Shorty's 32

At 5’3, I’m what I like to think of as elegantly petite. Perhaps this is delusional. Perhaps delusion is necessary. Of course, I’ve only come to think of my height-challenged stature as a source of advantage in the last seven years. Audrey Hepburn was tiny. So is Lorin Lataro, one of my favorite dancers. And, I rarely bump my head on low ceiling. Triumph.

But, it took me quite some time to feel this way about my height, or lack thereof. Perhaps this is because growing up I had a bunch of long-drink-of-water dancer friends. Or maybe it was because in magazines the models always seemed to be about twice my height. But, I’m pretty sure that the source of my annoyance mostly came from the barrage of patronizing nicknames that hail down from the sky when you’re under 5’5. Peanut, little one, cutie (particularly offensive, when at 15, all you want to be is anything other than cute) and short stuff. Blech.

I’m sure Josh Eden of Shorty’s .32 went through the same trials as I did. Fortunately, we both made it out unscathed (essentially) and turned our heights from liabilities into assets. I’ve parlayed my stature into lots of fun teenage roles. Currently I’m playing a 15-year-old in a musical, and I’m pretty sure my height was a help in looking the part and nabbing the gig. As for Josh, a Vongerichten alum and star, he has turned his own befitting nickname of Shorty into a moniker for his cozy restaurant on Prince Street in Soho. With just 32 seats (hence, Shorty’s .32) including a painfully tiny bar, the joint is short on space at about the size of a large studio. And with some odd hanging lamps, the decor isn't a main attraction. But these are pretty much the joint's only shortcomings (Get it? Get it?). With a welcoming, playful vibe, you’ll immediately feel that this spot is large in most everything else, especially the things that matter most: warmth, flavorful offerings, fair prices, fun and a real generosity of spirit. Even if you end up in a smushed corner, Antonio the maitre’d or even Josh will offer you a drink, a smile and quickly make you feel like the tallest person in the most spacious room.

And that’s not even the best of it. Once get to your meal, most of the menu choices are robust in stature and balance. From the nicely-portioned appetizers are a bunch of hits. My favorite is the squash and ricotta salata salad adorned with hefty strips of prosciutto. If you can get all of these components, plus the crunchy lettuce into one bite, you may not need anything else. This is where the salad is lifted to meal level. Another vegetable delight is the fragrant, creamy artichoke soup. The deep, saturated flavor is a shocker when you consider it’s a green’s doing.

The fat crab-sticks are also a clever take on a chicken finger. Sweet, fresh meat is very lightly breaded, amounting to way more than any old, measly finger. Basil remoulade adds freshness and zing. Snappy grilled shrimp are an equal seafood friend, skimmed with black cumin honey for an exotic decadence for the spare critter.

If you're looking for heavier beginnings, head straight to the divine braised pork belly. It’s perfectly fatty and moist, and the cranberry bean salad stands by in case you need richness relief. The only bummer I've tried is a pinci pasta with gloppy, monotone mushroom sauce. Although the pasta is perfectly dense, the sauce adds no flavor to the texture.

From the entreés, you can go light or heavy, even in one category: For fish, if you're watching your belt, try the simple skate, with a zing from lemon and a generous portion of asparagus. Or, dip into the deep end with the roasted cod in gruyere broth. This is a naughty version of French onion soup with all the tang of the onion and velvet lapping from the cheese. The cod is fall-out-of-shape tender and the whole concoction achieves the glamour of a meat dish.

The roasted chicken also gets great treatment here in a perfect purist fashion. The meat is juicy and the skin is fantastically crispy. The sides are humble mashed potatoes and green beans, but it all tastes and feels as it should—straight from home and Mom. Although the chimichurri steak is boring and often dry, the braised short rib picks up the slack, plus some. It falls off the bone into a thick jus. Not to mention, it’s paired with an ooey, gooey, fantastic mac-and-cheese that has a thrilling hit of heat from chile.

Although the wine list that accompanies is terse, it’s well-chosen and well-priced. I especially like the bright Txacolina offered on special many nights. Plus, you might want to opt for cocktails anyway: The juicy, citrusy Stargarita is a colorful take on the old-standby margarita. A tall portion of tasty, just like most of what's found in this comforting neighborhood short stop.

