[ed. Even with the departure of Sam Sifton, the dining section of the NY Times is in good hands with Pete Wells (especially after this classic.]
This being 2013, and the two chefs, Rich Torrisi and Mario Carbone, being former lieutenants of Mario Batali and Daniel Boulud, Carbone is infinitely more self-conscious than those old restaurants. It is a fancy red-sauce joint in Greenwich Village as directed by Quentin Tarantino, bringing back the punch-in-the-guts thrills of a genre that everybody else sees as uncultured and a little embarrassing, while exposing the sophistication that was always lurking there. Carbone has a technical prowess that can make you giddy; a lust for excess that can, at times, make you a little queasy; and an instinct for sheer entertainment that makes a lot of other restaurants seem like earnest, unimaginative drones.
There are, in the Tarantino style, fanboy film allusions: the tile floor from “The Godfather,” the narrow passageway into the back dining room that makes you feel like Ray Liotta handshake-tipping his way into the Copacabana.
There are the songs that make you think, “Oh, no,” followed by “I forgot how great this is,” as people with open bottles of Gaja on the table drum their fingers to “We Open in Venice.”
Like Tarantino’s love letters to pulpy exploitation films, Carbone affectionately picks up the clichés of its genre, twirls them, then hurls them at your head. Our captain wears a B-movie smile and a tuxedo in a shade of maroon last seen at Liberace’s estate sale. Bearing a hollowed-out wheel of Parmesan, he stabs a nugget of cheese and slides it on to my plate. It tastes young, milky and uninteresting, but next come papery slices of smoky and complex aged country ham, Kentucky serving as a stunt double for Parma, and a stack of “grandma bread,” a no-cheese Sicilian pizza with oregano and a shadowy, sweet pulp of tomato sauce. Both make me smile.
More unbidden genre tropes are on the way: tart giardiniera in oil, amazing garlic bread, fried ribbons of dough under powdered sugar, suave fig grappa, and delicate house-made limoncello in a bottle furry with frost. I don’t love every one of these extras, but I love the way they make me abandon any hope of quiet moderation.
Nearly the entire menu at Carbone is a quotation, starting with the $50 veal parm, which is larger than some fancy brick-oven pizzas and looks like one, too, with ovals of browned buffalo mozzarella and a bright red, summer-fresh, barely cooked tomato sauce. Served with a fried shaft of bone, it’s a shock-and-awe dish, and the most shocking thing about it is that there is no real revisionism here; it is a veal parm, the way you always hoped it would be.
More often, the old tropes get an injection of technique that acts like a syringe of epinephrine plunged into the heart. The two-and-a-half pound lobster fra diavolo is both brash and polished, the huge portion galvanized by Calabrian chiles and soothed by Cognac. No shrimp scampi has been handled as gently or luxuriously as Carbone’s chorus line of langoustines, claws extended, bodies split and slick with butter that implies garlic without coming right out and saying it.
Concentrated shellfish stock is the foundation a zuppa di pesce so deeply fragrant, you know it’s coming before it’s on the table.
