There were a few moments last Friday when I caught myself behaving like the pre-pubescent version of myself, despite the fact that I was deftly maneuvering my red Mazda 3 through midtown traffic and I was pretty sure that pre-pubescent Katie didn’t know jack shit about opposite-side-of-the-street parking regulations. When I was about ten years old, my grandmother would sometimes give me a dollar and let me walk over to the bodega around the corner for a few slivers of summer salvation. And I’d head down the sidewalk with that dollar crinkled in my left fist as if it were the Hope Diamond, only letting it fall on the counter in a sweaty clump when I had my candy, ice cream and soda gathered in my other hand. 29 years later and 99 dollars more, the anticipation of willingly forking over cash for a few slivers of summer’s fading salvation found me standing outside the doors of Eataly with a grumbling hunger not only in my belly but also in my head.

The unmistakable scent of freshly brewed espresso hit like a wall once we stepped foot inside, pushing past customers that were trying to belly up to the counter for their caffeine fix like junkies at a methadone clinic window. And that espresso scent wrapped itself around another of sweet, warm baked goodies that were lining the displays a few feet away in the dolce section of the café, double-teaming me into immediate hypnotic submission. Jesus Christ, I thought, maybe we should’ve started out in the produce section. I’ve only got a hundred fucking dollars and my brain already spent half of it in the first aisle.

The café gave way to several rows of salumi and cheese that had been pre-packaged on site so you didn’t have to wait on line for earthy chunks of smoked ricotta, translucent slices of prosciutto di parma and bresaola, or fresh wet mounds of buffalo-milk mozzarella. This may not exactly be the way to make all women weak at the knees, but damn it if my legs didn’t buckle under me a few times, gazing at the glory of black-truffle-speckled pecorino…though the $22 price tag thankfully broke my fall. My brain, at this point, was on high alert, taking inventory, adding the damages and storing its findings in a dark corner reserved for impulse food shopping. We quickly strolled past the fishmonger and butcher before realizing we’d better sit down and eat before we actually get shopping baskets and set ourselves loose in this gastronomic palace.

A couple of seats at the bar, a warm basket of bread and one glass of prosecco later, we had managed to catch our collective breath and put together a plan of attack.

So, do you have a budget for today?

Uhh, yeah, sort of, I replied as I shook my head “no.” Sure I had a hundred bucks of pre-planned spending in my purse, but there’s always the card, isn’t there?! Ohh, where the hell was the level-headed, money-conscious husband when you needed him to erect a levee?! Wait, I didn’t marry one of those. He would more likely have added to the death toll of fiscal damage done to the Pizzuto bank account. Better off without him today. I readily apologize, by the way, for being a complete idiot and not taking photos of our meals, but I was lost in the rapture of ravioli, and rapture takes no breaks for photo ops. Here, instead, is a groovy picture of the beers they had on tap: Moretti and Dogfish Head…but not just any Dogfish Head…they had Punkin Ale and Raison D’Etre, a deep, mahogany Belgian-style brown ale brewed with beet sugar and raisins, and one of my favorites. Sigh.

Stuffed bellies, by the way, apparently don’t do much to impede the sort of kamikaze shopping spree that took place after lunch. Produce? Stunning. Breads? Intoxicating. Fish? Fresh. Meat? Marbled. Olive oils, balsamics and pastas? Fucking expensive. By the time I was handed my heavy bags in exchange for 97 of my dollars (non-sweaty this time) I realized I hadn’t even stepped foot inside the wine shop which for some unknown reason (that I am nonetheless thankful for) doesn’t have an entrance from the market…only from the street. Utterly defeated, I walked by its door with my weighted bounty, barely keeping pace with pedestrian traffic, and lifted my head slightly as if to say, “Screw you…you will not tempt me to overspend. I can only dream of what bottles grace your lovely walls, but next time perhaps you should reconsider the logistical (and economic) benefits of desegregation.”

I’m going to go ahead and admit that I’ve fallen victim to the boredom of summer television and have succumbed to watching Master Chef despite the fact that I could just as easily turn the TV off and read a book, gaze at the stars or actually…you know…talk to my husband. The truth is that half the time it’s too buggy to sit outside at night, half the time I don’t wanna read until I’m in bed, half the time my husband is too busy playing the guitar to hold a conversation with, and half the time I’m bad with fractions. And what I discovered after watching a few episodes of the latest Gordon Ramsay escapade is that either Joe Bastianich is a total douche, or he’s coming off like one because of very clever and intentional editing—the goal perhaps being to make Ramsay look slightly more compassionate. And this all took me by surprise because I’m quite possibly the #1 fan of the Batali/Bastianich empire here in New York City, and given what a cool, approachable (i.e. non-douche) Batali has always been, I didn’t figure he’d be partners with someone who comes across like the human version of a thick, green, mucousy snot you can’t wait to rid yourself of, but then can’t help but stare at once you get it out.