Shorty’s .32
Rating: Great
Address: 199 Prince Street
Phone: 212.375.8275

Viva Argentina!

Hola, chicos! I recently returned from a trip to Argentina with my parents for their 35th anniversary (Que generoso! Muchas gracias, mis padres!). There, this phrase is the standard, amiable greeting. Roughly translated, it means “Hello, little children.” But from what I gathered, it really means “Hello, my friends!” In just ten days, I found that this congenial, personal attitude pervades more than the colloquial language there. It’s in the friendly greetings at hip bars, the slightly slower strolls even on busy shopping avenues, the intimate cheek kisses that are worlds apart from Hollywood air-smooches and the languid wine tastings at airy vineyards. Between Buenos Aires, the resting place of my musical-theater patroness, Evita, and Mendoza, the desert-cum-wine region bursting with impressive tipple, I found myself in a rare state: I was relaxed. Relaxed as in, didn’t check my work email. Relaxed as in, actually forgot what day it was. Relaxed as in, slept straight through the night. Muchas gracias, Argentina. Muchas gracias, chicos.

I’m pretty sure this relaxation was partly due to that delicious delusion I fall into when I travel: “This vacation will last forever. I no longer have to go to work.” It works pretty well if you say it over and over. And, it was also due to exhaustion: We did tours, we biked, we took tango classes, we went to tango milongas (awesome, all-ages dance parties). And lastly, if I’m honest with myself, I’m pretty sure most of my relaxation was really just a food (read: beef) and wine coma.

On most street corners both in B.A. and Mendoza you can find a parilla, or grill house, with enough meat to make a vegetarian scream like a terrible-twos-year-old. But, what was even more exciting, was that most of the parillas—and cafes, restaurants and bars—offered not just serviceable food and wine, but truly tasty, fresh choices for a price that made this dancer/editor living on peanuts feel, nay I say...like I actually had enough money??? Looking into my wallet and realizing it had been two days and I still did not need to go to the ATM, made this New Yorker gasp in delight, in disbelief and finally in relief. And the quality at most random, nameless places made this realization even more mind blowing. Case in point: After a challenging but thrilling tango class at cultural arts center Torquato Tasso in the cobble-stoned San Telmo area, my parents, my boyfriend and I wanted a quick bite before we headed to a professional tango show. We wandered back to the nearest square, Plaza Dorrego, and walked into Café Dorrego, a classic if touristy spot. I worried the food would be musty, sub-par and overpriced—similar to a Times Square joint. Instead, the salad I ordered was crisp and snappy, the bread was fluffy and the glass of house red was rich and balanced. It was also $1.50.

On another day, I checked out a more traditional parilla in the same area, on an avenue called Defensa. It was called La Establa, or the Establishment, and it fulfilled its name. It felt as if San Telmo had been built with this restaurant in the blue prints. Walking up to the entrance, onlookers could see the humongous flat-top grill heaped with cuts of beef, pork and chicken, and even smell the smoke as the hulking grill-keeper kept the sliding window thrust open. His smile was scraggly and his hands were caked with soot. He threw slabs onto the top as if they were boulders and wielded a hearty laugh/grunt each time he did so. I was mesmerized. And, I knew the beef would be great. It was: We ordered chorizo and lomo (sirloin), and even though I ordered a half portion, the cut was as big as my head. The beef was flavorful and tangy from iron, as many cows there are fed more natural diets, versus the corn and starchy feed that seems to create a haze over the flavor of some beef here. My carnivore side was satiated with each juicy, perfectly charred bite. I also loved that there didn’t seem to be any seasoning on the meat…just me, the meat and the grill. At tables around us, the locals seemed to be unafraid of volume. Mixed platters included on-bone cuts, different types of sausages and chicken legs. Although my Spanish is in pretty good shape, I was smart enough to know I indeed was not a local; I did not to try to match their eating prowess. I also tried not to look shameful as I walked away from half of my half portion while a 10 year old next to me gnawed on a stripped rib-eye bone.

