Torino; Financier Patisserie

On a cold dark unlikely side street, it’s so nice to find lanterns lighting a doorway and cozy warmth through bistro windows. There’s an immediate offer to take my coat, but even though these environs are toasty, I’m reluctant to part with it. Fortunately, I’d got it cheap enough before the cold snap set in. At Duane Reade I’d seen a girl in a cream-colored coat. I could tell it was both new and inexpensive, so demanded to know where she’d got it. "H&M." I did not pass go or collect $200, but went directly across the intersection to the store; annoyingly, she had taken the 8, but the 10 allows me to wear a jacket underneath.

I meet my dinner companion at Torino’s scratched-up but glowy copper-topped bar. And she won’t give up her coat either. Generous pours of wine are quickly set before us. The merlot ($8) is mellow, peppery and woody; the house white ($8), light apple lemon. A small plate of spicy slices of salami and creamy-tasting chunks of aged cheese appears with lightning speed. Adjoining the longish bar is a lounge area with velvet-backed chairs, a small fake fireplace, an unobtrusive tv mounted above tuned to a cable talking head, and a slick black upright that I’d love to hear being played. Some folks sit near the front windows murmuring and picking at plates.

All diners are black-clad, (okay, one man’s in gray), well-heeled after-work twentysomethings for the most part. It mystifies me as to how people of a type find their spots so quickly–this incarnation’s not been open long. Crimson curtains hang in the dining room. Seating is sit-all-night comfortable. Some muted Mondrianesque wall designs are dated but inoffensive, a line of amber glowing sconces warms the room, and the large ceramic floor tiles put you in an old country trattoria. Bouncy Europop, louder in the bar, is background. There’re white tablecloths and formally dressed service, but patrons are casually dressed in a cashmere sort of way.

Table bud vases hold pine, pussy willow and red roses. The waiter lays napkins over our laps. A saucer of grilled green zucchini is crunchy and so garlicky. "Your companion likes this." Bruschetta of chopped tomato, basil and onion is also surreptitiously placed before us by the deft service. Big Portuguese rolls are portioned out with triangles of sweet butter. You could be full here before you even get the menu. A largish list of specials is recited, one dressed up in a truffle sauce. The regular menu provides a wide range of entree possibilities, and many of the diverse dishes are available at lunchtime as well.

A single votive lights our table, but the manager swoops in out of nowhere to pull back gold crinkle curtains, shedding more light and giving us a window view of the comings and goings at Hotel Thirty Thirty. An enticing-sounding appetizer special of portobello mushroom with greens and goat cheese never appears. I speak up about it only so we’re not billed for it; both the entrees we order are large and rich–we will not starve. But the waiter seems about to commit hara-kiri on the spot. Now I’m sorry I mentioned it. Many grave apologies are issued and an on-the-house round is brought. Regular appetizer options include Clams Possilipo ($14) with plum tomato, garlic and basil, and Spiedini Romano (bread and cheese fry, $12) with capers and anchovy sauce. There are soups and salads too, one a Caesar ($12).

My companion is a risotto nut and was presented with a problem–the mushroom version ($24) with shiitake, porcini and oyster mushrooms or the seafood with jumbo prawns, clams, mussels and calamari ($28). Selfishly, I lobbied for the seafood; it has been cooked in a heavenly fish broth and still has some bite to it. Its rings of calamari are fresh, and oversized mussels in their shells ring the plate. This comfort dish is a brilliant way to serve shellfish in the dead of winter.

I love veal and it isn’t found everywhere, so that’s my pick. But it can be rubber if not prepared well. My family used to stay in Monroeville whenever they visited me at college, and they’d take me and a friend to dinner at the hotel restaurant, Al’s Casa di Monzo. Which I liked because the hotel had a couple of good pinball machines. Al’s seemed huge and had a lot of red carpeting and upholstery. On one occasion I ordered the veal francaise. It looked okay, but had the texture of a Goodyear product, so after a bite I pushed my plate away. My guest, my college boyfriend, was aghast, hailing from a family in which food left on a plate was considered a one-way ticket to hell. My upbringing was different–whenever I hemmed (or hawed) when considering ordering a dish I wasn’t sure about, my dad would say, "Try it. If you don’t like it, don’t eat it." So after finishing his entree, my boyfriend insisted on cleaning the steel-belted radial filets off my plate as well, with no enjoyment whatever. He chawed through it like it was a job that must be completed. He would also always eat the bruised part of fruit (which is bad for the immune system, by the way). He wrote to me recently and said my writing is "greatly improved." Big of him, huh? In his defense, I guess when you meet someone when they are 17, you will forever treat them as though they are 17.

