Babbo-ween.

Last night, instead of dressing up as slutty archetypes and drunkenly storming the streets of New York, Brad and I eschewed Halloween tradition and had dinner at Babbo.

Note: Lest you think that I’m part of the obnoxious, high-salaried, table-service-at-G-Spa set who make a habit of eating at the city’s most expensive restaurants, let me assure you that my man and I are, in fact, flat broke and only found ourselves at Mr. Batali’s pasta haven because I won a gift certificate to said haven. Also, please send us money.

Babbo is near-impossible to get reservations at, so we’d happily agreed to a seating time of 10:45pm. On Halloween. In the West Village. Which is insane, yes, but when you’re young and impoverished and you suddenly have $250 to blow on dinner, you don’t want to wait around for a civilized dining time – you’re in a giant, excited rush to just get there and EAT. And so, giddy and giggling like a couple of pre-prom high school girls (understandable for me, less so for him), we got decked out in actual adult clothes and hopped the subway, telling each other that eating dinner at 11pm was really just very European.

When we got off the subway in Manhattan, the area between Union and Washington Squares was in complete chaos. We spilled onto the street just behind a tangle of costumed Brooklynites who were all wearing silver lame spandex leggings and robot masks, plowing into the milling crowd. The parade had just finished. On every street corner, people were shouting or howling or attempting to pull off each other’s wings/wigs/masks. Cars honked furiously. Women in lingerie-inspired outfits wobbled and weaved through the street like escapees from the movie set for “City of Lost Hookers”.

“This is awful,” said Brad.
“Everything will be fine once we get to Babbo,” I said reassuringly. “Babbo will keep us safe.” Hey, if you can’t trust Mario Batali’s brainchild to keep the crazy away, who can you trust?

After a solid twenty minutes of dodging and feinting through the Halloween crowds (and richocheting, pinball-like, off the mostly-exposed breasts of approximately 4 million women), we slipped through the front door of Babbo. Looking around, it was clear that the Crazy had not infiltrated the hallowed confines of Babbo. Sure, there was a girl at the bar wearing a pair of devil horns… but that was it. And they weren’t bad, as devil horns go. They were tiny, demure little devil horns. You hardly noticed them, really. As we sipped some wine and waited for our table to be ready, we started to relax.

“This is nice,” said Brad.

90 minutes, three courses, and several glasses of wine later, I had to agree. We were seated cozily along the wall, drinking espresso and watching as other diners finished their meals and tottered out of the restaurant in expensively-cut jackets. I was full, happy, sleepy, and a little drunk.

Across the dining room, another 20something, indie-styled couple looked like they felt the same way. They were both tired, clearly – it was practically 1:00 AM – the Girl was yawning, and the Guy seemed to be fighting a valiant battle against his drooping eyelids. I snuggled into the crook of Brad’s arm, watching them, and thought what a lovely holiday Halloween could be, even if one didn’t dress up. Especially if one didn’t dress up! Here we were, in a wonderful, classy establishment, surrounded by smiling waiters and good food and wonderful, classy, Italian-cuisine-loving people. We were safe, and warm, and the madness outside could go on all night, but it would never touch us. Not here. Not at Babbo.

Across the dining room, Indie Couple Guy yawned and blinked sleepily. He rubbed his eyes. He propped his head up with his hand.

And then he threw up.
On the floor.
Indie Guy threw up. On the floor. AT BABBO.


I would write more about this – about the astonishing, vibrant orange color of the vomit, or about the inconceivable patience of the waitstaff when they saw the vomit, or about how Brad turned to me half an hour later and said, “You know, completely apart from how gross that was, what a waste of food!” – but I can’t. I’m too busy mourning my lost innocence.