If it’s vibes over food, I want to eat like I’m at the country club

Plus, New York’s gold-standard fries and stracciatella alla Romana on special at Via Carota

Up top, a quick detail to note regarding last week’s Manhattan shrimp cocktail ranking. As per a Penny spokesperson, the shrimp are “technically brined, then steamed, then cooled in a seasoned stock so they are never quite poached.” That’s technique that can be tasted! In other news: today’s letter is free, as it’s sponsored by Squarespace. For full access to Saturday’s My Neighborhood and next week’s letter, upgrade your subscription.

I don’t care for chicken parmesan, no matter how good the rendition. But the bad ones are so bad: rubbery meat coated in mushy clumps of breadcrumbs, blanketed in cheese that tastes like plastic. “All pizza is good pizza,” people like to say, a statement I disagree with. This assertion applies to pretty much no food (sorry), and is particularly untrue about chicken parmesan. Fried calamari is fine, generally conducive to a stomachache, and pales in comparison to a well-executed grilled calamari dish. Veal cacciatore, chicken piccata, manicotti… it’s all whatever. The only red sauce dish I love is spaghetti and meatballs, which is best made at home.

I’m not trying to shit on Italian-American cuisine en masse; much of it can be made lovingly and enjoyed with great comfort in the intimacy of Italian-American homes. I am, however, saying that red sauce dining doesn’t do it for me. “Have you been to Michael’s of Brooklyn, though?” One might argue. Yes, I have, and while it’s less mid than Bamonte’s (don’t even get me started on Dan Tana’s), it’s still whatever. Don Peppe is my favorite of the bunch, and it’s fun! But am I ever really excited to eat there? Nope.

“It’s not about the food,” they say. And sure, it’s about the vibes—the white tablecloths, the gruff servers who’ve been clocking in for decades. In these instances, I prefer to pretend like I’m at the country club, where even if the food’s not great, you can at least get what you want. I’m not strictly talking about red sauce joints here, but any old-school American or Italian restaurant where the menu runs the full gamut: shrimp cocktail, Caesar salad, classic pastas, a range of entrees within each protein category, tiramisu and cheesecake for dessert—or, better yet, a piece of grilled fish and steamed vegetables.

In the charmingly subterranean dining room at Gene’s, there’s plain broiled filet mignon, lamb chops, and salmon, all perfectly passable alongside a mountain of blanched broccoli rabe. Your martini with a twist will taste like lukewarm rubbing alcohol, but the sleeper-hit shrimp a la Gene’s (think scampi, but better) and the people-watching, mostly Greenwich Village regulars in their 70s, will make up for it.

At Vito in Santa Monica, an old fart clientele is complemented by Caesars prepared tableside, a dessert cart that roams the room, and a wholly adaptable menu (ask for chicken without the lemon-butter sauce or your veal sans breading).

The menu at Michael’s in Midtown (New York, not of Brooklyn) is a tad cheffier—there’s Parmesan in the Niçoise and jalapeno-cilantro-lime salsa with the chicken—after all, chef-owner Michael McCarty was at the forefront of California cuisine in the 80s, at the original in L.A. But it’s still pleasingly generic, and I would imagine, given their moneyed business-of-creative-types clientele, very welcoming of modifications. Plus, the room, when filled with light at lunchtime, especially, is a stunner; its walls lined with vibrant paintings by blue-chip artists and its carpeted floor a suave shade of brown.

Will any of this basic fare be better than what you’d make for yourself at home? Absolutely not, but at least you’re not having to force down bites of dry, tasteless meatballs in watery tomato sauce, barely clinging to strands of spaghetti. At least you can get your protein in, eat your vegetables, forfeit any notion of culinary excellence in favor of bland simplicity, and not let the bad food ruin the good vibes.

Wednesday, 1 pm, Michael’s New York.

Chicken scarpariello at F&F Restaurant and Bar
Carroll Gardens
This is the soul-warming dish I needed during the dark depths of winter earlier this month. Brined and roasted chicken in a lush, richly savory sauce with crispy crumbles of fennel sausage, sliced onions, vinegared peppers, and soft hunks of Yukon potato. Chicken scarpariello is not not a red sauce dish, but here, it’s executed with the warmth and finesse of a restaurant that knows exactly what its regulars need.

Stracciatella alla Romana on special at Via Carota
West Village
As, finally, temps were rising the weekend before last, I had coffee plans with Ally at Pisellino when she texted me 10 minutes before we were supposed to meet. “Would you want to sit outside at Via Carota? They have a table.” We caught up under a heat lamp, and I ordered a small bowl of stracciatella alla Romana, which was on special. The soup made my afternoon: silken with yellow fat; laced with delicate ribbons of egg, satiny strands of spinach, and a few threads of poached chicken; and topped with a showering of shaved parm.

Frites at Balthazar
SoHo
I’ve said it before, but it bears repeating: the absolute best fries in New York can be found at every restaurant opened by Riad Nasr and Lee Hanson. In chronological order: Balthazar, Minetta Tavern, Frenchette, Le Rock, Le Veau d’Or, Wild Cherry. The frites at each of these restaurants vary in size and (I believe) fats used for frying, but if it’s gold-standard fries that you’re after, you can’t go wrong at any spot. Over Valentine’s Day weekend, my friends got married at Balthazar, and every guest who knew what to do ordered steak-frites as their main. Every time I’m back in that room, I succumb to the pure pleasure of scarfing down a cone of resplendent frites: thin-cut and necessarily blanched, twice-fried in peanut oil, and thoroughly salted, with creamy insides, golden-brown outsides, and an ever-so-slightly soggy frame. Ketchup and aioli to dip.

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F&F Restaurant and Bar doesn’t just make a mean chicken scarpariello, but also, bracingly balanced Negronis, the only classic martini riff I’ll ever order (the Olio Martini, infused with Frankies’ olive oil and garnished with a glistening grassy yellow droplet), and sit-down versions of their phenomenal sourdough pies in flavors like clam and guanciale-and-leek. All in the coziest, most handsome room—one piece of the three-establishment campus architected by industry vets Frank Castronovo and Frank Falcinelli, otherwise known as The Franks. The Frankies campus, as regulars like to call it, includes the 22-year-old bona fide neighborhood restaurant, Frankies Spuntino, and my favorite slice shop in town, F&F Pizzeria. It’s where David and I are celebrating our marriage this spring.

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