There is no trouble with the very tender Veal Inverno ($22) at Torino. The waiter approves of my choice, saying it’s better than all the specials. Trompe l’oeil eggs-over-easy, it consists of fresh marinated artichoke hearts centered over veal scallops with smooth melted mozzarella over all. A heady cream sauce surrounds, and the dish is accompanied by a plate of hotly peppered, nicely oiled roly-poly baby roasted potatoes that carry an intense potato flavor. A couple of veal chop preparations are offered tonight as well. Also on the menu–chicken, salmon, shell steak, branzino Livernese (sea bass) with black olives ($28), capers and tomato sauce, and of course a number of pastas, including linguini with clams ($24), which comes with crisped panchetta and pepperoncino. Northern Italian specialties inventively interpreted and perked up with fresh herbs and off-the-farm flavors.

"Coffee?" My companion will partake. "Bella?" I’m still working on the free wine. There’s a recitation of familiar favorite desserts–chocolate mousse, ricotta cheesecake and ice creams. We select a gorgeous tiramisu ($8). It has no soggy elements, purely creamy over a liqueur-soaked, almond-inclusive base. Strawberry sundae syrup and slices adorn the showy plate. And the coffee is a rich roast.

Torino has its contradictions; it’s classy yet comfortable, quiet yet not at all mausoleumy, a menu on the fancy side, but not an ounce of stiffness to the place. No wonder it’s been found so quickly.

Torino, 29 E. 30th St. (betw. Madison & Park Aves.), 212-213-5041.

Financier Patisserie

A new bakery cafe sits on picturesque Stone St. (which seems more like a set designer’s idea of a swath of old New York, or rather Nieuw Amsterdam, than an actual street). Watch your step down into the bright room with butter-yellow walls and French windows. Olive-green beading shades, hanging lamps and sconces. Wall framings are French and financially themed. Your order is brought on gold-rimmed china with gleaming flatware to a cafe table, and a packet containing a mini-financier, a doll-sized almond poundcake, is left for you as a parting gift. So moist, it’s almost like candy.

The window seats afford a view of the carless street and its bicyclists, walked retrievers of different colors woofing at each other, and workers wielding handcarts. In the a.m., there’s a steady stream of Wall Streeters, some without coats, to take their coffees and lattes away. Some stay and peruse the Journal. A Frenchman comes in and orders a sugared brioche that defies its humble ingredients; gently browned with yellow innards, its egg and butter assault the tongue and provide a delectable continental breakfast when paired with Financier’s good coffee. Of course there are almond and plain croissants if you desire something more substantial.

A papered cylinder of lemon poppy-seed muffin is topped with big sugar crystals and tastes of fresh lemon. Rows of shiny caramel-colored macaroon sandwiches by the register are hard to pass up; a bite into the pistachio version implodes its thin crackly coating and gives way to a marzipanny, but moist and light, jewel-green nutty center. Sweet, but fun. Squares of darkly iced brownies look glossy and luscious. A rectangle of flan is golden brown in spots and sits in the thinnest yet still flaky pastry crust. The custard is dense, eggy, sturdy and not overly sweet. An egg-glazed scalloped cherry chausson is a small turnover, flaky on the outside, webby on the inside, with soft almond filling and whole dark sog-less fruit.

As with Financier’s other baked offerings, the emphasis is on the mix of flavors, but texture sure hasn’t been ignored; these are good goodies. The only detraction here is the old rock (Elton, Bowie, U2) on the speakers that in this century sounds unbearably soft.

The bakery case holds an eye-popping array of diet-busting individual dessert treats–various fruit cheesecakes, eclairs, mousses, tarts and tortes as well as whole fancy-dancy, so-pretty cakes for guest impressing. And for your hostess, there are cellophane bags of "spicy truffles" to bring. The precisely crafted food and Gallic-ly accented service might make you think you took a wrong turn from the financial district into France. Until you spy the "No Smoking" sign.

Financier Patisserie, 62 Stone St. (betw. William St. & Mill La.), 212-344-5600.