One 5th Avenue on the Corner of W. 8th St.
New York, NY
212-995-9559
www.ottopizzeria.com

The revolving door to Otto, one of restaurateur Mario Batali’s lower end ventures, had only just spat us out when a young, well-groomed man approached and ushered us with a quiet efficiency through the crowd to a tall, marble topped table in the bar. The table was one of many identical to it, each helping form precise rows of tables, around which groups of 25-40 year olds gathered, wine glasses scattered in their midst. With concrete floors and immense concrete pillars, the octave level was high, and a happy, if raucous spirit of bonhomie filled the room.

My friend let the host know that we’d like to move to the bar, where we might actually sit and enjoy our drinks and a few small plates, and he said he’d put our names in. Before we’d had a chance to even look at the wine and cocktail lists, he’d whisked back to say the bartender knew her (she’s a sommelier at a local bistro), and that two places now awaited us at the bar. It would seem that at Otto, the spirit of the food industry mafia is alive and well, and I can’t say I was unhappy to know it. Somehow I hadn’t looked forward to eating and drinking in trough fashion, as it might have seemed if we’d remained standing at our table.

Again that swift and efficacious young man led us through the crowd and we took our places at the immense and immaculate white marble bar presided over by two middle-aged male bartenders – a rare sight in trendier haunts of the Village – whose crow’s feet and salt and pepper hair lent the place some sorely needed character.

Not that Otto isn’t attractive. It boasts a handsome, dark, wood-paneled dining room, reminiscent of an old dining car with its dimly lit wall sconces and rectangular depth. The bar is trimmed with beautiful woodwork and moldings, all of which are painted a deep cranberry red. But the place could use some artwork or plants or something to give it a less sterile air. Of course there is the flickering train station timetable at one end of the room and the odd clock in the center of the bar, which I believe are meant to suggest that this eaterie is modeled after one in an Italian train station. But given that these are the only visual clues, the effect is more anomaly than atmosphere.

Happily, good value made up for lack of warmth. We selected a couple of cocktails from a menu of specialties, all of which sounded refreshing if not overly creative. My friend had the blood orange martini with Absolut Citron, Campari and orange juice, and I had the Compari Breeze, which, a mix of Absolut, Campari and grapefruit juice occupying a hefty 12 oz glass, nearly blew me off my stool. At $9.50 a pop, I was pleased with their generosity, though it became clear that I’d need to line my stomach with a little food.

And so we perused the selection of antipasti at length. It was a hard selection, if only because for those who enjoy eating tapas style, everything, from plates of Carni for $9, Pesci for $8, Formaggi from $11-19, looked so darned appetizing. We opted for a few different plates of Verdure - at $4 a dish, we knew we couldn’t go wrong – and so Eggplant Caponatina and Brussel Sprouts & Vin Cotto it was, served with just a bit of Italian Bread wrapped in wax paper. Each dish arrived good and warm in a ceramic ramekin with a serving spoon with which to drop the veggies onto our small white plates, in my mind, a very sociable way to eat. The Eggplant, stewed in a tomato sauce and finished with a smattering of pine nuts was sublimely tender, if a little sweet, but the Brussel Sprouts were roasted to perfection – just a little past crunchy – and retained their lovely nutty flavor.

The vegetable plates were followed by the best dish yet, a salad from the evening’s specials, of escarole, sunchoke and roasted peanuts. The bartender had warned us of this last surprise ingredient when we ordered it, concerned that we might have nut allergies. Given that he’d watched us consume an eggplant dish replete with pine nuts before we ordered the salad, I thought his warning oddly timed. Happily, neither of us do have nut allergies, and we relished every bite of crisp escarole dressed simply, sparingly and perfectly with lemon juice and olive oil, and punctuated with the refreshing, icy crunch of sliced sunchoke. The salad proved just the right dish to cleanse the palate before we moved on to our earthy – or “moldy” to quote the bartender – $12 Funghi and Taleggio Pizza, our last course, and, despite its perfect thin crust, our most disappointing, since salt and fat overpowered any flavors of mushroom. Perhaps we ought to have gone with our first instinct, the $14 Fennel & Bottarga Pizza with Tomato, Raw Fennel, Bottarga, Pecorino and Mozzarella, which we’d opted against as the Eggplant had been tomato-heavy, and, after all, ’tis the season for funghi.

Still, we couldn’t complain. We’d sat there a long while without the bartender staring us down. He allowed us to taste a few wines before ordering glasses, and we got out of there for about $74 before tip, fortified enough to wander the neighborhood in search of a nightcap. And where did we find ourselves, but at Babbo, Batali’s high rent trattoria where, my food industry friend told me, it’s near impossible to get a reservation. Nevertheless it was full of patrons. And, I might add, of atmosphere. Perhaps ambience only comes at high prices.

Alexandra Abuza
aabuza@gmail.com