Dependable pleasures from Ovo's brick oven.
Windows down, spirits high, we crested over a hill and found ourselves awash in what can only be described as olive-oil air. We were surrounded by olive groves, row upon ordered row of gnarled trunks, up the hills, down into the small valleys, across the horizon. The smell was heady, intoxicating and every other hackneyed adjective you can dig up to describe a perfect vacation moment.
Until that trip to Spain, I'd never been a fan of olives. I'd long cooked with good olive oil, enjoying the texture and taste it can grant just about any dish, but olives themselves never excited me, be it in a tapenade, chopped or whole.
A few days after that drive, in a small beach town lacking in tourists, I left her in the hotel room, napping, to enjoy a couple hours at a nearby cafe. As I waited for my meal, I was offered a small bowl of black olives. Whole, with pits, something in which I wouldn't normally have indulged. Right then, with my mild sunstroke headache and stomach tight with the hunger of active relaxation, for the first time ever, me and olives?we, well, we clicked. At an embarrassingly advanced age, I finally understood olives, devoured two bowls and became a fan.
When the lovely waitresses at Ovo place in front of me their customary bowl of chopped olives with warm pita, my heart never fails to jump, flutter, then fall a bit. Though an affection for olives remains close to me, the girl does not.
I've eaten at Ovo many times, and it's never failed me as a casual outdoor evening spot. Even when the 10 sidewalk tables are full, it's never too crowded or noisy, unlike the streetside patio of neighboring Cremcaffe, which sometimes hosts a jazz band too loud to create customers from the heavy East Village foot traffic. Ovo is billed as Mediterranean cuisine, but the core of the menu is pizza. Dinner pizzas, that is. The usual 10-inch servings meant to be shared during a date with an appetizer or two. Or, alone with the pita and olive starter and a couple glasses of wine.
The best is the goat cheese and eggplant pizza, topped with the eponymous ingredients along with red onions, garlic and a light tomato sauce ($9.95). My favorite goat cheese and eggplant story?one among several, for some queer reason?concerns a tiny taverna on a Greek island, where I sat for hours one evening smoking a million cigarettes and drinking retsina with my friend and his family. We shared a dozen dishes, the standouts of which were grilled aubergine and a cheese that had been fermented in the stomach of the goat that had lived on the farm next door?presumably until giving its last milk and becoming a vessel for cheese production.
The second-best pizza comes with mozzarella, Lebanese sausage, asparagus, roasted garlic and pine nuts; the meat and vegetable are perfect complements ($10.95), while the cheese holds them together literally and figuratively. Others to try: Moroccan, with hummus, eggplant, sundried tomato, olives, spiced with cumin ($9.95); the pesto with fresh mozzarella ($9.95); and the Zaatar, with thyme, sesame seeds, rosemary, plum tomato, arugula and?yes, yes, yes?calamata olives ($8.95). The pasta dishes are serviceable, occasionally very good. The tortellini with mushrooms is what you'd expect ($9.95), as are the linguini with clams ($10.95) and goat cheese ravioli with pine nuts ($10.95).
Like so many other mid-range restaurants in the East Village, especially along this stretch of 2nd Ave. below St. Marks, the charms of Ovo are not realized during a full dinner outing. Stop in any evening while the weather holds out, around 10, for a glass of the summer-perfect Californian pinot grigio (avoid the house white at all costs). The crowds walk past, couples stop and look at the menu, some accept, others do not. Half a dozen worker friends take two tables and gossip, start squealing after that first bottle and pick at their dishes until devouring three desserts between them. You're welcome to be alone, to sit solo and drink wine and eat your own appetizer at your own pace. The waitstaff doesn't push.
Or, invite a friend. Start with the bruschetta, a bargain at $5.95. It's one of the best in the city?that perfect blend of fresh tomato and garlic resting atop crusty, slim slivers of bread. Add the mezze platter of hummus, tabouli and babaghanouj for $8.95. With the olives and pita beforehand, maybe a shared pizza after, you're good until closing.
Via Della Pace
48 E. 7th St. (betw. 2nd & 3rd Aves.), 212-253-5803.
And speaking of bruschetta. The night of Video Music Awards?when did it become the VMA??a friend and I had a late date of sorts. Just a bite to eat, just a casual bit of time. Ovo had stopped serving, so up a block or two to East Post, where I've had a couple swell Sunday afternoon meals. Their kitchen was also closed, but one of the many Italians working the room suggested their sister restaurant on 7th St.
I can't speak of the entrees at the Via Della Pace, but their bruschetta Romana ($3.50) was just about perfecto. The two modest servings are presented on bread that's grilled flat, with just a touch of blackened edge. We also shared the buffalo mozzarella antipasto ($6), also just about perfecto except for the abundance of oil-soaked croutons. With a glass or two of white and enough to laugh at on the television, we enjoyed the best hour either of us had had all day.