I usually shake my head no and ignore people who smile enthusiastically and try to stop me on the street with questions like “Do you have a minute for Greenpeace?” or “Where’d you get your hair done?” But one question fired my passion.
I was walking home from work along a side street near Washington Square Park. A tall, thin man wearing a backpack, shorts and sandals, asked me, “Do you know a good restaurant in Greenwich Village?”
I couldn’t detect his accent. My best guess was that he was Scandinavian. Anyway, I knew he was from out-of-town because he called the Village “Greenwich Village.”
His partner, a fair-haired woman wearing a sundress and carrying a small bag on her wrist, listened intently with a quizzical look on her face. I guessed she didn’t know English very well or maybe not at all.
Since I lived in the Village for a few years and fell in love with restaurants and food culture, (I religiously visited every place in Ed Levine’s New York Eats and tried many a recipe from Molly O’Neill’s New York Cookbook), I was ecstatic that I was hand-picked from the myriad of people in the streets as the most obvious cuisine connoisseur.
Now, in the few seconds that I had in which to answer this question, I wracked my brain, sifting through books I’d read and my own personal experiences filed in memory. In the end, I sent the foreign foodies to my favorite Village place.
Massimo al Ponte Vecchio is a hidden a gem in the Village. When I lived on Bleecker Street, I’d often slip away to the inconspicuous place behind the Red Lion on the corner of Bleecker and Thompson streets. The place has warm, sunny walls and colorful paintings of famous Italian entertainers. It is never too crowded. It is the perfect place for consistently good food and a quiet atmosphere. I took my parents here, out-of-town guests, local friends after work, a significant other, vegetarians, and business associates.
Pasta here is the way it should be, al dente. A friend from Italy agreed that it was one of the best places to get pasta in the city. The appetizers are a delight. I loved the soft, baby artichokes in olive oil and tomatoes and creamy mozzarella. But as I said, pasta here is the star. Usually when I see gnocchi in a restaurant, it is cooked in tomato sauce. That is why I love Massimo’s, as I call it, because the gnocchi are bathed in a rich gorgonzola cream. The penne with vodka sauce is made to order–the way it should be. When penne with vodka sauce is not made to order, it winds up tasting like a tomato cream sauce. At Massimo’s, I can tell the difference.
My first trip here was a rainy night: dark, gray and pouring. At 4 p.m., a date was supposed to pick me up at my apartment. Five o’clock came. Six o’clock. At seven o’clock, he called. He was sorry he was late. He had to drop something off somewhere. He was very close. He’d meet me in an hour. Eight o’clock. Nine.
I was mad. I’d been stood up, so I changed out of my dress. I put on jeans and pulled on a sweater, grabbing my umbrella and heading out the door. I saw a place with a few older couples and a table of four. It looked quiet. The waiters were very hospitable as I sulked out the window, seeing my sour mug in the glass reflection. I had an appetizer, entree, dessert, the whole nine yards. Then, when the waiter brought my check, he said the owner would like me to have a cordial. I ordered cognac. I turned to look at the owner in order to thank him. A short, gray-haired man who looked Italian smiled and nodded. Being Italian myself, I know it is true what is said about Italians and emotion. I think the owner read the disappointment on my face and thought his kind gesture would make me see the world is not so bad.
Since that day, I have taken everyone to Massimo’s. I go there myself when I need to be reminded there is comfort and beauty in the world. Especially when Massimo’s porcini ravioli exists in it.
I hope I passed this same feeling on to the Scandinavians who were on vacation.
