Cipriani Downtown in SoHo Restaurant Review
For Mother’s Day, my family decided they wanted to venture to SoHo. I wasn’t sure what my dad had in mind, until he walked over toward the bright yellow awning, where the swarms of people were. I should have known that Harry Cipriani’s hip restaurant “Cipriani Downtown” was where my dad was headed.
We waited 25 minutes, which wasn’t the most terrible thing, as my sister and I ventured around SoHo, looking for substance. We walked by the Cupping Room, which looked like it had substance enough, but our parents were already waiting in front of Cipriani for what my dad expected to be the best meal ever.
They sat us at the ultimate people watching table, located a mere centimeter from the great people watching table next to us. Before we even got our drinks, a boy at the table next to us sneezed into his food. Gross, but kids are kids are kids. His father said nothing, and the boy proceeded to sneeze again. This time into the plateful of cookies he had in front of him. Fortunately for the table sitting next to him, the forgotten kisses sprayed all over their table. Now, THAT is the great thing about crowded seating. The father said nothing and the waiters watched the whole thing unfold, laughing and joking with Sneezy’s daddy, obviously a regular.
A man at the table stared at the waiters and pointed to his glass, which was sprinkled in forgotten kisses. The waiter retreated, and the forgotten kisses forgotten. He came back a while later to clean up but ‘better late than never’ really doesn’t work in this instance.
The waiter brought over a bottle of wine, which is neither here nor there, since the restaurant has nothing to do with the contents of the bottle. However, he poured us our glasses of wine and apparently our refills were up to us, as the waiter never came back to fill our empty glasses. The same can be said about my siblings’ sodas. In addition to the waitstaff neglecting to notice our empty glasses, they were also rude. I got up to go to the bathroom and make my way through the crowds to the back and every time a waiter and I were at an impasse, I never got the “after you, miss” with the cutesy little hand gesture. Not once.
I browsed through the menu looking for something Rollatini, but you can’t fault a place for not having your personal favorite on the menu. I opted for the spinach and ricotta stuffed cannelloni in a light tomato sauce. $21.50, New York city prices. When my father and sister were prompted for their sides, they weren’t entirely sure and the waiter quickly said, “Okay, I’ll choose. I’ll order you the broccoli rabe and you the spinach.” My sister has just reached the life changing age of 13. She’s wearing a zip-up hoodie, ripped jeans, and her puma sneakers. How about you give her the added 10 seconds to think over her decision and say “fries, please?”
My meal arrived on a very small plate, containing four cigarette sized rolled up pieces of pasta. I’ll say that they tasted average, but I couldn’t really go in depth because I wasn’t given enough food to give you that added detail.
My mother made an interesting face while eating her dish. I had to try it. The lady of the brunch ordered the Rigatoni Genovese. What should have been an onion and meat based sauce tasted like cafeteria beef stroganoff. Even the pasta was severely undercooked. This was worse than the sneezing boy.
My dad and sister opted for the ultra conservative filet mignon in a peppercorn sauce, which I would have normally been disappointed in, choice-wise, but after our pasta dishes flopped, I thought may have been the intelligent choice after all. Thought wrong. Clearly, if we wanted a good filet, we should have ventured north to Ruth’s Chris or Smith and Wollensky.
Having been that far along in taste testing, I decided what the hell, let me try the last plate. My brother order the spaghetti in tomato sauce (he’s seven, cut him some slack.) The pasta, again, was undercooked, and I enjoy my mom’s elegant description of the sauce: “it tastes like Chef Boyardee.”
After we finished, we sat around for over 20 minutes waiting for someone to clear our dishes and ask us if we were interested in dessert. We were watching a few waiters chat behind us and heard them say, in Spanish, that the group of women sitting near us, reeked. They went on about it. It was a good eavesdrop, to say the least, but I really just wanted my plate cleared.
At that point, a new waiter came over. My brother asked for a vanilla ice cream and the waiter returned apologetically with chocolate ice cream, saying they were out of vanilla. The seven year old made a face and the waiter quickly noted it and told us we could just have the chocolate ice cream. Feeling adventurous, I decided to give it a whirl. This, I will say, was fantastic chocolate ice cream. Creamy and chocolatey and more like a rich pudding than an ice cream, but surprisingly good. A few minutes later, the waiter came back with a vanilla ice cream which he had picked up at the ice cream truck across the street. He ruined my terrible impression of the place. Damn him!
I thought that Cipriani Downtown had absolutely no redeeming qualities. Unfortunately, that one waiter put my negativity to rest. As far as ambiance, let me say this. The place is obviously child friendly, there is a TON of outdoor seating, and it’s a definite see and be seen place. And those, along with Mr. McNiceman are its best qualities. The service, otherwise, was terrible, the food was terrible, and the people there were just terrible.
Maybe I’m pigeonholing, but if you’d like to make up your botoxed face, put on your favorite pair of Manola Blahnik’s and decide for yourself, be my guest. Hopefully you won’t come back hungry or sneezed on. Cipriani Downtown is not the worst restaurant I’ve ever eaten at (at least I don’t think it is) but it surely is the most overrated.
