Six of us, all Italian, in search of a thoroughly Italian meal in New York City, went to Babbo, the most celebrated Italian restaurant in Manhattan, full of hope. We had been trying to get a table for ages, and finally, our homesick culinary dream was to come true. We were so bored of New York steaks and so excited for genuine Italian food, that for the first time in our lives we arrived on time at the two-story, honeyed amber-lit restaurant in Greenwich Village.

None of us is a food critic, but we were all longing to feel like we were again in mom’s kitchen. We wondered: Could superstar chef Mario Batali keep the promise of his new cookbook’s title: “Molto Italiano” (Thoroughly Italian)?

The premises were disheartening. My perfectionist boyfriend, Christian, was discouraged reading the misspelled Italian words written on the wall and on the menu: the pronoun se without the correct accent, the noun cotechino (fresh pork sausage) written with a double “c.”

Our exacting friend Mauro began complaining about his appetizer, prosciutto San Daniele with black pepper fett’unta (Tuscan grilled bread): “How can you serve San Daniele raw ham with an olive-oiled bread from Tuscany? With all that olive oil, San Daniele loses its flavor.”

A sommelier approached and poured a very small amount of expensive Costamagna Dolcetto red wine into each glass; he waited an instant, and then filled the glasses with the wine.

“Have you seen anybody doing that in Italy?” Gerardo asked.

“Never. It’s inelegant,” Christian replied, and added: “The sommelier should rinse out the glasses with wine in order to rid them of any other smells, not just leave a small amount of wine at the bottom of each glass.”

Meanwhile, our friend Monia ate her baby red-oak leaf with black-olive blood-orange citronette with a dissatisfied expression. “It’s a little bit rough,” she said, noting that it hardly compared to a delicious version of the dish we had had at the home of our Italian-Jamaican friends, Antonio and Jacqui. Christian declared, “Batali is not keeping his new cookbook’s promise: dishes that are equally at home in the Italian kitchens in Italy and the Italian kitchens in America.”

Things became even more painful when the main courses arrived. Christian complained bitterly about his bucatini all’Amatriciana with guanciale, hot pepper, and pecorino, showing us the huge slices of bacon on his plate. “I feel like I am eating a hamburger, not pasta all’Amatriciana,” he said, and praised his mother’s bucatini.

But the saddest moment of our dinner occurred when our friend Gerardo sent back his maccheroni alla chitarra with oven-dried tomatoes, red chiles, and bottarga di muggine. Each of us, including the waiter, felt so sorry. With tears in his eyes, Gerardo explained: “The maccheroni are full of burnt garlic, too sweet and aren’t cooked enough.” I tried to hide my difficulty with the grilled pork chop. It was so tough that I had a hard time chewing it.

By dessert time, we were utterly depressed. We silently swallowed our chocolate cake and our pistachio-and-chocolate semifreddo, paid our check ($436.95), and went home with gloomy faces. With homesick hearts, each of us had the same dream that night about our moms’ delicious and thoroughly Italian meals.