But I’m babbling because technically this isn’t a review of the show…it’s about the child-like, uncontainable anticipation I’ve got for the latest Batali/Bastianich endeavor—an emporium called Eataly. The name alone is genius. I have countless daydreams of eating Italy, and there’s absolutely no downside to that. Glorious, still-warm buffalo mozzarella melting in my mouth, chased by a slice of guanciale and a sip of wine; skipping like a stone on the water’s surface, from butcher to baker to…uhh…Italian beer maker. Yeah, from what I understand, there’s going to be a rooftop beer garden on this place with skyline views year round, apparently a collaboration with brew masters from Dogfish Head, Russian River Brewing, Birrifico Le Baladin and Birra del Borgo. 50,000 square feet of Italian goodness, including a steakhouse, a pizzeria, a cooking school, a wine bar, a bookshop, and stores that sell everything from porcini to prosciutto. Excuse me while I wipe the very unlady-like drool from my chin.

Here’s some of what you’ll be able to find there, if you get there (200 Fifth Avenue, between 23^rd and 24^th). Frankly, if you’re half the foodie you think you are, a small road trip should never be out of the question for a slice of Italian gluttony. It opens this coming Tuesday, and I’m planning on waiting a week or so and then heading in with an empty stomach, a loaded wallet and a map—a more precarious position to put myself in than leaving Rush Limbaugh alone behind a pharmacy counter…

Café – A Lavazza coffee bar, and other counters specializing in panini, Venchi chocolate, house-made gelato and desserts by popular pastry chef Luca Montersino, who will whip up everything from apple strudel to “mini dolci” like amaretto mousse with moscato.

Miscellaneous Marketplace – There will be sections dedicated to jarred Italian specialty items like olive oils, tomato sauces and antipasti, dairy, cookies and snacks, tea and coffee, chocolate, fruits and jams and Italian water and beer.

Le Verdure (vegetables) - The dishes at this eatery will showcase locally sourced produce at the height of the season, including stinging nettle lasagna with pesto and bechamel, pappa al pomodoro (tomato and bread soup) and warm vegetable salad with chicory, radicchio and escarole.

Vegetable Butcher – Jennifer Rubell will wash, cut and clean vegetables that you purchase at no charge. The produce section will feature only seasonal, locally grown vegetables.

Salumi e Formaggi (salumi and cheese) – Everything from prosciutto di Parma to grana padano, sliced at the counter or packaged to grab and go.

Il Pesce (fish) – Esca chef David Pasternack’s daily-changing menu will be driven by the best the market has to offer—from fish cooked simply with olive oil and lemon to a Ligurian-style seafood salad, rounded out by seasonal sides. There will also be a fish monger.

Manzo (meat) – The only restaurant in Eataly with a reservation policy (and an official name) this Italian steakhouse helmed by former Babbo sous-chef Michael Toscano will offer antipasti, dry-aged steaks and American-sourced La Razza Piemontese, a unique breed of cattle low in saturated fat. A specialty of the house is carne crudo. There will also be a beef tasting menu, a full bar and outdoor seating.

La Scuola – A small school headed up by dean Lidia Bastianich, who will occasionally teach classes. There will be seminars with artisans, chefs and winemakers that culminate in special dinners, as well as those that focus on the nutrition, sociology and chemistry of food. Classes will begin in October.

Butcher – Both American and Italian cuts of meat will be available. There is also a section for roasted meats.

La Pizza/La Pasta - A corner of Eataly will be dedicated to pasta and pizza, with mezzanine seating to accommodate overflow. Rossopomodoro, a Naples-based restaurant group, is importing two wood-burning pizza ovens—and the pizzaiolos to run them—to turn out authentic, wood-fired Neapolitan pies using fresh mozzarella made daily in-house. There will also be traditional preparations of pasta, both dried and fresh, a smattering of salads and appetizers, and a takeout window on East 24th Street.

Piazza – This wine bar will serve dishes from stations dedicated to raw seafood, Italian cured meats and cheeses and fresh mozzarella made daily on the premises using milk from Battenkill Valley Creamery.

