Were Every Neighborhood so Lucky
This article is from the archive of The New York Sun before the launch of its new website in 2022. The Sun has neither altered nor updated such articles but will seek to correct any errors, mis-categorizations or other problems introduced during transfer.

t shouldn’t surprise fans of chef Mario Batali to learn that he and his partner Joe Bastianich are the backers behind the Spotted Pig. After all, Mr. Batali is so enamored with all things porcine he often describes dishes on his Food Network show, “Molto Mario,” by their level of “porky”ness. At the Pig, however, there actually aren’t that many pork dishes, though likenesses of pigs abound: statues, portraits, prints, you name it. The real dish here, in fact, is that an English style pub has dishes worth writing about.
That’s because owner Ken Friedman had a vision in mind: to bring together the conviviality of a proper New York tavern by way of English pedigree (they actually hand-pump two of the ales on tap) and the dynamism that’s fueled the British “gastro-pub” phenomenon that’s revolutionized pub food in England over the last decade. Together with the backing of Messrs. Batali and Bastianich, plus the delicious food of Chef April Bloomfield, Mr. Friedman has achieved his goal.
The Spotted Pig is a wonderful neighborhood haunt that I wish was on the corner of my block. It’s a charming, crowded space – formerly Le Zoo – comprised of a minis cule bar room and an adjoining dining room. Judging by the amount of tables and chairs crammed into every inch of space available, the Pig is a place to sit down, if you’re lucky enough to get a seat. They don’t take reservations here, and by 8 p.m. most nights it’s standing room only at the bar. If you haven’t yet dined here I imagine you’re thinking, “All this fuss over veal kidneys and calf livers?” Umm, yes. Yes, indeed.
We began with an insanely rich dish of ricotta dumplings called gnudi ($12), which would be ravioli if they came in a dumpling. They don’t, but the tiny, marshmallow like pillows came bathed in brown butter and topped with fried sage leaves, and were amazingly light and intensely flavorful. Pork tonnato ($13), a play on the Italian veal classic, was made brilliantly with cold sliced pork loin topped with a powerful mayonnaise spiked with capers and anchovies, sitting alongside a perfect Caesar salad. A sweet roasted beet salad ($11) was dressed with olive oil and a nose flaring grating of fresh horseradish, the addition of which cleared my sinuses and invigorated my palate. I was disappointed, however, by another salad comprised of olives, heirloom tomatoes, and arugula topped with a soft-boiled duck egg ($13). The duck egg, borrowed from Babbo where it’s usually fried and draped across a raft of roasted asparagus spears, was billed as soft-boiled but arrived quite hard, robbing the salad – and me – of the silky yolk that would have made an otherwise very good salad great. The puree of chicken liver “parfait” ($11), on the other hand, was excellent, served with grilled potato bread and sour cornichons.
The dozen or so starters outnumber the main courses by nearly double, which was somewhat telling on the night I dined there, as I liked the big plates half as much as the small ones. A slab of grilled skirt steak ($19) arrived tepid and presliced, accompanied by sweet peppers stewed with ground chili and earthy parsley. The compote was tasty, but the meat was unnecessarily tough thanks to a rubber band of untrimmed silver skin running through it. A beautiful roast fluke ($20) was perched atop a summer bean ragout redolent of anchovies and rosemary, the latter of which was a little too powerful for my taste. Still, the fish was cooked perfectly moist. Sauteed veal kidneys ($18) with chanterelles, sweet corn and garlic – not on my Top 50 list – was not the least bit disappointing. The flavor was as gamey as I expected and the texture of the offal was considerably chewy, but I was assured by a British ex-pat dining with us that they were “dead on.” Right, then.
Finally, the much-talked-about Roquefort burger ($15) arrived next to a bird’s nest of shoestring fries that was taller than the formidable burger. The burger was excellent in every way: charred outside, pink inside, wafting blue cheese. The fries, however, seemed a silly waste of good fries, since they were so thin they got cold immediately. Classic frites alongside the burger would make it one of the best dishes on the menu.
Desserts (all $7) are pretty straightforward and pretty good across the board. Vanilla ice-cream was topped with blueberries steeped in a Hendricks Gin-infused syrup, adding a curiously refreshing whiff of cucumber to the otherwise sweet concoction. The creme caramel was creamy and firm, and as good as I’ve had at any Mc-Nally restaurant (meaning very good), as was the lemon and lime tart, which was lovely and light. A similarly light chocolate cake splashed with bourbon was all about the chocolate, really, which was fine, since we were headed to the bar for nightcaps.