You arrive in the soft effervescence of the light. In the mottled grey and brown and yellow of New York, there it is: Carbone, glowing in shades of Italian red and green. Outside, on the “sidewalk”, is an al fresco dining space. This will not do. It is where the castaways and hangers-on are invited to sit. They will have the Carbone meatballs but they will not have Carbone.
Inside, a red-jacketed man will greet you enthusiastically but without any cloying glee. He has an accent like Tony Soprano; he has to. If he didn’t, your mind would conjure one regardless. But he does. He really does. And the interiors of the place are Carmela herself, glamorous and bathed in candlelight. It is busy — it is always busy — but everyone seems relaxed. Mario Carbone knew what he was doing when he built his glittering temple to la dolce vita.
