Frankie and Johnnie's

A brief note before the commencement of this week's post: per a suggestion from Mrs. Saren Cassotto, a former SJC employee with Cait, our voices will from this point forward be differentiated by color rather than font, to heighten the sensation of your reading pleasure. (P.S.-John is Red, like the handsome newborn baby of the aforementioned Mrs. Saren Cassotto.)

It's Summer Restaurant Week(s) in NYC! This is (at least) a biannual adventure in our phenomenal metropolitan area. For $35.00, participants enjoy a three-course meal at some of the city's most illustrious, delicious and expensive [sans the Restaurant week] establishments. In other words, the sorts of places John won't take Cait to on a normal evening. Cait "decided" if we are going to pay $35 each, she is eating steak or seafood...I put "decided" in quotes, because otherwise it suggests that John had to break out from some sort of straightjacket of emotion in order to be willing to eat steak. For this reason, we gravitated toward the steakhouse choices and settled upon this restaurant on 37th St. between 5th and 6th Aves. My efforts to convince them that I am the namesake "Johnnie" went unnoticed.

We walked in about 20 minutes early for our 7:15 p.m. reservation, but the hostess immediately sat us. Well, after it took here a minute to find "D'Ambrosio" on the reservation list. Just saying "D'Ambrosio" wasn't enough. I had to specify "John" to help her out. But I don't blamer her. I have a feeling that, when I realize a glass of cabernet sauvignon is waiting for me at a dinner table, I slur my speach a little bit, so she was probably looking for "Dan Brosio's" reservation. It was only about 1/3 full-seemingly more of a business luncheon or pre-theater/post-theater location because of its prices and reputation. I found out about an hour before we left for the restaurant that it was named one of the best restaurants in America in 2004. This was a tall order. In layman's terms: Imagine that you play one game in single-A rookie ball, then for your second game, you're somehow starting against the Marlins, a team that was phenomenal in 2004, but is still pretty darn good today. On our second "Ate Date" (as I've come to call them, right at this moment), we were called up to the proverbial major leagues. Thus, we took it seriously. The hostess led us to a round table in the corner, set up in a way in which we both looked out upon the rest of the restaurant. Just like Mufasa and Simba looking out at their kingdom at the beginning of The Lion King, I had to sort of calm Caitlin down and explain to her what was going on, and where not to go, and who not to stare at. Not sure if John paid extra for this touch! John, most certainly, did not. Other than a family of out-of-place tourists in t-shirts and a raucous table of middle-aged couples, and the one table of newlyweds who looked like deer in headlights for being in such a classy joint (I wonder who that could be), the restaurant had a Good 'Ole Boys feel about it. John, looking 18, had the "boys" part down, but not the "good 'ole".

The bread bowl was an assortment of goodies, including seeded crackers, sesame sticks, rolls of all sizes and focaccia with grilled onions. Caitlin did miss one thing: there was a piece of garlic bread, which I wanted and didn't share with her. But I should have, because it wasn't that good. The flavor was fine, but the bread's texture was inconsistent. Also, why would a classy restaurant give breadsticks in its breadbasket? I never understood that. I'm sitting there, trying to be romantic (key word "trying"), and Caitlin's CRUNCH-ing was drowning out the expletives being spewed by the "good 'ole boys" two tables away. Also, they gave us just butter--I'm much more of an olive oil girl, but I didn't complain. I hope she means that literally, not figuratively. If she in fact were an Olive Oil girl, I would fall well short of being a Popeye guy. I ordered the Sauvignon Blanc (always my first choice wine) and John ordered a Cab Sav, of which Caitlin lacks the cultural stamina and palate to enjoy.




First course: Lobster cake for both of us. It was either that, a salad, or "house smoked salmon." Restaurant week is not about salads. In fact "Just Salad" doesn't even participate in restaurant week. If you go to a restaurant during Restaurant Week and order a salad, you're simply using whoever is paying, whether it be yourself or somebody else. It's like going to Rome and feasting on Domino's Pizza. You are presented with an opportunity to remove yourself from your element and enjoy the festivities, and you have to take it. Skip the lettuce and go with the lobster. The small Asian twenty-something at the table next to us ordered a salad. To the dweeb she was with: if she didn't go home with you, you got used.



The waiter seemed strangely surprised that the plates would be hot. He warned us of this as he shook off his hands in obvious pain, and he said, in a Russian schoolgirl sort of way, "Ooh, this plate is sooo hot!" Our initial thoughts that he might have been a spy were quashed by his incredibly wimpy pain tolerance. Imagine how that interrogation would go:





CIA Agent: "Are you a spy"


Waiter: "No"


CIA Agent: "Joe, go get a washcloth out of the dryer."


Waiter: "Noooooo! I'll talk! Mother Russia wants to let it all hang out at a trendy coffee lounge in Tribeca and explain to hipsters that it is so NOT cool to dress like you were born in an Eastern European ghetto. Does this mean my skin remains at room temp?!"


