A Night at Del Posto

After I read Sam Sifton's September 4-Star review of Del Posto in The New York Times, I knew this was a place I was only going to hear more about, and definitely a place I couldn't afford.

But when you really want something, you naturally find a way to justify it. Two weeks ago I was tossing ideas around for places to take my mother for her birthday during her visit to the city, so I asked my managers at work for suggestions. They had been eating out a lot, so I knew they'd steer me well. "Del Posto! Hands down!" One of them said, raving about how attentive the captain had been during the service and how perfect the bottle of Barolo paired with his meal. He could have talked about the bottle of Barolo for hours had I not needed to return to my tables. "I'll make you a reservation, they'll remember me," he said, urging me to commit to the five course meal.

I waffled. Would it be worth the $95 prix fixe price? Would I even be able to get a reservation? My manager's voice spoke to me from the same shoulder as my indulgent conscious. Make the reservation... You'll regret it if you don't... The voice haunted me. I shook the voice and weighed my decision. For one, it would be in celebration of my mother's birthday. I could take her elsewhere, but for all I knew I'll be lucky enough to spend a year in the city and then I might end up somewhere else, so why not treat her to the best? After all, the woman did sacrifice her body for me and she's spent the last 23 years putting me before herself, so she deserves the best. It would also be an educational experience for me. To know great food, you have to eat great food, right? I could eat cereal for a few weeks, and besides, I rarely have to buy food between work and school. Furthermore, it was highly recommended by two of managers and both of them have a good deal of dining experience. When someone who works in restaurant management says it's the best service they've ever had after working in both Los Angeles and New York City, I'm prepared to trust their judgment. I had decided — I was making reservations.

My manager was more excited than I was when I told him I had decided on Del Posto. "Really?! Oh my gosh, you're going to have the time of your life! Let me call and make the reservation! I'll get you with Augustine! He's the best! I wouldn't be surprised if they bring you something special! You must get the Barolo! It's such a steal!!! When do you want to go?" He paused to take a breath and picked up the phone. I told him a Sunday would work well with the schedule. He caught his breath and waited for the host to answer. When a host answered, his voice lowered several octaves to sound more official. "Yes, this is ----, I dined at Del Posto two weeks ago and I'd like to send another guest your way on Sunday, November 14." He waited while the host checked the books, covering the phone to whisper, "I think I got you in, you SO owe me!!!" He then returned to his official business-like voice, "Ok, thank you very much." Click. "I got you in!!!"

I was now committed and I decided I would keep the dinner date a secret. I told my mother to pack a nice outfit for a fine meal and left it at that. In the weeks leading up to the meal I occasionally visited the Del Posto site, looked at the menu, and scoured the chef biographies. Del Posto, which is the first Italian restaurant to earn a 4-Star review from The New York Times since 1974, is a joint effort between New York restaurateurs Mario Batali, Lidia Matticchio Bastianich, and Lidia's son Joseph Bastianich. Del Posto is their Italian love child, swaddled in Italian luxury. The restaurant serves lunch and dinner, offering two prix fixe options for those visiting for dinner. The Del Posto team has worked together to create a number of video demonstrations for both swooning and educational purposes, all of them available on the restaurant's YouTube page.

When I told my mother on Sunday night where we were going, I'm not sure she knew what to expect. I told her it was a Michelin Guide rated restaurant and that I was lucky to get reservations on such short notice. We wore our Sunday best and made our way to the Meatpacking District.

We checked in with the host and made our way to the bar where we sat on kush leather bar stools. Tea lights flickered everywhere from each stair of the staircase to the individual table tops on both floors of the restaurant. I studied the extensive bar, glancing down at the menu of classic cocktails. The European bartender approached us dressed in a charming suit, ready to make us a concoction that would transport us into everything that is Del Posto. I ordered my mother a Manhattan made with Maker's Mark and a Hemingway Daiquiri for myself. The Manhattan was in perfect balance, accented by a bitter cherry. My cocktail was the last tart tinge my tongue would taste for the next three hours. We were about to be walked to a table where umami—a Japanese word for the fifth "savory" sense—would be redefined. As we inhaled the soft ambiance of the dining room and listened to the pianist play Cole Porter, another suited man greeted us. "Buona sera," he said, bowing his head slightly. "Whose birthday are we celebrating tonight?" I gestured to my mom, who at this point was glowing from the combination of happiness and bourbon. "Happy birthday," he said with a stiff yet welcoming smile. He then bid us farewell. "Enjoy, ladies. Buona sera."

