SARTIANO'S

                                                                                        Mercer Hotel

                                                                                      99 Prince Street

                                                                                        212-658-1156                                                                                     

                                                                                       
                                                                                    By John Mariani
                                                                          Photos by Teddy Wolff

         Set foot any night of the week in the new Sartiano's, a subterranean Soho Italian restaurant in the Mercer Hotel, and you will be disabused of the current media’s imbecile claim that “no one wants to eat like this anymore.” Truth is, Sartiano's, like many upscale restaurants, will be packed, even on a late summer weeknight. Given its shadowy, flickering, sexy lighting, roomy booths, excellent brickwork, a 20-foot bar of Carrara marble and a pink Himalayan salt display, you might think it would attract a fickle, transitory glam crowd—the staff itself is dressed in blue sharkskin suits with navy satin lapels. Maybe so, but once tasted, the food is what brings people back to this vibrant restaurant that seems to define what fine dining has evolved into being in 2023. 
         This is a project of Bond Hospitality, and its founder, Neapolitan-born architect Scott Sartiano's, had the good sense to hire Alfred Portale as culinary director, along with executive chef Chris Lewnes. Portale is one of New York’s most respected chefs among peers, having established Gotham Bar and Grill in 1984 as among the city’s finest restaurants for thirty-five years. His mastery of technique comes from stints with Michel Guérard, the Troisgros brothers and Jacques Maximin, and he is author of three cookbooks. After leaving Gotham, he opened his own very successful Portale restaurant four years ago.
         Sartiano's is, like every new restaurant these days, very loud, and there’s no reason to pipe in throbbing techno music. The service staff is genial, and sommelier Daniel Vannatter is an exuberant fellow who loves telling you about the wines he chooses (if you wish) and why they are special to the impressive, mostly Italian  list.
         The breads and focaccia with whipped ricotta ($10) are excellent, and, at the top of the menu, a cannolo  (below) filled with mascarpone cheese, chives and Pacific Northwest white sturgeon roe ($48) sets a style of what’s to follow, like the silky crudo of yellowfin with lemon, basil and crispy farro grain ($28). A fritto misto of calamari, rock shrimp, zucchini and fennel ($26) is as light and good as at Portale, as are the hearty meatballs with ricotta and velvety Parmigiano fonduta to be scooped up with crostini ($21).
         How, then, in a city of so many superb Italian restaurants, does Sartiano’s differ? It doesn’t need to, because it simply competes with the very best; you needn’t get wildly creative when you’ve perfected pastas like the paccheri (below) with meatballs, sausage and short ribs, standing like the pillars supporting Venice. The dish is $64, but, believe me, a party of four can enjoy this as a primi course. Agnolotti are stuffed with buffalo milk ricotta and dressed with a simple but first-rate tomato and basil sauce ($29). I did find that one evening’s 12-layer lasagna was a bit dry ($29).
         There are several steak cuts available, and while I am not much of a fan of wagyu, which is so often too much fat and too little lean, the  Australian wagyu zabuton, cut from the outer side of the chuck eye roll, was superb; rich, to be sure, but also with a fine beef flavor, and at $68 for ten ounces, about the same as you’d pay for a NY strip or ribeye elsewhere. Veal milanese, at $75, was a steep price, although it had flavor and the right crispiness of breading. Branzino was impeccably cooked. Dover sole is served piccata ($68) in a rollatine of thin slices.
        Desserts ($15) are quite traditional, but done with true refinement. You’ll enjoy the fruited panna cotta with a crisp caramel crust, the individual tiramisù and especially the six big, tender bomboloni.
     I must mention that since one month ago, some of Sartiano's prices have risen.  I long ago gave up any thought of there being a surfeit of Italian restaurants in New York because it has always been a city foremost for its Italian food, and, while menus are similar—as they are in Italy—the stye, décor, hospitality and the flair of the chef make the best of the new entries much sought out and appealing. Sartiano’s adds measurably to that landscape with a striking décor, excellent cuisine in generous portions and the Italian vitality that makes eating out a joy.

Open for breakfast and dinner daily, for lunch Mon.-Fri., for brunch Sat. & Sun.