Along with these simple choices, both B.A. and Mendoza also offered more gourmet options. In B.A., my TDF pick was definitely La Vineria de Gualterio Bolivar (865 Bolivar, San Telmo). Chef Alejandro Digilio served a 10-course meal that rivaled many options in NYC. It reminded me of a toned-down Blue Hill—Blue Hill Lite. The space was sleek and spare with metal walls and burgundy accents. Flowers and soft music softened the atmosphere, but really once the food started coming it could have been a hut for all I cared. Not to mention, the service was impeccable: friendly, knowledgeable, engaging but not syrupy and ultra-accommodating.

The menu flowed through the courses naturally, starting with small, three-pronged amuse-bouche bites of salmon tartar, a puff pastry with fried cheese and a slip of foie gras with apple shavings. Each was balanced, spunky and an impressive start, hushing my table from whining about the odd decor choices. Next, a salad was a surprising springtime hit, with 30 seasonal vegetables (really, I counted) with a zesty pesto dressing. The Huevo 62/50 was a breakfast deconstruction now familiar to me as most farm-to-table restaurants in NYC serve it. Digilio’s was cooked in 62 degrees for 50 minutes, and was one of the best versions I’ve had, complete with a stinky cheese foam and truffle jus. I wanted to dive in the bowl. Tiny scallops befriended by slices of tender lamb were next. The sweet potato puree was a lovely addition, but these sad mollusks and the dry octopus with strange vinegar cubes that came next were the only mediocre moments on the whole moment. And really, they were only poor in comparison to the flavor explosions of the rest of the meal.

A hunk of perfectly cooked salmon swam in to save the day along with an intoxicating ginger broth. Usually salmon hits zero on my excitement-meter: this was off the charts and the sleeper hit of the night. Pork loin with white beans and tomato wasn’t far behind with buttery meat and the acid of the fruit heading up the balance book. Next, a generous portion of steak was a perfect example of unadulterated, ridiculously-awesome Argentine beef and was only bothered by a sweet potato crisp at its side.
As if understanding the richness scale was about to tip, Digilio reigned back with a dessert starter of tea verde poured over plum that was refreshing and surprising for a low-cal treat. I almost didn’t want the chocolate goat cheese and almond cake that came next, or the decadent dark chocolate sprinkled with sea salt that ended the meal. But then I did. Too good. Spot-on wine pairings including a crisp, flirty Torrontes, elegant Pinot Noir from San Rafael and velvety Xumek Syrah further highlighted just how on-point this place and Digilio’s taste are, despite the humble décor.

And that was just our first night in B.A. Surprisingly, the other eye-popper meal was not in the cosmo city, but in Mendoza, at Azarfan, a gourmet shop and restaurant similar to Market Table in concept. After a day of tasting outrageous wines like a malbec rosé, invigorating Torrontes and hordes of Malbecs at vineyards in the Uco Valley (Salentein ranked the highest of those we visited), we tumbled into the cozy, rustic spot for my parents’ anniversary meal. Huge wagon wheel chandeliers hung over wood-paneled floors, and the walls were strewn with flowers and photos. There, although an international vibe pervaded the menu (the ceasar salad was perfectly salty and anchovy-laden), it was more focused on beef, along with Latin flavors and sensibility. A huge cut of pork chop with blueberries was succulent and thoughtful, but the real winner of the evening was a ginormous, charred rib eye on the bone (which was the exact length of my entire arm). The beef was uniquely sweet and the smokiness from the crust of char were so good that my face was sooty afterward. Only the rib-eye at the Park Hyatt Mendoza were we were staying and had eaten the night before rivaled it.

Along with the food, instead of choosing from a wine list, we (and all other customers…damn, thought I was special for a minute) were invited to pick a wine from the “cellar” situated in a private dining room (where there were people dining…that was a bit awkward). The extensive selection included ubiquitous Malbecs, wide-ranging Syrahs, Cab-Savs and tons of Torrontes. It was a dimly-lit, heavenly room and the stroll with the sommellier was definitely a lovely touch.

