When Batali's in Your Eye Like a Big Food Mall, That's Eataly!

The worst thing about Eataly--beyond, of course, it's merely at best first blush clever name--is its muchness. It's sort of a Costco of Italian gustatory greatness. The best thing about Eataly--it's sort of a Costco of Italian gustatory greatness. There's no way you could eat it all, even if you were as big as Mario Batali himself, so mostly you walk through with your eyes agog and your salivary glands mimicking Niagara. For it all looks good--it's Italian food, after all. Even just the marbled swirls of perfect prosciutto is enough to make you want to pen prose poems.

In case you've never been, it goes like this--New York City, whole block, extra glam points for being across the street from the Flatiron Building. Walk in and it's a bit of a maze of a market, arranged around topics like kitchen goods or cheese or the wine store that has its own separate entrance, plus 11 restaurants/prepared food stops. For instance, you can get lattes that had some fancier name than latte that will be some of the best coffee you've ever had, very rich and, yes, European. Plus pretty.

After that, the ogle is on. More dried pasta than there are ways to misspell strozzapreti, more gorgeous Alessi-designed gadgets than guesses as to what the gadgets actually do, more imported artisanal beers that you've never seen imported before, more more more. It's impressive and at a certain point almost frightening, to live in a world so rich of things you never before knew you needed to want.

And we're not talking about a watering down of things--this isn't Disney does Italy featuring your host Pinocchio (be sure to buy your wooden dummy on the way out the gift shop). It's all fine quality stuff, often at the price too match. At least the restaurants aren't too dear, and we can vouch for the pasta at La Pizza & Pasta, as well as the good service, and that it is enough separated from the market floor you don't feel to hustled or rushed. I savored my Gnocchi al Ragu di Agnello, the gnocchi tasty and substantial but not too doughy, the lamb ragu just what you want of anything long-stewed, flavor left to sit in itself and become more if itself. (There's that more theme again.)

We also had to take the elevator ride to the rooftop Birreria, even though we had already lunched. It's probably even more pleasant when the roof's glass can be cracked open on a warm day (we were there on a chilly, if clear, November one), but it's a charming space with some good Manhattan tower views. And beer. The house brews have been dreamt up by Sam Calagione of Dogfish Head, Teo Musso of Baladin, and Leonardo Di Vincenzo of Birra Del Borgo (alas Vinnie Cilurzo of Russian River dropped out, despite having clearly an Italian enough name), and on cask they are truly unique. We had the chestnut mild ale Wanda and the thyme pale ale Gina and preferred Gina, liking the herb attack more than being nuts for the nuts. Even better, the bartender was one of those teasingly-insulting types you sort of hope you get in NYC, even if he was too young and handsome to fill out the stereotype of the crotchety old bar keep perfectly. This, I guess, is a sign of progress.

Then, just before we left, to give us one last "this might be some sort of set for a reality show of a life you aren't worthy enough to live" vibe, we walked by cheftestant Travis Masar from the current season of Top Chef. Ah, New York.

Otto Out of Dieci

In the last 15 years the invasion of celebrity chefs upon Las Vegas has made it that you can't throw a poker chip without hitting one; if you don't lose your stake at the gambling table, you're bound to spend it at a fine dining one. The good news, of course, is those chefs (who, of course, really merely lease out the honor of their names, for the most part) do know enough to often open up slightly more casual versions of their finer, more expensive spots. (Extended digression: Who the heck supports the top top end places? There's too much money in the world if folks can sustain a place like Caesar's Palace's Guy Savoy--and I know, Michelin stars out the wazoo, real Parisian pedigree--where the "bargain" TGV prix fixe, that gets you out the door in 90 minutes, so more turnover for them and move along you cheapskate, costs $140 per person pre-tax, tip, drinks, and ends with a "grapefruit terrine" that damn well better come with gold nuggets atop.)

So, now that that's out of my system, let's get some pizza. For we're headed to Mario Batali's Otto (like the one he has in NYC), but this one is in St. Mark's Plaza in the Venetian. You will need to ask to find it, partially since it's labeled something else on the directories, if you find the directories. (Be happy, keep wandering and shopping and gambling--the money you spend in Vegas stays in Vegas.) Now, there's even real pigeons, so while it's hokey, it's going for some kind of authenticity and it is charming in that "damn this is fake, but that we bother to make this says something sweetly striving about us as humans" way. You get to sit outside and be indoors.

While the pizza is the focus, there's still plenty of other things to eat, such as a series of antipasti that are worthy of mealdom all by themselves. Especially if you do as we did and order up the Verdure Grande, a bit of 8 different veggie options, all no less then fine, and some simply stunning. And I chose the adverb simply for a reason--this is food un-frilled, direct, pleasing, and delicious. If, at times, surprising--who knew chickpea and tuna were such a good combo (evidently the Sicilians, if the menu can be trusted). The other dishes were all cooked to perfection--lentils still firm but luscious, broccoli toothsome, full of flavor and just a bit of carbonization for a caramel loveliness. Have a bottle of Vermentino with it, and you'll be very happy.

As for the pizza itself, it was good, that classic Italian from Italy style--thin and crispy crust, judicious toppings of highest quality--but while yummy, it's not as good as Pizzeria Mozza, one more hint Nancy Silverton and her ways with yeasty things are better than Mario's. Well, no one's perfect. At least the whole meal, pizza, 8 apps, plus some lovely little fried fish (that were too whole and still fish-esque for poor Circe, but I gobbled them down), plus the wine, tax, tip--you get out for less then one Guy Savoy TGV ride.