A Return to Extraordinary Lavishness, at Torrisi

Are we living in a Roaring Twenties redux, as was predicted when the pandemic began to wane? The other night, at the recently revived Torrisi, in Nolita’s historic Puck Building, a woman wearing a flapper headband was a bit too on the nose for my taste, but the restaurant does suggest a return to a brand of extraordinary lavishness that dissipated as the virus spread. This might be the hottest table in town. Having failed to make a reservation earlier than 11 P.M. (Exhibit A: late-night dining is back), I arrived, on two afternoons, fifteen minutes before the doors opened, to find a line snaking down the block.

The most photogenic appetizer is also one of the best: American and Italian hams, with zeppole and pineapple mostarda.

Twice, I succeeded in getting a pair of seats, first at the bar and then at a table in the expansive surrounding area, which is separated from the smaller, reservation-only “dining room” by an enormous open kitchen. Twice, I was sternly informed of my time limit: ninety minutes. From there, the hospitality improved, as well it should at a place whose wine list includes a glass for ninety-eight dollars. The sting was further soothed by a selection of dishes that were, with a few notable exceptions, superb. The food is Italian-ish, but the restaurant’s theme is, more broadly, New York City, as perceived from Little Italy. This concept harkens back to Torrisi’s original, much humbler iteration down the street (open from 2009 to 2014), the first place by Rich Torrisi and Mario Carbone, who went on to create, with Jeff Zalaznick, the empire that is Major Food Group.

A salad of escarole, radicchio, endive, persimmon, ricotta passita, and pine nuts.

Salt-cured ham, half American, half Italian, sliced in translucent sheets from enormous haunches displayed near the host stand, was served with a pyramid of crisp golden zeppole—dusted with black pepper and fried rosemary, interiors steaming and custardy—and pineapple mostarda. For the grapefruit-cocktail antipasto, the jewel-like citrus was tossed with Marcona almonds, grated aged goat cheese, and mint, and covered with opaque coins of fennel. It was almost as good as the escarole-and-endive salad, strewn with paper-thin persimmon, shaggy shavings of ricotta passita (aged and herbed), and toasted pine nuts.

Linguine in a pink Manhattan clam sauce, deliciously heavy on fresh parsley.

With the clock ticking, on my first visit I ordered pastas—including raviolini with prawns and saffron, which brought to mind, happily, wonton soup—but not entrées, unless you count a late-arriving appetizer: the Sliced Boars Head on Rye, a clever pun that fell flat, given the rubbery texture of the flavorless pig’s-head terrine, wiped from my palate, if not my memory, by a tiny paper cup of lemon sorbet.

Aided by a publicist, I scored a prime-time table in the dining room, to see how the other half lives, on crushed-velvet banquettes. A group of three young men nearby (A.I. bros?) wore hoodies and the blasé expressions of people bored with their good fortune. Our lovely server, in an ivory tuxedo jacket and bow tie, cracked jokes like a Catskills comedienne. (“2020—a good year for wine, at least.”)

Octopus Nha Trang, seared on a flattop and dressed with fish sauce, mint, and shallot, named after a thirty-year-old Vietnamese restaurant on Baxter Street, was a much more successful homage than Cavatelli with Jamaican Beef Ragu, which was intended to emulate a Caribbean patty but tasted overwhelmingly of harsh spice. The linguine in a pink Manhattan clam sauce was deliciously heavy on fresh parsley, and a special called Capellini Cantonese, featuring glossy angel hair tangled with garlic and jalapeño, was crowned with half of the most perfectly cooked lobster I’ve ever had. Duck Alla Mulberry better delivered on its pun, an expertly rendered breast, sliced and served with a mulberry reduction and melty leaves of butter-slicked Swiss chard.

My favorite course at Torrisi was the most inherently excessive: dessert. The staff pushes, rightly, the affogato, a coupe layered sexily with espresso granita, vanilla ice cream, mascarpone mousse, and hot fudge. But nothing beat the “frozen yogurt”: half a grapefruit hollowed out and filled with absurdly creamy, tart soft-serve, swirled with grapefruit-Campari jam and a grassy, green olive oil, accompanied by a tiny tureen of extra jam—a marvel of both luxury and restraint. (Dishes $14-$59.) ♦