Bread – “We’re going to have the best bread in Manhattan,” says Joe Bastianich of the loaves baked daily in a wood-fired oven. American baker Nancy Silverton will oversee an array of foccacia.

Crudo (raw bar) – Stock up on raw delights, while getting a front-row seat to the chef as he prepares dishes.

Bookstore – A partnership with Rizzoli, this culinary corner is primarily dedicated to cookbooks focusing on Italian food and wine.

Housewares – Expect shelves stocked with high-design household items from Alessi and Guzzini, cookware from Sambonet, espresso makers from Bialetti and more.

Wine Store – This shop will sell only Italian wine, including those from the Bastianich vineyards.

*All photos property of Serious Eats.

Over all, I’m not one who tends to frequent Italian restaurants that haven’t been personally recommended by someone that knows my lack of enthusiasm towards them…especially those that cater towards the American “bastardization” of Italian dishes…and especially those in New Jersey. As luck (or lack thereof) would have it, I ate at two last week, and my experiences at both of them made for a classic case of Angels vs. Demons—of Italian restaurants. The fact that one of these restaurants committed a clusterfuck of transgressions would normally have me reminding you just how many fools I’m willing to suffer for your entertainment, but the truth of that matter is that I laughed nearly all the way home, wondering just how long it would be before these guys showed up on an episode of Kitchen Nightmares.

I’m bound to get flack for this, but I seriously seldom bother with the majority of Italian restaurants in my state. I know there are a few good ones (because they are the ones that get my business) but most of them are just a regurgitation of what Americans have come to expect: chicken, eggplant or just about anything else “parmigiana”, meatballs as dense as Paris Hilton, penne vodka, and carbonaras and alfredos drenched in cream. But when we got together for a girls’ night out last week, we were supposed to be headed for a German restaurant in Hawthorne, so overcooked pasta and undercooked risotto were the last thing on my mind. That quickly changed when we took one look at the place. The consensus at that point became, “screw this place, what else is nearby and how stiff are their drinks?” A few suggestions were tossed around but we settled on a new Italian joint called Vivi that had just recently opened up a couple of blocks up. My sister-in-law and I were pretty hesitant about the place, but it was local and reasonably priced. The fact that it said “creative cuisine” on its awning was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a good sign…it was the sign, apparently, of a “Demon” Italian restaurant.

After seven of us lovely ladies sat at a round table in the corner, our waiter—a 60-something, Italian-American divorcee that could easily have scooped up a roll on The Sopranos—began flirting with a couple of us while he opened our wines. I liken this overt flirtation with women approximately half his age to the nausea that overcomes you when you read in the backseat of a car. After a few humoring giggles he was gone, tossing about in a manic rush despite the fact that there weren’t that many full tables. Every other menu item we asked about, by the way, was either “unbelievable, amazing or melted in your mouth.” By the time he came back to take our order, the din of 7 hungry ladies was completely outdone by his idiot son/maître d’ who stood at the front desk, on the phone, yelling at whoever was on the other end that he “paid the fuckin’ bank” and that he was gonna “fuckin’ smoke him.” Ahh, lovely dinner banter.

Then there was the food. The lump-crab meat appetizer that we ordered supposedly came served on top of mango. What it actually came served on top of were mango peel slices. The meal I wanted to order—shrimp and wild mushrooms over spaghetti—was a no-go because they were out of shrimp. “Can you just replace the shrimp with scallops or such?” I asked. No way…they were out of scallops, too. I asked how exactly they were able to make the dinner special that consisted of a crépe stuffed with shrimp, fish, etc. if they were out of shrimp, and was told that those were made “ahead of time.” Like an asshole, I ordered the special. What I got wasn’t a crépe, but a burrito-like, thick tortilla, and it wasn’t stuffed with shrimp and fish, it was stuffed with a few little chunks of shrimp and a few tiny shards of fish, and mostly stuffed with what I’m guessing was a mixture of bread crumbs and God knows what else. While we ate, the maître d’s cell phone rang at the front desk and that prompted another slew of threats that weren’t even remotely mumbled under breath, spewed instead with a thick Italian accent. Dessert, by the time we got to it, consisted of typical options like tartufo, spumoni, cannoli, and chocolate mousse cake. The cannoli, the life-threatening son actually admitted, wasn’t much good and they were out of the chocolate mousse cake (big surprise). So a couple of the girls ordered some almond-flavored cake while one of the busboys gallantly returned from the liquor store with a huge jug of Gallo wine and poured the waiter and son a brim-full glass so the son could then proceed to sit with a friend at the table next to us and explain to said friend how he “swears on his mother” (why is it always the mother?!) that he’s gonna “smoke this guy.” The cake, by the way, was decent.

