Getting into New York City from Port Washington always feels like entering a different world — louder, faster, and packed to the hilt with somewhere other to be. My family and I went downtown to the West Village to see Via Carota on my most recent visit, an establishment everyone talks about as if it were one. On a quiet side street, the restaurant sits under a country charm: wood benches, worn tables, rows of wine bottles on shelves, and that indelible hum of voice that makes the whole restaurant come alive. It wasn’t trendy city food, but a trattoria that always was, timeless in its simplicity.
We started with acciughe — anchovies served with butter and bread. At first glance, it seemed like such a simple plate, but the combination was dramatic. The salty, assertive anchovies were tempered by the rich butter, and they made the bread feel like more than an appetizer.
Then the baccalà mantecato, whipped salted cod served over crunchy crostini. The texture was silky, spread-like, with both fishy saltiness and olive oil richness in the flavors. It was light but satisfying, the kind of dish that never does overwhelm but stays with you because of its subtlety and richness.
For the mains, we had a couple of pastas and one meat dish. The pappardelle al cinghiale came first, wide strips of pasta covered in slow-cooked wild boar ragu. The sauce was deep and rich, earthy, its richness clinging to the pasta with every bite. It was bold and hearty, the sort of food that makes you pause for a second between bites to simply take it in. The pesto stacci was light years removed from the pappardelle — transparent pieces of pasta piled with a bright, garlicky basil sauce. Where the pappardelle was rich and dense, the stacci was light and zesty, almost cleansing in its mix of cheese, oil, and herbs.
Then came the fried rabbit, which was probably the most unexpected dish of the night. The meat was tender beneath its crisp coating, light but flavorful. It wasn’t something I’d usually order, but it stood out because of how carefully it was prepared — fried enough for crunch, yet delicate in taste. It showed that Via Carota wasn’t afraid to serve dishes that felt traditional and rustic, not just popular or safe.
By the time it was over, I had decided that my favorite part was the way that the meal combined rustic, comforting flavors with history.
Each dish on the menu at Via Carota spoke to something in the world of Rome. Anchovies were consumed by all social classes, but most especially by the great fish sauce garum, daily consumed by soldiers and working men to season otherwise bland meals. Baccalà, while later in origin, symbolized the value of salted fish for long journeys, a tradition that sustained Rome’s fleets and armies. Wild boar, like in the pappardelle al cinghiale, was a status food — generals and aristocrats sealed victories with boar on special occasions, and to hunt it was a sign of power. Herby sauces like pesto typified the rural diet of the Romans, where poorer citizens used ground herbs, oil, and cheese to season grains or breads rather than expensive meats. Rabbit, however, was a flexible food — eaten by farmers and the poor because it could be readily bred, yet eaten at more formal banquets because of its gentle taste. Together, these plates took in the gamut of Roman society, from the warrior’s ration to the aristocrat’s banquet. Eating them in New York, I felt as though I was tasting not just Italian heritage, but the richness of history and meaning with each bite.
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