Returning from Argentina, I had a debate in my head: Which was better the food or the tango? And in true foodie/dancer fashion, I decided it was a tie. In fact, it seemed they mirrored each other. I thought of it like this: When a woman dances tango and truly trusts her partner, she can dance with her eyes closed, enjoying every moment. No surprise, on a spin around the floor at the milonga at the Armenian Community Center (odd, but true) with a twikle-toed old Argentine grandfather (a huge honor supposedly—the older the partner, the better), I allowed myself to close my eyes for a moment. Pretty good. I giggled as I realized the joy of dancing that night was pretty darn similar to eating that great rib eye in Mendoza. Eyes closed—both times.

The John Dory

When I'm really starving and need to be satiated in that Winter-mehs sort of way I always turn to beef. (Did you read last week's post? If not, get thee to the bottom of this page for the Meh definition). I know that's partly because I need iron that abounds in red meat. But it's also because many beef dishes are dressed is heartier and more indulgent manners than their flimsy fish counterparts. Fortunately, Ken Friedman and chef April Bloomfield's newish John Dory on 10th avenue brings a warm wealth of heft and decadence to my swimming friends, in a congenial if kookily-outfitted spot.

Like a slim sailboat docked between two giant yachts, the John Dory is crunched between the behemoths of Craftsteak and Del Posto; many times I saw people wander in thinking it was a bar for one of these eateries. Fortunately, the Dory doesn't take itself too seriously to be bothered by that. Don't be fooled, though: There is serious talent and ambition happening here, not only evident in the nuanced menu, but also in touches like a thoughtful wine list, a tasty amuse bouche of fried parsnip strips with fish spread, bread service and cutlery changes. But with piles of aquatic tzotchkies and a huge aquarium stocked with neon fish, the narrow hall with just a few tables and short bar is also something like wandering into a blitzed sailor's den. It's a sea of interesting contrasts.

All told, it makes you feel slightly dizzy and overwhelmed, but giddy, too; a feeling similar to that of eating a giant rib-eye, creamed spinach and a molten chocolate cake. And that's not the end to the steak-heavy comparisons. Bloomfield's gastropub roots (the awesome Spotted Pig) are felt in almost every dish; this is not a spot for most calorie counters, unless you stick to the crudo section. Otherwise, get ready to dig in. Case in point, the must-try oyster pan-roast appetizer. Disguised by it's container of a wee tea cup, a rich explosion of cream, butter and garlic drown plump, briny oysters. As if that weren't enough to happily clog an artery, the soupy decadence is accompanied by a toast layered with pads of sea urchin uni butter that melt in your mouth, leaving a fat, oceany taste. Ridiculous. Even the escarole salad with creamy anchovy dressing and a generous douse of acid from lemon turns healthy into holy cow, although in a slightly overpowering way. Unfortunately my favorite appetizer, the cod milt, has since been replaced by monkfish liver. If it ever comes back, try to get over the fact that this dish is basically cod sperm. Just like the sweetbreads it resembles, it has a unique creamy inside complimented by the pan-fried crispy outside. Parsley, lemon and capers provide balance.

If you do choose the crudo, Bloomfield offers simplicity like a maine lobster with aioli. Oysters are as superb as they should be in a seafood restaurant, and are accompanied by interesting sorts of toppers. Both choices are lovely but unless you die for oysters, head to the power players.

The entreé section continues the starters' theme of generous sauces and spices, but also offers a few purist dishes like the tasty, whole sea bass. It's grilled and stuffed with a rosemary and anchovy pesto (can you tell Bloomfield digs salty anchovies?). It's simple and safe but the herbacious stuffing adds zest and fragrance. One notch up on the stuff-yourself list is a creative combination of squid plumped with rice and chorizo. It reminds me of an inside out paella and has a bit of heat, and a great mix of textures between the fluffy rice, crunchy chorizo and tender seafood. If you want to head for gut-buster territory, try the fish stew or pan roasted cod. The first is a spicy, oily conglomeration of a tomato base, shellfish and crunchy toast—a real winter winner. I just wish the slices of fish in it had been a bit more cared for instead of scrap-like. The cod on the other hand was flawless both times I tried it. Dense white fish adorned with snappy artichoke chips (yum), a kicker of chili and creamy mantecato is weighty and fresh at the same time. I definitely felt like this could beat out a steak without much problem. A side of spiced carrots with a Mediterranean twist from yogurt sauce rounds out any of the fish dishes, but stay away from the lumpy yawn of caponata.

