Steve Cuozzo
FREE RANGE
CARBONE
181 Thompson St., 212-254-3000
Carbone lays a big, fat uovo. Chefs Mario Carbone and Rich Torrisi's adorable Torrisi Italian Specialties indulged in small-scale presentation that avoided being precious. But at the century's most slavishly anticipated new restaurant with four-star aspirations, everything's humongous — prices, portions and preening (look, Zac Posen waiter outfits!).
Carbone aims to re-create mid-20th century Italian fine dining. Its floor is inspired by Bronx restaurant Louis of "The Godfather." But Carbone's veal is not "the finest in New York" as per Mario Puzo's novel. A veal Parmesan chop twice as thick as the norm, ceremoniously sliced like a birthday cake, isn't twice as good as the ancient article, but half as tender.
Gabi Porter
Veal Parmesan at Carbone
(Since you ask, this dish creams the diner-quality version at the Midtown Carbone, but Midtown's fresh-made rigatoni puttanesca afforded as much pleasure for $14 as all but one of the new Carbone's twice-the-price "macaronis.")
The designer-goombah shtick includes linen tablecloths, brass chandeliers and quirky, Julian Schnabel-curated art. Fancy floor tiles are black and white in the curtained front room, navy and burgundy in the clubbier, rowdier rear. Guys jammed eight to a booth made truck noises, maybe to drown out Little Peggy March and "I Will Follow Him."
Chefs wishing to be taken seriously for Italian-American cooking believe it isn't enough to merely do it better than at Forlini or Isle of Capri. They must redefine, "interpret" or ironicize it.
Or overprice it. Carbone isn't quite as expensive as its notoriety. Some dishes, including $50 veal Parmesan, can be shared. Even so, it's rigged to make you spend and spend and spend, starting with the captains' suave pitch, "Crudo we can serve individually or build towers to your liking."
The main problem is how ordinary much of it tastes. At least Carbone's tomato sauces deliver the goods, from dreamy meatballs to pillowy tortellini al ragu.
Yet, despite an abundance of garlic and house-dried oregano, Carbone and Torrisi routinely dance around the real pomodoro. Dish after dish brought on so-whats? "Rocco chop," a $53, dry-aged T-bone steak, was so short on filet, we asked for a more generously endowed one when our captain displayed it uncooked. The replacement cut, still nearly all-sirloin, was just all right.
Skate francese registered as a one-note wallow in butter and flour. Routine grilled sea scallops with couscous and acidic tomato vinaigrette cost $36.
"That's not lamb, it's dinosaur," my friend chuckled over awesome "double English cut rack." Thrilling, primordial flavor surged through a surfeit of juice and crust. But $50?
Pasta monotonously lacked contrast or texture. Only one of six I tried rang the bell: modestly named, immodestly priced ($30) spaghetti de mare. The joy lay less in showoff elements like rock shrimp, bay scallops and razor clams, than in crackling tomato, garlic, chili, parsley and garlic. Most others evoked mediocre trattorias, especially dry and clumpy angel hair begging for more olive oil.
Clams three ways batted .333; while oreganata clicked, neither lardo on top of casinos, nor sea urchin in a "fantasia" preparation was my idea of heaven. Several items plunged to howler depths: polenta liquid enough for a soup kitchen and — Madone — an inexplicable, vaguely-spiced blur called "Chinese Chicken."
Redemption came in shimmering grilled black sea bass "oreganata" boasting no breadcrumbs, but garlicky vinaigrette of house-dried oregano and Tuscan chickpeas. Luscious chicken scarpariello came in peppery, ochre sauce rich with cotechino sausage and morels.
Giant cakes to end the meal are fine but short of transporting. The best dessert is the one they don't first wheel to the table, a brobdingnagian banana split involving everything that made you happy as a kid.
A restaurant born of so much talent and expectation should dazzle us from inizio alla fine. Carbone flickers like a teasing moon through billows of pomp — in a town full of truly great Italian places, it's an offer I'll gently refuse.
scuozzo@nypost.com
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