Issue #09/64, May 6 - 20, 1999  

Very rarely indeed will you find me frequenting the overpriced eateries that are popular with the kind of flatheads who bring along their miniature, poorly behaved dogs in designer shopping bags. As, dare I say, the world's most gifted lowbrow gourmet I do have my reputation to think about, after all. Nevertheless, after months of hearing our own General Counsel Moe Snideman rave about Mario as "the best food in Moscow," I could resist no longer. So there I was dropping a couple C notes and suffering through the shriveled attitude of Moscow's bored and ugly elite--all in the name of epicurean finery.

A look at the wine list was enough to immediately put me on my guard. The cheapest Italian reds were $60 Valpolicellas and Bardolinos with no further identifying features, leading me to suspect (correctly, as it turned out) that they were that cheap swill you see nowadays for $7 a pop in the better-stocked kiosks. To be on the safe side I chose an $80 Nobile de Montepulciano, which at least offered some promise of wine quality. The Nobile actually turned out to be a fairly respectable beverage; the really funny thing was seeing all those idiot flatheads proudly paying the 1000% markup for glorified vin di tavola.

Still, I had come expecting a certain amount of gouging so I was not overly concerned as I set about making supper selections. I thought we'd start out with some bresaola, but our waitress informed us (with a grim frown that seems to be endemic to the Mario service staff) that they were out. The beef carpaccio ($17) I got as a replacement was quite luscious, however, and even ended up being the meal's high point. Our other starters were a tasty but overly salty fried mushroom salad ($19) and relatively adequate mixed green salad ($10). There was also some decent bruschetta available free of charge, although they were the piled-too-high sort that always seem to fall apart in your lap when you bite into them--a rather undignified scene under the circumstances.

I left my soon-to-be-wed fellow eaters to make some headway with the wine as I made my solo run on the soup course. Somehow, though, I can't think of much to say about a $10 minestrone that's watery and largely flavorless, so let's just go on, OK? For me, this meant penne arrabiata ($18), while my fellow eaters tackled the creamy tomato gnocchi ($19) and grilled beef filet, respectively. Both pastas were from the homemade selections, so a little non-al dente mushiness was to be expected. However, there seems no excuse for the almost imperceptibly pulpish dough bits we were served. Moreover, my friend's tomato sauce smelled like Chefboyardee, while mine even tasted like the fictional chef's canned masterworks. Not a hint of garlic or hot pepper in sight, folks. In comparison, the grilled beef was a thoroughly respectable entree, but hardly worth the rather hefty price tag ($39), I think, as the meat was neither particularly impressive in itself, nor was it prepared with any great mastery.

By this time, we were none of us too excited about eating anything at all, yet it seemed somehow perverse not to sample a $15 dessert that was almost guaranteed to be uninspired to a rare degree. Which resulted in the decidedly undistinguished panna cotta ($16) and a $15 creme caramel that was maybe worth one-third of that. My $7 espresso was all of about 1/4 of a demi-tasse cup. Fucking typical. It tasted alright, though.

As unflinchingly mediocre as the food was, however, it must be said that there is a certain something about Mario's atmosphere. Or at least it's one of the few places in town where the outdoor summer seating doesn't seem entirely transient. Which, I guess, is enough these days to attract a lot full of Land Rovers (and the requisite bodyguards) and establish a restaurant as the "It" place for folks with money to burn who don't really know any better.

Still, I'll never look at Mr. Snideman, Esq., the same way again. Don't get me wrong--I can see how Mario could be fairly useful for impressing your stupider clients (and dyevushki, of course). But in future I shall have to remember to draw a rather large distinction between Morris's impeccable legal advice and his restaurant recommendations.