This little piggy took one Frenchman down to Maialino last Sunday afternoon, seeking robust wine and salty pork. I saw press photos of a raviolo oozing egg yolk the previous week and felt positively drawn to the restaurant; the Danny Meyer (of Union Square Cafe, Gramercy Tavern, Shake Shack, One Eleven Madison, and many other fantastically successful eateries) pedigree called my name. Danny Meyer and his undergraduate fantasy of Roman cuisine? I was enthralled.
Of course when expectations are so high, something is sure to fall short. But blame it on the diner: I should have known to only order the really Roman, offal-based dishes. Leave bruschetta to the Balenciaga babes. The oxtail was transcendent, and the cotechino was fantastic. However, as much as I enjoyed these two dishes, I still walked out into the glacially cold evening wanting more. The restaurant itself just didn't feel as dusty and sensuous as I wanted it to be; it didn't match my romantic memories of being a 17 year old, away from home for the first time. (Disregard the fact that I had never even been kissed....ever...so I'm not entirely certain where this torridly sensuous impression comes from.) I went back to the little armpit I call home and tootled about on the internet, before stumbling on to a picture of the most delectable, juicy, mayonnaisey lobster roll I have ever seen. I felt like the girl who went on her first post-break up date; although the new guy was satisfactory, I went home to look at old photos of that naughty ex-boyfriend.
- C
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