         Upon arriving at their hotel Katie and David found Janós Frankel waiting for them in the lobby at 9:15.
         “You got my message!” said Katie.
         “Yes, I checked when the plane arrived and came here. Good flight? Hungry?” His English was excellent, with a slight British lilt characteristic of Europeans who had learned English in school.
         “Famished,” said David. “If it’s okay with you, Katie, mind if we just leave our luggage with the bellman and check in later?”
         Katie said that was fine, so the three of them set off in a taxi. Katie and David could tell little about the city during the ride from the airport but noted it looked rather dark, especially for a Friday night. The only sign of nightlife near the hotel was the glow of a neon sign set above the door of a strip club called La Dolce Vita. Getting a better sense of the city would have to wait for the next day. Fortunately, the hotel was within sight of the city’s Chain Link Bridge (above), spanning the Danube and fairly well lighted. From there they could see the old town of Buda set against a deep blue winter’s sky.
         Frankel seemed to be in his early thirties, tall, thin, fair-haired, with a trimmed beard and wire-rimmed glasses. He wore bluejeans and a tweed jacket with a wool scarf tied the way David had seen everyone in Europe tie one, looped in a double fold.  David liked the way it looked but didn’t think he could carry it off back home.
      They arrived at a restaurant named Remiz (right), which Frankel said opened at the turn of the century but went into decline during the Soviet occupation and had been restored by new owners around 1992, when Hungary became free again. Katie and David could see that there was a garden patio and gazebo, closed for the winter, and the dining room was well lighted and seemed full of people. The entrance was framed by two pillars mounted with a bright red sign with the restaurant’s name.
         Frankel was greeted like a favored regular, and he in turn introduced Katie and David as friends from America, which seemed to make the host very happy because the owners, a family called Meződi, were trying to build a tourist clientele. They were given a fine table draped in good linens within a room of modern Secessionist décor and walls hung with black and white photos, none of which was familiar to the Americans.
         Frankel said, “The family originally just wanted a pastry café but demand grew so fast for restaurants after the Soviets left that they turned it into what you see now. Before that there were no restaurants in Budapest worth eating at. The Soviets determined the menu, which was almost identical in every eating place, the wines were terrible because the Soviets ripped out all the old vineyards, and, for a café culture that once prided itself on service, the old ways died out. Dinner could take hours to eat because the waiters took their time getting the food out of an under-manned kitchen. But there are a lot of new places opening now—not all as good as Remiz, but getting better because the variety and amount of food now coming into the markets is much better than it was. By the way, you should try to visit the old Central Market. It is huge by any standards and there’s now plenty to see.”
         Frankel suggested he order the meal, which was fine with the hungry Americans, who had already started in on the very good bread and butter. Frankel called over the waiter, speaking Hungarian, and ordered an array of appetizers like beef and goose soup, toast slathered with goose liver, and grilled sheep’s cheese with cranberries. For the main course he ordered paprika-scented roast chicken (above), a crisp pork knuckle with roasted potatoes, and breast of duck with wide noodles and braised cabbage.  To accompany it all Frankel ordered two Hungarian wines he said were good modern examples of the country’s viniculture, a white named furmint and a red named Egri Bikavér, “bull’s blood.”
         Katie and David were amazed at the amount of food presented—David had no complaints—and the overall quality, although it was definitely heavy, rich in fats and gravies. 
         “So, you have an appointment with Toth on Friday?” said Frankel. “I consider that quite a coup! Whatever you and your editor said to his people must have convinced Toth he’ll get a very favorable article on him. He’ll twist it all his own way, of course, but to get into an American magazine as a major player in Europe feeds his ego.”
         “Well, our problem is we only have a half hour with him,” said Katie. “Not much time to get to where we need to go.”
         “If he thinks you’re really interested in his achievements, he’ll probably give you more time. He did with me. And right now he needs all the good publicity he can get.”
         “Why’s that?” asked David.
         “As I told you on the phone—and you may know more about all this than I do—Toth is a leftover from the Soviet era. They enabled him to go through the bureaucracy to where he is today, and his indebtedness to the Soviets was huge. Believe me, Toth made a lot of money for a lot of commissars. But then, when the Soviets left, Toth hasn’t had quite the same support from Russia. He’s managed to stay at the top of the company because he is still useful, but I’m sure the majority of the company is held by the Russians—many of them the same people as before, but now I’ve heard rumors those same people are mounting pressure on Toth for a bigger cut of the operations.”
         “But now that Hungary is free of Soviet domination and Hungary Pharm is a western-style corporation, how much can the Russians interfere?”
         Frankel paused for a moment and ordered dessert.
         “The Soviets moved out of all their former socialist republics, but the Russians never really did. The old guard of the USSR works exactly like the Mafia, which is everywhere in Europe and America, too, eh David?”
         “Oh yeah,” said the former detective. “It was my life’s work to stamp out as many as I could.”
         “And David was very good at it,” added Katie.
         “Well, then you know that the cockroaches never really disappear. Some launder money, others are silent partners, even owners, of former Soviet satellite companies. The KGB just changed its name to FSS. They’re still the same thugs.”
         “We’ve have a little experience with that,” said Katie.
         “So, the Russians have a majority stake in Hungary Pharm.  I even hear that their brand new Prime Minister, Vladimir Putin, is one of them. You heard of him? Ex-KGB head. Very dangerous man. So if people like Putin and his cronies move against Toth, he may well be toppled. And if your article shows the world what a magnificent entrepreneur and philanthropic saint he is, he will have a good deal more clout to keep his position and his part of the company.”
         The desserts came—a lavish, cream-rich chocolate cake and an apple strüdel—with which Frankel ordered an intensely sweet Hungarian wine called Tokaji, which he said was once considered the greatest of Hungarian wines but whose vineyards had only in the past five years begun to be restored.
         By then it was eleven o’clock and the dining room began emptying out. Katie and Frankel turned to shop talk. David again felt sidelined by all the chatter about the news business, but Frankel also proved very interested in David’s work in the NYPD, so the trio lingered over the coffee and wine until midnight.
         “So what are you two doing tomorrow?” asked Frankel. “I have a story to finish by noon but after that we can meet and I can show you a little of my city. We are not quite ready to be a five-star tourist town, but we’re coming along. Your hotel is the best we’ve got at the moment—it’s the only one that doesn’t allow the prostitutes to hang out in the lobby—but there’s a lot of investment coming in now and they are restoring the old Grand Hotel Royal, which should be wonderful, if it ever re-opens. I’ll also show you where Toth’s headquarters are.”
    Katie and David were happy to be shown around town and agreed to meet Frankel at one o’clock.  Then they returned to the hotel, checked into their rooms and by the time Katie finished writing up her notes, David had already been in a deep sleep for an hour.