Italian on 85th Street

Personal Yummy #43

On a cool Tuesday evening in April, my mom, our friend Bella—a silver-haired, smooth-skinned, elegant, and beautiful woman in her eighties who loves to come to New York City with my mom to visit me—and I take a leisurely walk to Luna Rossa Ristorante, a charming Italian restaurant on 85th Street, between First and Second Avenues, and not too far from the apartment that I had rented when I first moved to the city.

It doesn’t take us long to arrive there, and we are seated at a small, round table in the center of the restaurant, within its railroad-style layout: very narrow, long, dark, and intimate…tables placed here and there…white tablecloths…permeating candlelight…not very crowded…quiet and lovely… I particularly like the whimsical paintings placed strategically on the deep yellow walls, and especially the one with the caricature-like face of a woman with a triangular jaw and cheekbones, big blue eyes, and hot pink lips… She is certainly playful and intriguing, and yet she somehow perfectly fits into the romantic atmosphere.

A party of four is dining at a table in the back of the restaurant, and they are relaxing and talking and taking their time. There is also an attractive older woman eating by herself a few tables from us, but it’s apparent that she made sure to sit near the waitstaff station so that she could chat with our waiter and the other waiter as well, whom she seems to be rather comfortable with.

Furthermore, at the very back of the restaurant—adding to the mystical ambience—is an extremely large, square window that allows a dreamy, somewhat ethereal view of the street.

Our waiter is kind of ethereal too. He has a strong accent, is bald-headed, and is very kind and accommodating, saying “my lady” every time he hands each of us our menus or takes our order or answers our questions. He is quite sexy as well, in fact, which I immediately think when he first approaches our table. Shortly thereafter, I realize that Bella is thinking the same thing, because she breezily mentions that she could really run off with him. I laugh and agree with her, but her comment totally shocks me—I must say—because she is rarely so open and easy about such things.

We continue chatting and enjoying each other’s company, and, as usual, my mom and I share a salad to start, which arrives chopped and presented in a circular design in the middle of a fancy plate. The salad contains young greens, avocado, hearts of palm, celery, roasted orange pepper, and lemon—what a delicate combination. The three of us also share black and green olives in olive oil, as well as a basket of hot, thick bread.

Our main courses are delicious and satisfying. My mom relishes fettucine with Bolognese sauce, made with beef and veal, and Bella dines on chicken parmigiana topped with tomato sauce and melted mozzarella cheese, with a side of colorful roasted carrots and polenta. I try her chicken, and it is amazingly good—so juicy and flavorful.

As for my chosen dish, I experience something a bit more exotic—black ink tagliolini (my first time having this type of pasta) with Milano clams and mushrooms. It is certainly unusual and very tasty. However, it is a tad bit too salty. That, though, may be my fault.

After our waiter had delivered our meals to us, he left and then promptly came back with a small, silver bowl of parmesan cheese. When he got to me, he paused for quite a while with the spoon of cheese in his hand, bending over the table and looking me straight in the eye: “Would you like some cheese, my lady?” he had asked, but then he waited and waited, and I lightly giggled because he was being so careful. “Sure, sure, I’ll have some cheese,” I said, finding his caution very sweet. But then he said, “Oh, okay. But we are just careful about mixing cheese with fresh seafood.”

I hadn’t realized that the mixture could be a problem. Next time I will know better. I do think that he was right…that the dish would have been better without the cheese, because the saltiness of the cheese is overpowering. Nonetheless, my meal is still appetizing. The pasta is done perfectly, and the clams are tender and yummy, and I eat all of it.

When it comes time for dessert, we inform our waiter that we are going to pass. My mom is planning to go back to my apartment and make a cup of decaf and eat some of the tiny powdered donuts she had picked up at the rest area when we stopped to eat in Carlisle, PA, on our way back to the city.

But then the other waiter appears and graciously presents us with the dessert menus.

We thought we had made up our minds.

Of course we can’t resist, and we order two desserts to share. The first is a crusty, ricotta-filled cannoli with fresh strawberries all over it—our waiter breaks the shell of it with a spoon so that we can divide it—and the second is a creamy, sumptuous pistachio ice-cream-like dessert. Despite trying it again and again, though, we really can’t figure out what it is made of.

So, naturally, we ask our waiter whether it is ice cream, or something else.

He answers.

“Sort of like ice cream, but not really…”—and that is it.

He walks away.

The three of us just look at each other, wondering why he didn’t give us a definitive answer.

But, then again, maybe that’s okay. Sometimes it’s best to create your own unique story, and the more ethereal it is, the better.