Morandi
Every great afternoon passeggiata (that's Italian for "promenade" - idiot) leads to Morandi - Keith McNally's storybook trattoria, and go-to Goldilocks locale. Not too fancy. Not too casual. Not too trendy. Not too low-key. Just right. Brick arched, wood paneled, and soaked in rustic charm, you'll feel like you're in the village - an Italian village that is. Grab a 3PM seat outside at one of their home kitchen style tables, wobbly with a certain funny charm. Get a buzz while creating a buzz, and start scanning for the usual celebrity sitings. Discretely though of course. Glasses on. Let's not be gauche.
When in New York, do as the Romans do, and kiss your carb cautious diet arrivederci. Drown your starter bread basket, and yourself while you're at it, in a pool of olive oil, order a slab of Focaccia Prosciutto & Rucola (and don't you dare be afraid to throw an egg on that shit), swirl about a glass of red wine, and vino vidi vici - you're living la dolce vita.
Morandi, 211 Waverly Place
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