Babbo-The End of A tortured Love Affair

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Dear Babbo,

This is not easy for me to say, as it has taken me a long time to reconcile your actions with your empty words and promises.  I have been running on the memory of how things used to be, of how you initially won me over and made me smile, but your recent disappointments have almost become too much to bear. Every time we are together, I may be filling my belly, but my heart is empty. New York is a large city, and I am declaring that I am ready to move on with someone else, although there will always be a place for you in my heart.

Sincerely,

Ali

Babbo has been my go-to spot for my family birthday celebration for over ten years.  The first time I went I was in awe that this acclaimed, highly-lauded place had an element of casualness to it. Green Day was playing throughout the dining room, and there was nothing overly formal about the service or environment. I was spell-bound by the dishes I tasted and transported by the charming ambience upstairs. I honed my order to perfection with the cockles, the mint love letters and the pork chop, happy birthday to me…

Mint love letters, always lots to love
Mint love letters, always lots to love

Then I started to notice some issues.  The host at the front, for every visit except my most recent, was curmudgeonly on a good day, greeting every person with a scowl and an unimpressed demeanor.  Babbo would NEVER accommodate any special requests, including table requests, and sending bottles of wine to guests.  Also, the service was never sharp or precise- every waiter seemed more like a food runner, with no one person ever really taking control of your service experience. The sommeliers were dismissive and not helpful, and meals could drag for hours due to a simple lack of attention. All of these concerns could be washed over, and my complicated love for Babbo could endure, due to the quality and consistency of the dishes I love, had it not been for the salty cockles.

Cockles
Cockles

I am a person who desperately avoids conflict, to the point that I will sometimes suffer in silence rather than draw attention to the fact that I am unhappy with my food. To that end, I rarely complain to waiters when something is not right- I have trudged through undercooked burgers and mushy pastas rather than upset the flow of a meal. My most favorite dish at Babbo is the cockles- tender tiny clams served in a spicy tomato based broth that begs to be sipped and slopped up with bread.  I have had this dish on every single visit to Babbo, and have excellent flavor recall (as well as a high tolerance for salt).  The cockles served to me on my last visit were so appallingly salty that my mouth involuntarily puckered.  I made sure everyone at the table tried them before contacting the waiter, who barely understood what I said as he took them away.  Another waiter came back and told me that the cockles were supposed to taste like that, and that they could only make me something else, they could not fix the cockles.  I said okay, I don’t want anything else, but requested that the chef try the dish. Then yet another waiter came over (this one in suit- a manager?) and told me that the only way they could fix the dish is to make it with NO salt, since clearly I am sensitive. Knowing that was not true, I let them make me a dish with “no” salt, and it was delicious. Not one server came back over to ask how it was or see if we were happy with the rest of our meal.  Quite simply, they made us feel like we were wrong and then did not care about us for the rest of the night.

THE pork chop
THE pork chop

This latest example simply brought to the a issues that have marred my Babbo dinners for a quite a few years. Time and time again Babbo just proves to be on auto-pilot, servers seemingly resting on their laurels because of all of the accolades the restaurant receives. No one seems invested in the diner’s service experience, and no one cares how diners are treated. It is as if we are lucky to have the reservation and that alone should ensure a lovely evening. Servers just deliver the food and keep it moving. It is so easy to make diners feel good about the time and money they spend, not act like they should be lucky for the privilege.  With the rock music playing and discreet downtown location it seems like Babbo should be unpretentious and welcoming, but that is glaringly not the case. The lack of management is frankly shocking.

My visits to  Babbo as a walk- in, sitting in the front room, were always pleasant, some how lifting the expectation of exceptional service and shifting the focus squarely on the food; I think going forward this is is how I will return to Babbo. I am very sad to make this sweeping statement of disappointment, but sometimes with eating, as with dating, you need to realize that it’s not you, it’s them, and there are plenty of pastas in the sea.

 

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