Po

Manhattan Brooklyn
31 Cornelia Street 276 Smith Street
212-645-2189 718-875-1980

I think of myself as being made of three parts. In my head, I am Jewish - a tad neurotic with a dash of self deprecating humor. In my heart, I am British - I worship Kate Winslet, Shakespeare, and yes, I admit, Harry Potter. But in my stomach, I am nothing other than one big, fat, meatball-eating, Tony Soprano-fearing Italian. Several years ago, there was an episode of Sex and The City that posed the question, "How many great loves can one woman have in her life?" I think Carrie decided on two. Well, if that's the case, Italian food is one of mine.

Po is not the best restaurant in the city. An evening at Blue Hill or Momofuko Ko or Dovetail will offer you the most exciting and innovative culinary experience. But when I dine out, I don't follow my heart or my head. I go with my gut. And nothing quite satisfies it like Po. So while it is not, nor ever will be, the best place to eat in the city, it will always be my favorite.

Jeremy and I visited Po for the first time two years ago -- a couple of weeks after it opened a location on Smith Street in Brooklyn. A minute after we sat down, they brought us two complimentary pieces of white bean bruschetta. I immediately dove in, and after one bite, my inner pig's tale began wagging furiously. Something about the simplicity of white beans, chunks of garlic, olive oil, and fresh country bread offers such pure deliciousness of flavor that I was tempted to ask for five more pieces, until I realized that only one order was free. For dinner, we ordered the Pasta alla Amatriciana, the cured tuna, and a side of fregula. The Amatriciana is sort of like a red-sauce version of carbonara, strands of al dente spaghetti covered in a thick red sauce with garlic, onion, and generous chunks of bacon. After one bite, I fell in love with this dish so hard I actually understood what people meant when they talk about love at first sight -- and wondered if Tom Cruise wasn't a wackjob after all. I quickly came to my senses -- not wanting disturbing thoughts of Scientology and Katie Holmes to distract me from my pleasure -- and begged the owner to tell me his secret. He just smiled in his casually hip way and said, "it's really just the wild boar bacon." The fregula, which is similar to Israeli couscous, is divinely fluffy and buttery, infused with the perfect flavors of pumpkin and green onion. And the cured tuna is a meal in itself, served with white beans, artichokes, and a fabulously spicy vinaigrette.

The Pasta alla Amatriciana became a Fatal Attraction-like obsession for me. In fact, Jeremy and I traveled to the villages, coasts, and cities of Italy searching for a better, more authentic version of this dish. We had some great meals, particularly one truffled pasta dish that was so inspired I tried to convince Jeremy to abandon New York and move to Italy ("come on, they could use therapists and real estate investors in Positano!"), but we could not for the life of us find an Amatriciana we liked more than the one served at Po. I couldn't wait to tell the owner this when we arrived back in the states, until my brother-in-law told me about a new addition to the menu he insisted I try: the guinea hen. I agreed, skeptically thinking to myself "how exciting could a piece of baby chicken really be? My stomach likes pasta, not poultry!" I guess moments like that tell you that sometimes your gut is full of crap, and your head can tell you a thing or two. Trusting my bro-in-law was the smartest thing I ever did because this dish is a damn miracle. I think about it in the shower. I think about it before I go to bed. I think about it at work, when I'd rather be eating it instead. The guinea hen is grilled and cooked in saba, a delicious grape juice-like marinade that is used to season meat. It is a very generous portion, served over a bed of the addictive pumpkin fregula. I don't know if it's the saba, the meat, or the fregula, but this dish eviscerated my poultry snobbery forever. I'd start a freaking guinea hen farm if I could.

I usually skip dessert, but my inner pigginess is so appreciated at Po they always brings us a few sweet surprises. My favorite so far is the cherry panna cotta, even though it is probably 1,000 calories, something about the custard feels wonderfully airy and light. I guess that's the other reason Po is my favorite place to eat: it's not about the scene (though it is hip and classy in its unassuming way), the owners just want to make you happy. So for a little pig like me, who fantasizes about truffles, not diamonds, who would spend 500 dollars on Per Se over Prada any day of the week, Po feels like a second home. I'll never say an unkind word about a baby chicken again.