The West Village, in spite of the generally unreasonable real-estate prices, retains pockets of its original bohemian grit, and still feels like home to those who identify more strongly with Jane Jacobs than with Marc. In the space where a fire devastated the neighborhood shop Village Paper two years ago comes Rosemary’s, the second of Carlos Suarez’s restaurants to go straight from buzzy opening to perpetual scene (the first was Bobo). In the daytime, the large, lovely room—with high wood-beamed ceilings and picture windows looking onto the Jefferson Market Garden—belies the singles-playground atmosphere and egregious decibel levels that transform the place at night.
But there is good food to be had. The restaurant is named after Suarez’s mother, and the baroque, reasonably priced menu draws from the cuisine of her Tuscan home, balancing au-courant trends with playing it safe. Salumi—prosciutto di Parma, coppa cotta, sopressata—are impeccably sourced or house made. Focaccia, one slicked with lardo, another topped with mozzarella and tomato, are like fluffy pizzas. Ramekins of antipasti aim to showcase the harvest from the rooftop garden, and might include crisp radish shards, coated with creamy white butter, and lemony shredded cabbage with a chili kick. The chef, Wade Moises (of Eataly and Babbo), has a way with pastas, several of which are created on the premises. One night the smoky, creamy carbonara vied with the sweet oxtail-sauced cavatelli and a subtle pomodoro; chitarra al burro, served with the classic butter-Parmigiano-and-pepper combo, trumped them all. A rewarding meal can be made of any secondi—such as the porchettina, pink hunks of pork tenderloin with accents of fennel and mustard, or the crispy baked orata with grapefruit—paired with the exemplary rosemary potatoes. Occasionally, a dish feels like a failed experiment, such as the chopped salad Siciliana, in which the escarole is overpowered by sweet golden raisins and huge briny caperberries. But then its memory is erased by the ethereal rosemary-infused lemonade.
A few weeks ago, just after the five-day Hurricane Sandy-induced blackout ended, the waitress made apologies for the limited offerings. But the menu seemed undiminished. The minestrone was like a garden in a bowl: baby turnips and carrots, tiny asparagus spears, tomatoes. In fact, diners can climb the stairs to peruse the garden, which in the November chill was lined with early lettuces and hardy herbs. It’s just a regular New York roof, a little grubby, and touchingly full of soul. (Open weekdays for breakfast, lunch, and dinner and weekends for brunch and dinner. Entrées $12-$23.) ♦
