No Man's a Hero

To my regret, I recently had Sunday dinner with good friends. I picked a restaurant. My friend Michael rejected my choice because "the guys at work" had told him about a little Italian spot they said was great. You can see what was going on here—if you think restaurant critics are considered infallible, you've never been one. To him, my pick was no good. But "the guys at work" were masters of the culinary arts.

During dinner at this not-so-great little Italian spot, I told my friend's two sons that their father just wanted to prove that he and his pals knew more about food than I did. The nine-year old, Sandy, said, "I'll go with that." The seven-year old, Julian, the only person at the table on my side, added, "Even though he has no chance."

I behaved politely until my friend praised the cheese ravioli. I understand perfectly why he liked them. They were big and stuffed and heavy. They could have done secondary duty as sandbags. (We've been having a lot of flooding in this part of New York lately. We've even had a tornado.) Ravioli are among the most abused of Italian-American foods. In Italy, they are often delicacies. Over here, they are often canned. I can tell you where to find the absolutely best cheese ravioli in America. Maybe you, unlike my friends, will listen to me. The place is San Domenico, in Manhattan. The ravioli I'm talking about have a pretty pompous name—Ravioli Capresi Con Passato Di Pomodorini Di Collina—but they're actually quite simple: caciotta (mostly sheep's milk) cheese in a strained tomato sauce. They are nothing but lightness and flavor. I don't believe I've ever had their equal, even in Italy. If you think you've had better in America, please let me know.