Unfortunately the plain arctic char a la plancha couldn't even compare to the other main courses, unless you add in the pillowy steak fries that accompany it. Next time I go (if I feel like bottoming out and truly hating myself afterward) I might try the fried fluke and chips. It's now on the lunch menu and offered many times as a special at night. A man sitting next to me chomping on his flaky, golden portion looked blissful and a bit hallucinatory. So much love could kill a girl, but I might just do it.

I recommend you check out the dessert list, even though after one of Bloomfield's intense appetizers AND entreés, your belly is about to explode. Try anyway: The apple tart with cinnamon ice cream is one of my favorite versions of this classic. The crust is buttery and sweet, the apples have just a hint of strength still in them, and the bulb of ice cream is uncanny in its complimentary flavor. Or for those who love rugalach, try the Eccles cake, a currant stuffed pastry with a wedge of cheese. The small berries inside are soaked in port, adding depth to the flaky crust and foil to the cheese's yummy stink. Next time, I'll be wading up to the treacle pudding for two, which looks like a wobbly, custardy lump but from what I've seen also inspires smiles upon first bite.

Now, it's true. Every time I leave John Dory, I'm both a bit tipsy from wall-accessory–overload and my pants are curiously digging into my stomach where they didn't before. And yes, at times Bloomfield's affinity for butter, cream, garlic and anything rich and naughty can be taken too far and can come off as heavy handed. When just a touch of restraint is used, it helps the sublime from tottering into silly. But regardless, I leave jolly and stuffed, finally enjoying the cold air whipping my satisfied face. A fish shack with the soul of a chophouse. And what a soul that is. Yar.

The John Dory
Rating: Excellent
Address:85 10th Avenue between 15/16th street
Phone: 212.929.4948

L'Artusi

Ok, I know it. I've been gone for way too long and left TDF to lay fallow for a bit more than I wanted to. I'm sorry. Do you forgive me? I hope so.

Is the excuse that I was in a show in Brooklyn and was in rehearsal seven days a week any good? Probably not. It’s lame, I know, and even more so because it wasn't the only reason for my absence. The other culprit is what this Florida girl calls the hibernation-inducing "WinterMehs ." Even though I’ve been living in the Northeast for quite some time now, every winter shocks me like one of those truly horrible kisses you had when you were fifteen: way too wet, sloppy and something to quickly run away from. Whenever holiday giggles melt into mid-January blah, I feel tired, my bones get chilly straight down to my marrow and really the only thing I want to do is sneak under my covers until the thermometer starts to smile again.

But while much of my quasi-hibernation took place either in the theater or my bed, one other locale was able to snatch me out of my warm sheets more than once: L’Artusi, the new sibling to Joe Campanele and Gabe Thompson's Dell'anima. The roomier spot starts where Dell’anima left off and adds on considerably, with a wide array of medium plates (to be differentiated from the small-plate swell ), an obvious affinity for wine and a general cheery disposition.

The new joint is sleek upon entrance, catering to the posh West Village area surrounding it. A short hallway of smooth black panels, splatter-painted concrete and hidden bathrooms made me worry I was in too-cool land until I stepped in just a bit more. Then, the room opens into a comforting Cape Cod-meets-Italian eatery, where pristine white cabinetry, marble counter tops and a navy blue color palette add up to an ambiance that says nautical in aMediterranean way. This combination of clean colors, warm accents and friendly staff speaks to the main idea here: comfortable yet chic—and viceversa . This is not a spot that knocks your socks off in any extreme way, but in this cold, I usually want my socks on. Instead it soothes and pleases, making it a lovely place to lure me out of my mehs.

