by Dorothy Cascerceri
Anytime my family comes to town, there’s always the inevitable question: Where should we eat dinner?
There is a laundry list of concerns in finding a place that will make five people between the ages of 12 and 58 happy. And it’s my job to do.
Lucky me.
I always want to take them somewhere New York-ish, even though my 12-year-old brother begs to eat at Au Bon Pain EVERY time they visit.
And I want to take them somewhere with memorable food, but my 15-year-old sister won’t touch anything Mexican or Japanese with a 10 foot chopstick, er, pole.
So I wracked my brain, consulted some friends on the Upper East Side and decided upon a cute little restaurant on Third Avenue between 74th and 75th streets called Mezzaluna.
We decided to eat on the early side at 6 p.m. so they could get back to Philly. Well it was on the normal side for them, being the suburbanites they are. Early for New York evident by the empty tables.
The restaurant, which has been around since 1984, was beautiful, and the lovely baby blue sky and white puffy clouds painted on the ceiling gave it an airy, celestial feeling.
The walls weren’t painted or wallpapered, like most places. Instead they were decorated with square panels of artwork, which were each very different but with the same overall theme of a what looked like a butcher’s knife.
Our peppy, fast-talking waiter slowed it down just long enough to explain to us that the knife protruding out of a panel above my brother’s head is called a Mezzaluna and is used to chop vegetables.
Hmm. I’m a Food Network junkie, and yet I was hearing that term for the first time.
To start us off, they brought delicious multigrain bread and a bottle of the most amazing Olive Oil (or EVOO as Rachel Ray would say) I have ever tasted. Turns out it’s made in Tuscany at the home of the restaurant’s owner, and it’s available to buy. Two bottles, please.
When it came time to order, the fun began. My brother wanted ravioli but they only had spinach ravioli. Then he wanted angel hair pasta, but they didn’t have that. Then he wanted spaghetti but without the sauce. Only butter. My sister was surprisingly easy that night and settled on splitting a margherita pizza and homemade bolognese lasagna with my stepdad. My mom and I, the more daring ones of the crowd, couldn’t resist sharing the Halibut special and Taglierini alla ciociara, which was pasta with cherry tomatoes, prosciutto, peas, mozzarella and provolone.
Everything came out fast, fresh and fabulous. The waiter talked my brother into getting a homemade veal meatball in marinara on the side of his pasta, and he actually ended up dumping the red sauce on the pasta and eating it like a normal boy! My sister was more than pleased with her pizza and lasagna, although she managed to set aside just about every morsel of meat in it. I guess she didn’t know the word “Bolognese” meant meat sauce. We’ll have to help her brush up on her Italian.
And my mom and I devoured the fresh halibut in a balsamic vinegar in under 10 bites. Our pasta, which was equally delicious but in true violation of my “no pasta” diet, ended up in a take home container, which I happily enjoyed for lunch the following two days.
When it was time for dessert, I passed, but when my little sister and brother begged to order the bittersweet chocolate cake, I remembered those days as a kid when dessert was always part of dinner.
It came out with a scoop of ice cream, and the family was practically fighting each other – even me – for as many tastes as possible before it was gone.
By the time we were finished our dinner 90 minutes had passed since we had arrived and the restaurant was packed to the gills with a line snaking outside.
We piled into a cab that dropped me off at home and took them to Penn Station, and the next night my mom called to say how much fun they had, raving and raving about Mezzaluna.
As for my brother, I think Mezzaluna is the new Au Bon Pain.
Now that’s a kid with some good taste.