We sat at a neatly clothed table where we were each gently pushed into our table at the same time. It was this moment where the show really began. Each member of the polished service team approached the table with a different offering. We were first greeted with water, and again with a tasting from the chef, and then by the captain, who stood with one of the most inviting smiles I've seen flash in a restaurant. "Would you like to see a wine list or your menu first?" He asked. When we requested the wine list he then offered the service of a sommelier, in the most non-assuming way possible. This man was everything you could possibly want in a server — kind, inviting, knowledgeable, patient— everything. He suggested a glass of Rosso del Soprano from Sicily for my mom and I selected a glass of crisp Vermentino from Toscana.

We were then handed the bound menu, where we were instructed to select a antipasti, two handmade pasta tastings, and a secondi course. My mother gave me her trust and told me to order our food. With her approval, I selected both the lobster salad with broccoli rabe and the carne cruda, which is basically an Italian steak tartar. For our pasta courses we selected the caramelle di Gorgonzola Dolce pasta with truffle butter and orecchietta stuffed with lamb neck ragu. For the secondi course my mom wanted the wood grilled lobster with artichokes and I decided on the seared duck breast.

A bread basket arrived with an assortment of fresh miniature loaves. Each piece of bread was warm to the touch and steam escaped when the crust was broken and pulled apart. By this time we had been graced with the presence of six different faces, all of them pleasant and extremely poised in their delivery. Then the first course arrived. Though beautiful, we agreed that this course was not memorable. The lobster was served in a cold and spicy diavola sauce and the cruda was your typical delicate tartar decorated with delicate greens. What I did appreciate about the cruda was that the mushrooms were cut to mimic the appearance of shaved Parmesan, which was a nice artisanal touch.

We then moved into our pasta courses. The caramelle arrived, each piece of pasta glistening like a freshly wrapped candy in a wrapper of silky truffle butter. They melted in my mouth. Soft Gorgonzola Dolce was within each little treasure, perfect in warmth and texture. We were then greeted with our second paste tasting, which was equally good. The pasta was a deep purple, almost to the depth of my mother's glass of red wine. Delicate, yet strong in flavor. The pasta tastings teased us both, making us wish there had been more on the plate.

When the pasta dishes left the table, the table was bare for a few minutes and each of us were already full. Before we could welcome the arrival of our secondi course we looked up to another new face. He pushed a royal chart towards our table with a polished and covered serving platter. Our captain then met him to reveal what was beneath the large serving lid. "This is a gift from the chef. Wild striped bass. We do hope you enjoy," our captain said with his famous smile. I watched as the flesh of the fish was gently pulled from the bones and plated. The man then put a glove on his hand to hold a fragrant black truffle, generously shaving it over each plate. Each truffle shaving fell like a feather making it's way to the ground. I was awe struck. What had we done to deserve this? When both men left there was silence at the table. I bowed my head to smell the essence of truffle and then took a bite of what was perhaps the most luxurious fish I've ever tasted.

"Lauren, do you think he did this because it's my birthday?" my mother asked.

Birthdays are special, but no chef sends birthday wishes in the form of fresh fish and shaved truffle to the table. This kind gesture was odd, but I wasn't about to ask questions. Maybe my manager had really made an impression when he called to make the reservation. I didn't know. Sometimes you just have to say thank you when something amazing happens for no apparent reason. The man who served the fish returned to the table, pulling his card from his jacket.

"Do let me know if you have any concerns about this evening," he said, placing the card next to me.

I definitely did not have concerns, only compliments, but at this moment I was in a truffle coma. As I sat, intoxicated with pleasure, the secondi course eventually made it's way to the table. A split lobster body sat before my mother and a crispy duck breast sat before me. The lobster was slightly overcooked, but the duck... the duck was another level. This duck was perfection on a plate. The skin was perfect. the temperature was perfect. The seasoning was perfect. Even the celery puree was perfect. If I could duplicate this duck breast in school, Chef would surely hand me my graduation certificate then and there. This duck was of true caliber. I'll probably dream about that duck breast for years to come.

Though the secondi course was fantastic, neither of could finish. Had we been wearing belts, they would have needed readjusting, and just when we thought it was over, we were handed dessert menus. As much as I wanted to order cheese for dessert, it just wasn't happening. Wanting to take advantage of all the courses, we made ourselves order the dessert. My mom selected the gelati tasting and I picked the polenta-squash cake with sage gelato. The gelati tasting arrived in a large bowl with a birthday candle, each scoop on top of the other, and the polenta-squash cake was a dainty portion as I had hoped, but just when we thought we could handle what was before us, they brought more! Our captain delivered a small wooden chest, each drawer sliding out to reveal an assortment of Italian sweets. There were galato bon-bons, candies, preserved fruits, fresh cocoa nuggets, and cookies. We were not prepared to turn this offering away, even though we should have, for the sake of our stomachs.

We left mesmerized by the degree of fine service and with memories of pure Italian extravenge.

So what it worth it? Absolutely.