[Pigging by Wilfrid: September 14, 2009 ]
It's a long way from Piedmont to Hester Street. A long way from sun-dappled vineyards, slow-roasted game, truffles and Barolo to the gray concrete and steel of the block of Allen below Delancey.
To transport the former to the latter is a bold project indeed, and precisely what Sorella (sister in Italian) ambitiously undertakes.
Somewhat bold too simply to open a block downtown from the bleak and unlit corner of Allen and Delancey where the restaurant of the same name is a rare oasis of light and conversation. Forget about passing trade - when I visited Sorella on an evening close to Labor Day, I almost gave up half a block short thinking it closed. I hadn't called ahead (it doesn't take reservations) and the entire west side of the block seemed dark and shuttered.
Fortunately I decided to take the last few steps to Sorella's front door, which turned out to be in the Momofuku Ko dungeon style, allowing the faintest trickle of light to emerge from the interior. Open it was, although nothing like as busy as I'm told it normally is. There is a very extensive bar and counter dining section in the front - so extensive that I thought that was the whole deal; but no, my party was led down a corridor, past a kitchen, and out into a candlelit atrium, a peaceful glass-ceilinged extension with well spaced tables.
Small plates are everything here, from soup to nuts, together with the briefing from the server on the relative size of the dishes listed. Appropriately, there's an extensive list of well chosen Italian wines by the glass too - twenty-five, I believe, and five sparklers alone. Time to compare two pink fizzes from the Veneto, and I preferred Te Amo to the Gabry.
Veal sweetbreads, crispily coated and served tumbling from a cone, is a nice enough way to start, even if the dish has become something of a standard around town (was Uovo first with the sweetbread poppers, several years ago?). The dish's main merit lay in the tasty quince marmalade dip (the menu implies it contains bacon, and there was plenty of bacon yet to come - but I didn't notice it).
A salad bearing as offbeat a description as "pulled hen & veal tongue salad, creamy tuna sauce, beets, celery, poppyseed" begged to be ordered. Of course, on consideration, veal with tuna sauce is a bit of a classic. But here it was veal tongue, which I'd have liked served in larger proportion to the bits of chicken, with an enjoyable beet garnish, the poppyseeds adding a textural comment. I felt the dish should have made a deeper impression: I'd have thrown a couple of slices of hot, grilled tongue on top, but then I'm not the chef.
Satisfyingly substantial, the pate de fegato featured a brick of warm muffin bread (apparently made with duck fat), topped with a silky chicken liver mousse a fried egg, and some bacon. Benton's bacon, I believe, and cooked within an inch of its life.
Opinions were divided over this. The bacon received a positive vote for its assertive flavor. I felt it had gone just beyond crisp and caramlised to an undesirable cindery state. Tastes vary, but I do think the charred little chunks made too many reappearances in the plates which followed.
It featured again as an accent to the squash risotto, topped with fresh sage and shreds of Robiola.
Present too, if I recall, in the grilled quail dish, which enjoyable paired the bird with seasonal slices of peach. No bacon in the panna cotta, though.
For me, at least, another familiar dish: panna cotta with strawberries and a balsamic dressing was a mainstay on San Domenico's dessert list for many years. But if I keep complaining about young chefs failing to master and present the classics, I shouldn't moan when I get what I ask for: the chef here being Emma Hearst, co-owner along with sister-in-arms manager Sarah Krathen.
A couple of unusual cheeses to finish. Castelrosso, a mild cowsmilk cheese from Piedmont itself, and the Sardinian Podda, a tangy sheep/cow blend. Two types of honey, and some hazelnuts so delicious as to make me wonder why I don't eat hazelnuts every day.
From the wine selection, I'd moved on to a really good red from the Marche, the Rosso Piceno "San Bartolo," a plentiful bundle of red fruits and minerals for twelve bucks. Prices overall were acceptable - about $70 a head including tax, tip and plenty of wine. Not, perhaps, a restaurant to make you clean your diary a month in advance and travel five miles, but if you find yourself on the corner of Allen and Hester, dreaming of a better place, not a bad bet.
