We waited out the storm with the hostess at Parigi’s entrance and watched the hail chatter against the big windows. She told us about her Parisian childhood, that she came from a family of chefs, how it seemed destiny she’d end up in the business. Behind us, the dining area bustled.
The atmosphere was cool, washed in soft colors, spacious and sophisticated. Ornamental glassware and an intriguing collection of odd coffeemakers added to the décor. Tables and booths were set comfortably far apart. The bar was fabulously well stocked. Oh, and the ceiling: a lovely mishmash, poster-size reproductions of art from Caravaggio paintings to ’60s-era Italian movie posters.
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The menu? Some portions were indulgent; others were spare, Italian-style. Baby romaine—grilled, then drizzled with a puckery light Caesar dressing and dusted with Parmesan—was the most delicious antipasto. But other salads—notably one of tiny kale leaves studded with sultanas, pine nuts, and Gorgonzola pebbles in a delicate verjus vinaigrette—were also fine starters.
Pastas—including the casarecce, Italian for “house made”—were, uh, house made. The casarecce was tossed with porky sausage and smoked ham, then speckled with Pecorino. Rings of tortellini stuffed with cheese were perfectly simple and happily rich, tossed in a cream sauce with Parmigiano-Reggiano. With its crusty Bosnian bun, the grilled ground-brisket svizzera is among the best burgers in town. The brodetto is an absolute must, a hearty seafood stew with an array of shrimp, mussels, tiny clams, and fish, bathed in a tomatoey scarlet broth. Among the contorni, funghi trifolati was good, but pillowy wedges of polenta were sublime, fluffy and light as cheesecake.
A display case promised elegant and understated desserts. Tiramisu was shaped like plump turnips and topped with an espresso meringue. The almond frangipani cake was also worthwhile.
The wine list: well priced and substantial, with plenty of by-the-glass selections. Cocktails were masterfully concocted. (Pair the small plates of sautéed mushrooms and polenta with a Manhattan.)
The storm slackened. A soaked valet trotted out to greet a car at the curb, which was still inches deep in melting hail and rain. We left Parigi with that sense of not only having enjoyed a good meal but also having had a lovely dining experience. And that magnificent double rainbow that arched over us was, we’re sure, was just a coincidence.