A lobster cake is what it sounds like-crabcake with lobster. It came sitting on an orange sauce (not the flavoring, just the color) and had large chunks of lobster meat (there was definitely more lobster than cake), mixed with corn and other assorted vegetables. Delicious! However it was cooked held the heat in very well...every bite, right up to the end, melted in our mouths. The, in true Caitlin fashion, all of the excess sauce was collected on a square inch of the plate and subsequently spooned into her mouth. She does not let unidentifiable condiments go to waste!



On a side note, I almost laughed in one waiter's face (we were being served by at least 4). As he was picking up the empty plate from my first course, he took a half step back, looked at me and exclaimed "OOPS! I touch!" Then he walked away, leaving me unsure of how to react. But because his English was as broken as the heart of anyone whose ever recorded a country album, I held in my cackle as best I could. Then, just as the words "OOPS! I touch" were coming out of my mouth during my explanation to Cait, the waiter again appeared at the table, removed my fork, and placed a new one down. Gotta give the guy a gold star for inadvertently admitting that those "Employees Must Wash Hands" signs really mean nothing, especially if a light brush of a waiter's fingertip requires the delivery of a newly-sterilized utensil.

I said before, if I'm paying one price, I'm going all out, so for my meal I got the surf and turf. (Don't let Caitlin fool you...unless we're buying milk or clothes, I can usually turn my wallet upside down after spending money, and nothing will fall out.) (Ok time for a Cait interjection. An empty wallet means we went out to a bar with friends (read Neil, Drew and Kate), Cait had one drink with Kate, went home at 12, while John woke up after coming home pantless and ringless at 4 a.m. finding his wallet mysteriously empty. So whose fault is this empty wallet?!) This dish was described as "petit filet mignon and shrimp scampi." Every shrimp scampi I have ever experienced included a heaping portion of linguini and olive oil. So when my filet arrived topped with one butterflied shrimp (for all the guys reading this, please note that this is not some sort of genetically enhanced insect-fish being; it's just a shrimp that is sliced down the middle). Despite the tiny helping of shrimp (this was like the Gary Coleman of shrimp...tiny and dead), the dish was out of this world. I asked for it medium/medium rare. On a side note, I found it hilarious that Caitlin managed to order her steak to be cooked across two-fifths the spectrum (rare, medium rare, medium, medium well, and well done). The waiter was equally amused, as he gave her a short glare that said "this is not Dallas BBQ, you're not getting this steak for around 9 bucks", followed by a complacent shrug.



The steak definitely came out very medium rare (that's like calling something "very average"...she means that the steak was red), but that was okay with me. It had a light seasoning and despite the fact that usually I cover everything with steak sauce or hot sauce, this dish didn't need any other spice. (Thank goodness she didn't ask for Frankies hot sauce).



John ordered braised beef short ribs with port wine demi-glace. It looked like a hunk of pot roast in a dark orange sauce. The meat fell off the bone and melted in our mouths. Literally, I barely had to chew, which is also why I ended up eating way too much. Very little effort was needed for me to introduce these ribs to my ribs. Yes, I never let John go through a meal without trying (or stealing) multiple bites. During one sip of wine as he spaced out on me for a moment, I stole the piece of meat he had just cut. It took about twenty seconds and few confused looks at the plate before he looked over at my guilty grin. I do this thing where, if part of the way through a meal I find the "best" bite, I put it aside and save it for last. I did that last night. Caitlin managed to eat it while I wasn't looking. When I realized it was gone, she just looked away and started whistling, the way Bugs Bunny does when he's in disguise and Elmer Fudd walks by.

There were two choices for dessert on the Restaurant Week menu: Key Lime Pie and Chocolate Mousse Cake. We got one of each--hey this is why I married him, he lets me eat off his plate! By "lets" she means she does it when I'm not paying attention (see above).



The pie had a cream topping that had no flavor. It tasted like eating cold. (Is anyone else imagining a tapas plate called "Frio" for the trendy and weight-conscious?) Overall this experience was wonderful. I ate my way through Cape Cod over the past weekend (I will try to blog about a few of those this week, time permitting!). So, naturally, what should I do the first night I go home, but stuff my face with three courses of fish, meat, and mousse? It was so wonderful to be home again with my husband, enjoying wine and hearing about the kooks he met on his day at jury duty. (My faves: (1) The potential juror who said he had been convicted of grand larceny auto and criminal mischief in 1990, and then, to the question "has anyone ever been in law enforcement?", responded "Yes. In 1990." and (2) The man who looked at a criminal defendant, raised his hand, and told the judge "I've already made up my mind about him.")



Overall: Definitely check this place out during restaurant week (which goes until next Friday), because the prices are lower than usual (Cait's Shrimp and Turf is usually $52 on its own). To conclude, I want But, if you got the dough, go before a show! (that poorly executed Johnny Cochran-ism is a shout out to Lindsey Lohan just hired Robert Shapiro (O.J.'s other lawyer) to represent her misgivings, misdeeds, and Miss-America-on-crack routine, from now on.