Save this storySave this storySave this storySave this storyYou’re perusing the Food Scene bulletin, Helen Rosner’s manual to what, where, and the manner in which to dine. Join to have it delivered to your inbox.
Upon its launch, a decade earlier, on a serene part of Williamsburg, the Four Horsemen turned into that unusual famed haunt that nearly wholly went beyond its celebrity ties. Co-managed by James Murphy, from the group LCD Soundsystem, it defined itself as a wine bar yet was in truth a dining establishment, providing an incredibly relaxed environment, fantastic tunes, and a constantly changing lineup of Californian-European sharing platters. The natural-wine selection, curated by the late Justin Chearno, garnered a James Beard Honor for top-notch drink offerings nationwide. The cuisine, crafted by head chef Nick Curtola, secured a Michelin distinction. Thus, there’s a certain degree of anticipation for the group’s innovative venture: I Cavallini (Italian for “small horses”), a spot that debuted this summer right on the opposite side of the road.
Smartly, as opposed to endeavoring to echo the allure of Four Horsemen, I Cavallini establishes a unique path. Boasting alfresco dining, the establishment can host twice as many patrons as its diminutive antecedent. The ambiance reverberates with more than mere curiosity seekers—there’s an undeniable sense of enthusiasm surrounding the locale on its own merits. I Cavallini is unmistakably an Italian venue, presenting antipasti, contorni, primi, secondi, a solely Italian wine catalog, and tiramisu that’s light as Po Valley mist. Nevertheless, the culinary team, led by Curtola along with sous chef Ben Zook, seems more focused on fabricating an air of authenticity than on rigidly adhering to conventional methods or preparations. One might commence their meal with a piece of focaccia, accompanied by lush whipped ricotta and syrupy grilled tomatoes, and afterward proceed to, for example, zesty lamb sausages, rustic and somewhat coarse, presented alongside cherries and thinly sliced avocado squash. The composition evokes no particular location yet feels altogether harmonious with the Italian-esque character surrounding it.
The natural-wine catalog is vast, and there are mixed drinks, as well.Photograph by Ian Loring Shiver for The New Yorker
Analogous to Four Horsemen, where an oeuf mayonnaise sports zebra-like stripes of cuttlefish ink and simple beans are treated as exquisite treasures, Curtola places confidence in his patrons to explore beyond evident crowd-pleasers. It struck me how many tables nearby had ordered the nervetti, a chilled assortment of bovine tendons, thinly sliced, alongside shaved white onions and brined chive buds. In my estimation, the offering isn’t altogether compelling—tendons are more of a structural component than a flavorful one, sleek and wobbly, so collectively it registers as a portion of pickled onions intended for an Italian grinder—however, folks appeared to be enchanted nonetheless. The joys of pliable textures are more prominently displayed in a shallow bowl of trofie, diminutive handmade pasta spirals cooked to a delightful elasticity. They’re bathed in a vibrant-green pesto, ordinarily herbal and cheesy, and possesses the distinctive satiny flavor substructure of crushed pine kernels. Dismiss caviar, dismiss truffles: genuine extravagance is luscious and aromatic Italian pinoli, a progressively scarce harvest that can command over a hundred dollars per kilogram.
Helen, Assist Me!
Dispatch your inquiries concerning feasting, dining, and any food-related topic, and Helen might address them in a forthcoming bulletin.
Those heavenly pine kernels reappear, whole on this occasion, and matched with amber raisins in an agrodolce that adheres a fried strip of eel to a portion of crisp toast. It brings to mind Sicily, along with the Apennines, Venice, and even a touch of China, manifested in the ethereal preparation of the eel. I was hesitant regarding the incorporation of unshucked mussels to a traditional panzanella, then almost immediately concurred: against a succulent blend of tomatoes, vinegar, and toasted bread, the petite delicate clumps of flesh practically—yet, crucially, don’t entirely—vanish, their supple tenderness almost akin to mushrooms. A different kind of revelation arose with the farfallone, colossal pasta bow ties immersed in an amber-hued chile butter alongside sticks of smoky pancetta the dimension of a pinky finger and a lavish sprinkle of breadcrumbs. I sensed an unexpected surge of sentiment with the initial taste, the rosy-tinged melancholy of remembrance, then comprehended: unexpectedly, inexplicably, the creation had conjured the precise savory-sweet relish of a tin of SpaghettiOs with sliced franks, albeit sumptuously intricate and subtly spicy. (To be explicitly stated, in my view the similarity is a superb advantage.) Savor something from the comprehensive range of natural wines—a gritty Dolcetto from a prodigious teenage vintner, perhaps—or a finely adjusted mixed drink, potent or non-alcoholic, and experience, for once, contentment with having matured.
Italian pine kernels are the highlight of trofie with pesto.
Parallel to its opposite-the-street relation, I Cavallini exudes its charm with utter nonchalance, emitting not a trace of elitism or affectation: its appeal feels instinctive, not cultivated. Accessing either establishment can pose a hurdle—frankly, I haven’t succeeded in entering Four Horsemen in years, however I found remarkable success at I Cavallini by presenting myself as a walk-in at 5 P.M. Once within, a repast is seamless and leisurely, complemented by cordial service led by the partner and operations director Amanda McMillan. The setting, filled with woodsy and rustic touches, checkerboard tiling, and occasional Scandinavian nuances, feels conceived for habitation and exploration, an interactive gallery showcasing artistic objects and features. Even the wine catalogs are captivating material specimens, bound in rippled cardboard as an homage to the nineteen-seventies Italian cookbook sequence In Bocca, and embellished with hallucinogenic artwork from the publications. Regardless, however pleasant the ambiance, there’s no denying one is inside a notable establishment—luminaries! Holding lists!—and, inevitably, the culinary team recently presented a status dish: an immense and exquisite rib eye, bone-in, bordered by a band of shimmering fat and crowned with a melting portion of caramelized-onion butter. Merely a handful are available each evening, but if one isn’t privileged enough to secure one, abundant solace can be located in the chicken. It’s a heritage half-fowl pan-roasted and served piecemeal, with the leg still connected to the foot, its toes elegantly extended, dramatically soaring off the plate’s periphery—the classic flair, impeccably scented in garlic. ♦
Sourse: newyorker.com
