We’ve polled experts. Lunched with fortune-tellers. Shaken several hundred magic eight balls.
And every one of them said the same thing.
2011: the year of the rustic Italian restaurant date spot.
Of course, we’d never go out on a limb that big without some indisputable evidence.
So allow us to present Spasso, a cozy West Village eatery from the guys behind Choptank, complete with an expansive wine list and the overwhelming scent of house-cured meat, opening tonight.
With its corner real estate, floor-to-ceiling windows and wafting aroma of braised duck leg, the gravitational pull of Spasso will be strong. Don’t fight it.
Inside, you’ll find all the required trappings of a proper dinner for two. A table lit with candles. A menu full of homemade pastas. And a marble-topped bar stocked with the city’s most formidable sparkling wine collection. Yes, that’s a thing.
And when you’re ready to sit, you’ll want to ignore your most basic date instincts. Forget that seductive banquette. Forgo the window table. Instead, take a seat with a bunch of strangers in the kitchen.
There, at a long reclaimed-barn-wood bar, you’ll sit alongside the chef (a prized White/Batali disciple): passing silent judgment on his Trout Saltimbocca, debating the cultural significance of pepperoni and sampling dishes as they’re prepared.
Just don’t double dip in the pork ragu.
And every one of them said the same thing.
2011: the year of the rustic Italian restaurant date spot.
Of course, we’d never go out on a limb that big without some indisputable evidence.
So allow us to present Spasso, a cozy West Village eatery from the guys behind Choptank, complete with an expansive wine list and the overwhelming scent of house-cured meat, opening tonight.
With its corner real estate, floor-to-ceiling windows and wafting aroma of braised duck leg, the gravitational pull of Spasso will be strong. Don’t fight it.
Inside, you’ll find all the required trappings of a proper dinner for two. A table lit with candles. A menu full of homemade pastas. And a marble-topped bar stocked with the city’s most formidable sparkling wine collection. Yes, that’s a thing.
And when you’re ready to sit, you’ll want to ignore your most basic date instincts. Forget that seductive banquette. Forgo the window table. Instead, take a seat with a bunch of strangers in the kitchen.
There, at a long reclaimed-barn-wood bar, you’ll sit alongside the chef (a prized White/Batali disciple): passing silent judgment on his Trout Saltimbocca, debating the cultural significance of pepperoni and sampling dishes as they’re prepared.
Just don’t double dip in the pork ragu.
