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.