I don’t call myself a foodie, nor does my empirically foodie family. Perhaps we’re a little snobbier than that. Lots of people call themselves foodies with no credibility to show for it. My mother says we have “sophisticated palates.” My father says, “Some people eat to live, others live to eat.” I say food is a reason to wake up in the morning, a priority for the wallet and the soul, and the stuff of which dreams are made. I plan my life around my meals. And I’m a self-proclaimed authority on taste and class. And humility and humor, but I digress.
People who go to trendy restaurants don’t necessarily relate to this. They just want to go out and be seen. There’s nothing wrong with that. But we will enjoy different restaurants for different reasons.
I took a dear girlfriend of mine to Sessanta because I had heard it was a hot new place in town and with the competitiveness and high pool of New York restaurants, assumed its food would have to stack up. I was wrong. And that’s rare!
The patio? Lovely. The hosts? Super cool and hospitable. The food? Disgusting.
I don’t remember the last time I ate a meal where I regretted every calorie making its devious way to my ass.
This place made me consider bulimia for a millisecond.
We started with the arancini. It was fine. Any divey sports bar can figure out how to fry a bunch of ingredients and make them edible.
Then we had the mozzerella pugliese. The cheese itself needed to be seasoned. The marinated eggplant underneath was the consistency of cardboard and had so much bad vinegar on it we could have bottled it up and used it as a household disinfectant. Upon noticing our puckered faces, the waiter suggested the tomato salad, which interestingly, but at this point not surprisingly, had just as much vinegar on it.
As a main we had the highly recommended tagghiarini. What carboholic ever met a plate of pasta she didn’t like? The dish was dry, the pasta was over-cooked, and the sauce was blander than the last officer who gave me a speeding ticket’s sense of humor.
The wine we guzzled and enjoyed. I’m as picky about my wine as I am my food. The glass of Franciacorta Rosé Majolini NV Lombardy was as bone dry as promised. The bottle of Umbrian Sangiovese was light but jammy and polished off gleefully.
Don’t go for the food. Go for the bar and some eye candy.
The best part of the meal was this cute girl’s black leather fringe skirt that I’m now obsessed with hunting down as my next closet addition.