In light of all the speculation surrounding Italian celebrity chef Mario Batali and his (non-renewed?) contract with the Food Network , I feel it apt to post about Babbo, Batali's flagship restaurant and one of the hardest to book restaurants in New York.
I was quite prepared to battle it out for a table, having gone through a similar ordeal at Quince for, coincidentally, a meal of pasta.
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DMR and I recently celebrated our wedding anniversary with a dinner at Babbo. Exactly one month out at 10 AM, I began calling their notorious reservation line. After about 50 redials, I got through! The only seatings available were for 5:45 and 10:30 PM, neither of which perfect but at least we got through. I opted for the early reservation. We were seated upstairs, where everything was oxy-clean white. The brightness was enhanced by the light coming through the skylight. Early on, there were more servers and employees than diners which made me nervous at first, but they were hardly obtrusive. I had been waiting for this day for a...
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"We have to try this restaurant called Babbo," said Swimster, nearly three years ago. "Bah-what?" I asked. "Babbo. It's sick Italian. Mario Batali owns it. It has the craziest menu. They have sweetbreads, tripe and testa," he said. I had never heard of sweetbreads, nor had I ever heard of Mario Batali. For all I knew, his family designed Italian motorcycles. Wait, that's Marcello Ducati. But if Swimster said it was good, I believed him. This was coming from a young man who taught me about Chateau d'Yquem, Opus One and the Inn at Little Washington. Babbo, which is "Daddy" or "Papa" in a specific region of Italy, sounded too informal...
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When we were in Italy, the kids wondered if we go to such fantastic restaurants when we travel, how come we don't get to do that in NYC? Huh. Good question. We decided to start going to a nicer than the norm restaurant one Sunday a month. Our first outing was this past Sunday night. No surprises, we began with Babbo.
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A few months ago, at the end of September, John Kessler--former food critic for the Atlanta Journal-Constiution and one of our nation's best food writers--e-mailed me. John and I met back when I lived in Atlanta. He wrote a really kind and thorough piece about me just when I was starting out (you can read it here; you have to register and then wither at the sight of my horrible picture (the photographer insisted on using a fish-eyed lens: never fall for that!)) and we've stayed in touch ever since. Last year he took me to a fashion show; more recently he e-mailed me after my Alain Ducasse post to warn me about compromising my integrity. (I haven't eaten free truffles since!) This e-mail, though, was titled, simply, "Favor."
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Autumn's bounty was all over the menu at Babbo last night, and I'm so glad I was able to enjoy some of it. Around 9:30 p.m., I was hungrily wandering the West Village. I'd been meaning to check out Inside on Jones Street, but the host disappeared into thin air when I walked in. I knew that Babbo would be a long shot, but when I hesitantly opened the door, I actually saw an empty seat at the end of the bar! MINE, I thought triumphantly.
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We had dinner at Babbo this past Friday night with four other couples who got together and bid on a Mario dinner from our kids school. As always, the dinner was spectacular.
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It’s Monday evening, the first night of NYC without reservations. I stroll purposefully down to Washington Square Park and step through the door at Babbo at around seven. The bar and front tables are full and there’s just one couple sipping wine by the door. A quick chat with the host and the next open spot at the bar has my name on it. I try to find an inconspicuous spot to stand and end up by the doorway, dodging the overzealous greenery stashed at head level. Sly and the Family Stone penetrates the air. While I wait, a man walks in dressed as if the Ralph Lauren Polo box arrives in the mail every three months. “Oh,” he mutters. “Looks kinda crowded,” and darts back out, the way you do when you go somewhere all the time and you’d just as soon just grab a hot dog down the street as wait a half hour for dinner. I hate him. He is evil and probably unkind to animals. I am instantly, passionately jealous.
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Batali's Babbo.... Bravissimo!
Aug 09, 2006
I’ll be the first to admit that I spend a good deal of time blowing smoke up Mario Batali’s rear end.
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It seemed like a week of repeat restaurant visits. First it was The Tasting Room and now Babbo. For my annual pilgrimage, I was diligent and booked a table exactly thirty days from our dinner date to get a prime spot at 9pm for six people. It was to celebrate Cameron and Peter’s birthdays and I’d like to think that for friends, I’m extra thoughtful.
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We (Helmet, Pichon, Magnus, Fox, Xing, and myself) attended a vertical wines of Giacomo Conterno dinner with the wine maker Roberto Conterno at Babbo last night. We had 7 wines spanning the 1990's, each paired with its own course. The Monfortinos were all reserve Barolo, and the Cascinas were all Borolo Cascina Franca.
