, smoky Italian bacon in a tomato sauce. The sauce has been cooked down to a rich dark crimson, but the flavor reminds me a bit too much of SpaghettiOs. I order a more manageable pasta shape: homemade fettuccine festooned with thick slices of Portobello mushrooms, spinach and well-roasted cloves of garlic in an olive oil-based sauce. The pasta is al dente and un-gummy, and the veggies are firm and flavorful. My dish seems to cool quickly, but it’s likely that I am just talking too much.

    Traditional lasagna ($10.50) is served in a brick of moderate size, and homemade tagliolini ($11.50) comes with shrimp, zucchini and saffron in a garlic-oil sauce. More substantial offerings include grilled lamb chops in a "Roman style" fresh herb marinade ($17) and pan-roasted veal medallions in a mixed peppercorns and cognac sauce ($16). Our neighbor’s special of giant scallops looks gorgeous on the plate, but the aroma is slightly unpleasantly fishy. He’s working with papers and file cards and knocks that pricey virgin oil off his table, but Mrs. B. saves the day with an impressive one-handed catch.

    A birthday girl leaves her friends and lets her pasta get cold at her table while she smokes at the bar. How will she ever cope with Mayor Mike’s decree? The charming chef stops by to check on us. Service is earnest and very good, except for my coffee cup’s being snatched away before I have time to ask for a refill.

    For dessert, there are crepes filled with warm chocolate sauce ($6) and tiramisu ($6), but we select the pear tart special ($5.50). Mrs. B. makes fun of me because I look so serious as I sample it, but hey, I’m on the job. It has a sweet and soft almond filling that complements the roasted pear slices well, and the pastry isn’t soggy. The tart is lovely on the plate–large and flat with fruit placed just so. Mrs. B. says it needs vanilla ice cream and, as with most things, she is right.

    Basso Est 198 Orchard St. (betw. E. Houston & Stanton Sts.), 212-358-9469.

    Proseccheria

    It can be tough to find a cozy spot or sometimes any spot at 4:30 when you’re in the mood for something a bit more interesting than coffee and a muffin. Fortunately we happen upon a welcoming wine bar when peckishness sets in. Window boxes of tulips line the front of Pasticcio restaurant, and a sign titles its adjacent barroom as Proseccheria.

    It’s a too-busy space with pretty rose lighting. A mute tv flashes war footage from above. A short bar and a number of cafe tables host a gaggle of late-afternoon noshers. Our waiter comes over to drizzle saucers with some tasty oil for the warm bread that is covered in its basket with care. Under the napkin folds, we find fantastic puffy triangular pan rolls and some good, fresh country bread.

    A glass of chianti ($7.50) is surprisingly fruity. Cherry wood with just a wee burn at the end. The list has a handful of lightly priced proseccos, but sadly for singles, all by the bottle save one. The likeable split ($9) of dry Mionetto prosecco has the teeniest sprightly bubbles to sandpaper the palate. There’s a number of appetizers, bruschettas and salads on the menu that pair especially well with the fizzy stuff. For instance, the long plate of Manhattan bruschetta–well-blanketed with ribbons of supple smoked salmon sprinkled with bits of sweet red onion, over a thin layer of cream cheese spread on thick lightly oiled toasts. There are six other bruschettas, including one with a homemade pesto, chopped tomatoes, red onions and roasted pine nuts and another of prosciutto cotto topped with imported cheese. They all go for $7.

    They are out of the fave alla paisana ($8), a hot dish of fava bean puree over spinach with extra virgin olive oil, so the spinach salad ($8) must suffice. It’s a strikingly appetizing dish, covered with an abundance of roasted slivered almonds and decorated with lush, substantial rectangles of bright yellow and red roasted peppers that are perfectly char-less. Wedges of decorative yet blah tomatoes surround. The spinach is abundant and fresh with no bitterness. The leaves have been left a little wet, diluting their creamy honey dijon dressing, which stops just short of being too sweet.

    It’s Saturday and my companion says, "So I’ve just been watching the war." Myself, with no cable, I haven’t been able to hit "reload" fast enough to keep up with the headlines. I have broadcast tv though: "You know David Bloom is from Weekend Today? Last time I saw that guy on the tube he was interviewing dog owners in Rockefeller Center. He went from milquetoast to the sexiest man alive overnight."

    "His reporting has been amazing..."–and this from a former reporter–"...look what he’s done for his career."

    "He’s awesome! He could be a 6:30 anchor."

    Proseccheria’s cappuccino ($3.50) is satisfying and capped high with stiff, cinnamoned foam. As evening comes on, mature Murray Hillers begin to fill the adjoining muraled dining room’s candlelit tables. Our waiter senses a lack of willpower at our table and brings the dessert tray. There’s a pretty display of honeydew, citrus and strawberries smack dab in the middle, but there are also distractions like a chunky Oreo cheesecake and a mudpie that looks so chocolatey, it is practically black.

    We settle on the pecan pie ($7). Plenty of strawberry syrup is artfully piped on the plate; sliced strawberries and rosettes of whipped cream accompany. The dark, high-standing filling (rich would be an understatement) is slippery and cool on the tongue and holds plenty of whole pecans in its crisp, well-browned pastry crust. But maybe it’s me. I mean, I’ve had bad succotash, bad oatmeal, bad fish mousse en gelee, bad pureed turnips, bad breakfast burritos, bad three-bean salads, bad pepper steaks, bad Jägermeister cocktails, bad Veg-All–but I’ve yet to have a bad piece of pecan pie.

    Proseccheria 447 3rd Ave. (betw. 30th & 31st Sts.), 212-679-2551.