Salute! - Italian Restaurant - 10/25/2007, Lunch

Rating:




Name: Salute!
Location: 270 Madison Ave and 39th
Price: $89.41 for two
Server: Nicholeta H.
Chef: Carlo Apollini

Salute! is located in the hell of all hell's, known affectionately as Midtown to locals and cab drivers everywhere. We hate Midtown, but we were hungry and in Bryant Park - so what are two salty bitches going to do? Go to Salute! evidently.

It's clearly becoming a theme, and if we were deeper we'd find some existential parallel, but once again it was raining and we were in galoshes (this becomes important later). The hostess seated us in the bar area in this small ugly table with ceramic center pieces that vaguely resembled multiple sun's. The table was however equipped with two armchairs, which did not suck.

Whilst sitting in our kings chairs I orders a Kings Estate Pinot Gris, and Myste had a Smoking Loon Vigonier from a girl who was not our server, as our server had disappeared from sight. The glasses smelled like detergent, and could have used another rinse, however, the wine was so oaky (in Myste's glass anyway) that the detergent taste was only partially offensive.

The cocktail waitresses were all sporting teal jersey halter dresses and underwear lines, looking for all the world like reluctant bridesmaids. Aside from muffin tops in teal, they were pretty cute, and we're a sucker for cute girls. The bar is an open California style design with wood interiors and big yellowy (yes thats a word) and big hangy (that's a word too) lights. The decor is upscale but still Mediterranean casual enough to justify the name. The clientele is Midtown business types, of which we were not.

The dining room is a secret society dining room. You either need to be dressed not in galoshes and oscar the grouch t-shirts to sit there, or you have to have a reservation, we're not sure... But we walked around anyhoo so as to describe with utmost care, the whole package to you - dear reader.

The tables and chairs are covered in linen. We think it's vaguely funeral parlor-eque (that's a word). Calla lily's would have completed the look. But the wall art was bright and garish and looks like your 3 year old niece painted it. Suits were happily dining in linen parlor chairs.

In the bar there was no male wait-staff, as cocktailing is clearly a girl's art. Sorry guys. However, bussing and running is a male art, and the bussers and runners were in head to toe white, which seems silly but looks good.

Eventually bread was brought to the table, also not by our server, who was still out of sight.

When she showed back up, we ordered the Salute! salad, which consisted of watercress, endive, pears, walnuts and gorgonzola in a champagne vinaigrette. However the gorgonzola tasted like goat cheese and the whole salad could have used either a true salty gorgonzola, or some salt in the dressing. As we contemplated the gorgonzola dilemna, Michael Jackson sang "you are not alone." We were deeply comforted.

We also had the Fruitti Di Mare salad which consisted of mussels, calamari, scallops, octopus and shrimp cooked perfectly then chilled. It was served lightly dressed in oil, lemon and garlic, atop seasonal greens and endive. It was delicious and had a little pepper and subtle spice. We paired these two salads with some fattening roasted potatoes. The potatoes were the best ever. They came in a small copper serving dish (too cute) and were fingerling potatoes cooked in olive oil, with sea salt and roasted garlic. Yum fucking yum.

In the dining room where we were not allowed, they have some kind of team serving thing going on in there. Captains, front waiters, back waiters, lame waiters. They were all there.

Back in the bar, the woman sitting next to Myste was rocking a glad garbage bag with buttons on it. Clearly she wasn't dressed appropriately for the dining room funeral parlor experience either.

After we licked our plates (because we have class) we ordered an espresso and a cappucino.

Two problems with the cappucino, first, it was really a latte. Second, it came in a ridiculous little glass that had a finger hole so small that there's no way you can hold the cup up at an even level. It slopes to the side. Looky:

Not only that, it says illy in big red font, which frankly, makes us ill.

After we finished our coffee we were waiting for the check. And waiting. And waiting. Finally we asked the manager. He was standing right by the terminial, but in his uber-important-ness (that's a word too) he couldn't stoop to do the dirty work himself, he demanded another cocktail waitress get up from napkin folding and print the check. We think he's an ass.

Bottom line? Don't wear galoshes if you want to sit in the funeral parlor room. Which might be a good idea, because with the whole sports team of servers at your disposal, you're needs will never go unnoticed.

We'd go back, but only if we were trolling for married men.