Well, dear reader, it actually happened. I ate dinner at Rao’s, the Rao’s, the almost mythical Italian restaurant in Manhattan on 114th Street and Pleasant Avenue. I had first heard of Rao’s in the late seventies or maybe it was the early eighties. Anyway, it was a time when Wall Street was hemorrhaging money and everybody was claiming to be somebody. Rao’s was, due to an exemplary review by Mimi Sheraton in the New York Times, the hottest ticket in town. Reservations were impossible, particularly for mere mortals like me. The restaurant has only eight or ten tables, after all, and one has to be particularly connected to obtain one. The rumors were flying. People “owned” tables which, with the owner’s “approval,” could be “lent” for an evening, etc., etc. I’ve been a food and restaurant lover forever. I’ve dined in a number of extraordinary places over the years, in New York and elsewhere and there are many yet to be tried. But, I knew Rao’s was off my radar. I’ve never been one to set myself up for disappointment so I simply accepted this fate. The moment Rao’s Cookbook was published, I bought one. At least I had that, and it’s a terrific book. The recipe for Frankie’s Artichokes is sublime!
My fork and I marched on. I will say my restaurant karma has always served me well. I’ve managed to snag tables at great spots without reservations. It just takes patience. I’ve never had a problem parking myself on a bar stool, ordering a cocktail, and waiting to see if a table becomes available. It’s all part of the New York restaurant experience. But I digress. This time, the restaurant gods were truly smiling on me. It wasn’t my reservation, mind you. Dear friends, dearer still having included me in this auspicious expedition, phoned and invited me to join them. I was dumbfounded. I was going to go to Rao’s, after all.
The big was night finally upon us. We jumped into a cab and wended our way up town. The cab stopped on the corner, in front of the legendary entrance. My mind kept screaming, “You’re going to Rao’s!” We walked through the red double doors. It was like entering a sacred shrine. I stopped short of pinching myself. I looked around, as casually as I possibly could. Everything was there, all real, exactly like the pictures! I glanced up at the pressed tin ceiling. The walls really were covered with photographs of everybody who actually was somebody. There were the Christmas decorations, the tiny bar, and the wooden booths. But, the most amazing thing of all, there was the smell. It was ethereal. I had arrived. I was having dinner at Rao’s.
My mouth was already watering as we were shown to a cozy booth. We had a 7:30 reservation, but the place was already packed. They must all be regulars, I imagined, as people really do “own” their tables at Rao’s. Waiters slipped effortlessly between the closely spaced diners carrying huge trays loaded with the exquisite food. The aromas were overwhelming. It was all so amazing, and we hadn’t even ordered a drink yet! I could feel the magic as one of the greatest dining experiences of my life was about to begin.
We ordered cocktails and tried as inconspicuously as possible to look around. Everybody looked familiar. A silver haired gentleman in an elegant suit came over to our table and introduced himself. It was Frank, the Frank Pellegrino, one of the owners of Rao’s. He was genuinely warm and welcoming. Our drinks arrived and we toasted our particular good fortune and our hopeful return. Another beautifully dressed gentleman came to our table, pulled up a chair and sat down. He was none other than Ron Straci, the other owner of the establishment. There are no menus at Rao’s. Ron sits with you, tells you what’s cooking and waits patiently, pad in hand, while you decide what you wish to eat. Everything, he explained, is served family style. Everybody gets to taste everything.
Dining at Rao’s is as close to a marathon this happy chow hound will ever come. Let me tell you, this is my kind of marathon! One simply sits, fork in hand, as waiters ply you with food. First they bring the antipasti. There were four of us but, as I recall, we ordered only three because we were afraid we’d get too full. Naturally, we did get too full, but that certainly didn’t stop us. After the antipasti came the pastas. And so it went. It was crazy, a literal foodathon. From there, we moved to the main courses and side dishes. We didn’t eat dinner that night, we dined! We dined on some of the best seafood salad I’ve ever eaten. We dined on penne alla puttanesca, we dined on stuffed veal chops. There were so many fabulous dishes. Even gauging myself, trying to take it slowly, only having a forkful of this, a taste of that, it was a Herculean feat. I was so intoxicated by food, when it came time for dessert, I could barely nod yes to espresso and no cheese cake.
It was eleven o’clock when we came down from Olympus and reentered the world of the mortals. As we stepped out onto 114th street, I was overcome with emotion. Rao’s was now officially on my radar. This is an enormous responsibility, I thought, as we strolled down the street. As full as I was, I knew I was going to have to go back. We hadn’t ordered Frankie’s Artichokes!