Morso’s menu — since when is cannelloni a vegetable? (Don Bowers)
‘What is everyone’s initial impression?” our caring waitress at Morso asked before we’d barely taken a bite. Well, our impression was better six weeks ago, when a meal at Pino Luongo’s new trattoria was at least promising. Tonight, things at Morso are . . . less so.
Morso, Italian for “small bites,” is haunted by past glories that a cutesy, confusing menu fails to resurrect. The dining room’s a cheery mausoleum of memorable eateries that once inhabited it — the Palace, Bouterin and the original Sandro’s.
More eerie is the phantasm of Luongo himself, who seems a shadow of the Tuscan pioneer he was. The place is not a stirring return to his old form. Do prosperous condo dwellers from the tower above, who fill many seats, know that he once thrilled us at Il Cantinori, Coco Pazzo and Le Madri, recast New Yorkers’ idea of Italian cuisine and inspired a generation of fine chefs?
Luongo’s only other current restaurant, Centolire, is as frayed on the plate as in the upholstery. At Morso, with a more Mediterranean/pan-Italian approach, it’s all aboard the down-bound train.
In a book last year, Luongo trashed Mario Batali and Michael White, among other New York chefs. I failed to spot them paying courtesy calls at Morso, where the closest to a food celebrity I noticed was the owner of ancient bocce-court joint, Il Vagabondo.
The slate-floored dining room at least looks fresh, with an airy wash of colorful murals inspired by 1960s European poster art. Except for a propeller airliner, much of it’s indecipherable, which applies to the menu as well.
To make his ’80s and ’90s brand of Tuscan-themed cookery seem fresh, Luongo gimmicked up the menu, as if Sutton Place were Lafayette Street. Offering smaller portions of most dishes at lower prices is welcome; scattering familiar items to the winds is not.
Good luck finding pasta: Because everything’s organized by “ingredients,” spinach cannelloni appears in the vegetable category, spaghetti carbonara under “eggs and cheese” and pappardelle with pot roast under “beef and veal.”
“Is everything to your liking?” droned a manager who clearly missed last week’s column — one of a procession of male staffers plodding by and butting in as we mused over how such very good and very bad dishes could emerge from the same kitchen.
At its best, Luongo’s refined-rustic style remains as compelling as ever. I had creditable salmon roasted in prosciutto, and first-rate fettucine Bolognese, one of several pasta choices freshly turned out.
The old, herbally attuned Luongo spirit infused two game specials, boar cutlets and pheasant — pan-seared and served with rugged, cabbage-wrapped forcemeat — the latter for once worthy of the “wild” bird’s reputation.
But for each of those, executive chef Tim Ryan’s kitchen sent out a bore or disaster. Pumpkin polenta, of a sort, popped up in dish after dish. You could assemble a better beet-and-goat-cheese salad at a deli buffet.
Osso buco fell short of dissolving blissfully on the tongue. “Crispy” artichokes arrived soggy, lemon sole irredeemably overcooked.
Worst of all, tough, blubbery and tired-tasting steamed mussels scraped bottom in watery tomato broth. They came without bread for dipping — just as well — but with “double-fried” potatoes as limp as at a fast-food joint at 3 a.m.
There’s no printed dessert list. “We’re getting a new pastry chef next week,” we were told. Of the few choices offered, Neapolitan cheesecake incorporating farro and dried fruits was marvelous, while tiramisu ranked with Mulberry Street’s touristy worst.
Maybe Luongo’s there only because he got a good deal on the rent. Maybe he’s tired. But if he wants younger diners to know what he once brought to New York’s Italian tables, he needs to make a lot more of Morso — if he still can.