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Stepping over the threshold at Babbo, Mario Batali's flagship restaurant is to be placed in the midst of a scrum. The obstacles at the narrow entrance demand bravery and resolve. Yet, such layout conveys the message that Babbo in its bar and beyond is a happening place. Even when seated, the sounds from the front meld with the background music to create a sense of occasion. Babbo is a restaurant that is shaken, not stirred.
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I had decided a while ago that I wouldn't post reviews of all of the restaurants I visit in NYC. But while I do like to keep this site focused on documenting my own cooking, I would be remiss if not mentioning who, what and where influences how I cook in my own kitchen.
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In the first week of November 1999, Wife (then Girlfriend) took me to Babbo for the tasting menu to celebrate my birthday. While perusing the menu we came across the truffle tasting which in those days, being as young and aspiring as we were, was way out of grasp of our purse strings. Each year, as I age, Babbo reminds me I am doing so in the dead middle of white truffle season.
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My in-laws, Leo and Carin, took Danna and me out for our anniversary (which was in August) tonight to Babbo, a place they've enjoyed on several occasions previously and a first for us.
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Chickpea Bruschetta (amuse); Black Spaghetti with Rock Shrimp, Chorizo and Green Chilis; Mint Love Letters with Spicy Lamb Sausage; Duck Tortelli with “Sugo Finto”; Sweet Corn Crema; a bottle of "Terre de Pietra" Lunelli 2000; an espresso; also tried some of Warm Lamb's Tongue Vinaigrette with Hedgehogs and a 3-Minute Egg; Spaghettini with Spicy Budding Chives, Sweet Garlic and a One Pound Lobster; Pappardelle with Pork Ragu; Homemade Orecchiette with Sweet Sausage and Rapini.
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The Most Momentous Meeting of Food Bloggers EVER: Clotilde "Chocolate & Zucchini" & Adam "Amateur Gourmet" Dine at Babbo (PLUS wine at Cru)
Helicopters circled overhead, newsvans hugged the curb as I made my way down 6th Avenue to meet Clotilde at her hotel for our 8:30 dinner date. Clotilde, that beloved Parisian, had descended upon New York a few days earlier, making her first appearance at Otto where her fans (myself included) came to greet her and her charming boyfriend, Maxence. Here we are all posed in a picture provided courtesy of Lulu's Manhattan whose proprietor, Lulu, was one of the many people I was lucky enough to meet that night.
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When my friend Anto in Bologna calls out "Babbo!" it has a clipped yet melodic ring, whether she's admonishing or expressing affection for her goofy father.
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According to my visitor referrer stats, lots of people are googling for info on Tacos Matamoros. For better or for worse, a psychological profile would reveal that I aim to please others. So if you've come for an opinion on Tacos Matamoros, I'm about to give you what you want.
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Babbo is located on Waverly between 6th Avenue and Washington Square West and I walk past it several times a week on my way back home from school. Every time I pass it my body tingles a little the way your body tingles when you see someone attractive through a train window pulling away from the station---oh how magical it might be, if only if only if only...
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Chickpea Bruschetta (complimentary); Roasted Potatoes with Rosemary; Roasted Beet Salad with Ricotta Salata; Pumpkin "Lune" with Sage and Amaretti; Mint Love Letters with Spicy Lamb Sausage;
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Going to Babbo is always a huge indulgence. I haven't been in awhile so this past weekend we went with 2 other couples who had never been. Needless to say, they were thrilled!
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Our first time at Babbo, we went all out, asked questions about never-heard words in the menu (Braciole! Francobolli! Scottadita!) and picked out red wine to match. I started with Spicy Lamb Tartare with Mint Crostini and a Quail Egg in the middle. It killed me.
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A friend suggested Babbo last night. I’d been there alone about a month ago, but Babbo’s one of those places that never wears out. We ate at the bar. At 7:00pm there were still several bar stools available, but they didn’t stay empty for long.
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In New York, there’s hardly a tougher table to come by than at Babbo, chef Mario Batali’s flagship in the Village. Reservations are accepted up to one month to the calendar date in advance, and if you want one you’d best call at 10:00am on that exact date.
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Dressed in his signature orange clogs and culot shorts, Mario Batali is the king of rustic authentic Italian cuisine on the TV Food Network. But before he was a star of the small living room screen, he was a cook, and he is one celebrity chef who still is. Here in New York, you’ll find him at Babbo, a charming Greenwich Village carriage house turned stylish duplex hot spot, where celebrities, foodies, VIPs, and super models fill tables (and every nook of space) for the chance to feast on Batali’s unique brand of robust, and risky Italian fare. Indeed, the man is known for serving braised pigs feet, warm lamb tongue, and testa.
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