The food runs a similarly easy-going and enjoyable course, with a few stumbles but none that would keep me away. Although upstairs and to the right of the entrance boast well-spaced tables, my favorite spots to nosh are at the L-shaped bar, sliver of a cheese counter or by the open kitchen. From there, it's time to get a-picking. The food is separated by type: crudo(raw/mostly fish items), verdure, pasta, pesce, carne and contorti . Good thing the prices actually do approximate the serving size: bigger price tag, mostly bigger plate (I say mostly because from the crudo section, the prices are a bit higher for even smaller-sized seafood dishes).

I like to meander in all of the categories. The scallop tartare is a zinger to start with slices of the mollusk gussied up with just a touch of sea salt, lemon, olive oil and a snappy Italian red pepper, espelette. Clearing the sinuses while charming the tongue, this dish hit all the right notes to start off. Unfortunately the marlin crudo doesn't reach the same heights, and the garnishes of ginger, yuzu and apple (which individually are usually zesty and interesting), seem to melt into the mild fish for a bland overall flavor.

For some healthy greens, other than the classic and elegant frisee salad with poached egg and spot-on red wine vinaigrette, I'd head to the contorti for a more inventive use of vegetables. The fennel with orange and honey takes one of my favorite bulbs and makes it a bit naughty with sweet citrus segments and decadent honey for a caramelized, sexy dish unexpected from a sides list. Less sensual but equally tasty are the roasted brussel sprouts with parmigiano—really, what could be bad? Tangy, bitter orbs with salty cheese. Yum. This is one old-school trick that should not go away.

For the real heavy-hitter, winter winners, head to the pasta. The first time I tasted the pizzoccheri, instead of bundling in my bed, I wanted to bundle in these layers. Buckwheat sheets are nestled between shaved brussel sprouts (again with the bitter deliciousness) and hearty helpings of decadent fontina cheese. In one mouthful, they combine to taste like warmth, comfort and perhaps just a touch of sex...yes, it's that good. Plus the hearty and heart-healthy buckwheat made me forgive myself for the gooiness that is all that cheese.

The zestier orecchiette will make you want to sit up, where the pizzocherri made you sit back—both smart choices. Sausage and salumi create the spicy hum heard by the tiny ear pasta, with bitter green tempering the seasonings of the meat. A delicate and light sauce pools at the bottom, perfect for dipping and scooping up said salami left over.

Unfortunately, the old standby of spaghetti and meatballs didn't fare quite as well as the two above, and perhaps because of too much finagaling. Good point: golf-size meatball well seasoned and tender. Medium point: well-cooked pasta. Meh-point: weirdly fiery sauce overdone with an extra hit of meat in the form of gummy pancetta . While I applaud the indulgent idea of adding meat to meat, the heat searing my mouth and extra chews it took to get through the oddpancetta took that smile off my face. Too bad.

Fortunately my drowsy grin returned with a glass of tocai from the reasonably priced and wide-ranging Italian wine list, and the quail from the carne column. Usually a paltry fowl, this bird had real punch from being perfectly cooked for sweet, tender meat and a wake-up from preserved lemon. The sweetbreads also were prepared well with their oozy insides shielded by crisp outsides, and again, fruit balancing game, this time in the form of pungent blood oranges.

The pesce list also offers carne, only as a compliment to the skate. I love this take on surf and turf, with the thin ray featured from the sea and a chunk of unapologetic Berkshire pork sitting beside it. Unusual best friends, but tasty nonetheless, although best eaten separately. If eaten in one munch, the skate might as well not have even shown up to the party. But any which way you turn in this dish, you'll be satisfied with both heft and a delicate touch.

The drink list oddly and wonderfully follows this course, too. There are light cocktails with girly flavors or some seriously heavy mezcal choices. Just like the menu, there are serious undertakings if you would like, but you can be just as happy to put on a cute sweater and get your comfort-carbs on, too.

Fortunately Spring is coming soon and my mehs will disappear with the snow and annoying coat wearing (on the subway...getting all hot, take the coat off, put it back on..I really can't handle it). But with its revolving menu and affable nature, perhaps I'll find another excuse to hibernate at L'Artusi for just a bit longer. Now back to bed...it's 19 degrees out.

L'Artusi
Rating: Great
Address: 228 West 10th Street (between Hudson and Bleecker)
Phone:212.255.5757