It was only a couple of days later that my husband and I decided to treat ourselves to a nice night out (with the kid) at a local, yet remote Italian restaurant called Momento. Quite the antithesis of Vivi, I wasn’t greeted by a horny Italian divorcee…I was greeted by a doting Albanian maître d’ who gently kissed my hand and showed us our seat. There were no menacing threats made over a phone line, no swearing, and no gilding of the menu items. Instead we had a gregarious waiter who entertained us with a couple of little-known facts about the history of various alcoholic beverages and yet knew instinctively when to leave us alone. There was no trace of Amercanized Italian food on the menu, save perhaps for the lobster ravioli. The carpaccio I ordered was delicious and my shrimp and wild mushroom risotto (damned if I wasn’t gonna finally get my shrimp and mushrooms) was perfectly cooked, with enormous chunks of shrimp and scallops tossed throughout. My son’s lamb chops (9 small ones) were a beautiful medium-rare, and I’d gladly tell you about my husband’s Bolognese were it not for the fact that I was so wrapped up in my meal that I wasn’t even courteous enough to ask how his was. An empty plate, however, sufficed for an answer.

When we told the waiter we had to leave without dessert or coffee because our son wasn’t feeling well, we weren’t given dirty looks—we were given sympathetic ones, with an offer to return soon for a “full” meal. The waiter, busboy and maître d’ were all the kind of people you felt like hugging on the way out after you paid your bill. You felt as if they actually enjoyed your company and wanted you to return not so much for your patronage but merely for your presence. They didn’t blatantly work at schmoozing for a tip, and that’s precisely why they earned a good one. I’ll gladly return to Momento a hundred times over before I’d even remotely consider stepping foot inside Vivi again.

To say that I have a penchant for being opinionated is no doubt to understate the obvious. Whether it’s the only proper way to make a martini, the correct way to define “barbecue,” or the ingredients that do and don’t belong in a caprese salad, some things are just black and white in my culinary world. That’s not to say that you can’t play with a recipe and tweak it until it soaks your shorts instead of mine, but at that point it needs to be defined as something other than what it originally was. At no time, for instance, should ribs be parboiled or pre-roasted in an oven before being thrown on a grill. If you don’t have the time and patience to cook them low and slow, then put a hamburger on instead and call it a day. Nor does anything poured into a martini glass earn the right to be called a martini. If it doesn’t contain gin, dry vermouth, and an olive it is in no way, shape or form a martini. I don’t consider these general rules—I consider them law.

This country has, unfortunately, grown up with a severely bastardized version of what is an extremely simple, hearty, soul-satisfying peasant dish—a dish that each ethnicity has some version of—bacon and eggs. I’ve eaten in countless restaurants from coast to coast, that list on their menu what they claim to be “spaghetti carbonara,” but what they serve bears no resemblance whatsoever to its namesake. In fact, what diners usually get is pasta covered in a thick cream sauce that chokes out the life of what carbonara is with its sloppy stranglehold. Few restaurants get it right (Batali’s Otto is one of them), and by default few home cooks get it right because they mimic what the restaurants do. Meanwhile, there are hundreds of recipes available online, but many of them include cream, including Giada De Laurentiis’, the supposed resident Italian food expert on Food Network.

What carbonara is, is pasta tossed with eggs, fried bits of guanciale (or pancetta in its absence), cheese, white wine, a little pasta water and proper seasoning. And regardless of what anyone tells you, what carbonara isn’t, is a cream-based sauce. Carbonara never…ever…ever contains a single drop of cream. If done right, there is no need for any heretic cream in order to create that magical, luxurious, silky sauce. That’s left to the alchemy of the ingredients I mentioned before. For those of you that have an issue with eating a dish that contains raw egg, I suggest you order an Alfredo instead, and get that cream monkey off your back with that fix—just don’t fuck with the carbonara, OK? No eggs, no carbonara. All of this is not to say that adding a little cream into your dish is illegal—no kitchen police are gonna come and slap cuffs on you (unless you like that sort of thing). It’s just no longer a carbonara.

The true queen of Italian cooking, despite Giada’s impressive boobage, is Marcella Hazan, and it’s her recipe that I posted for you. Her Essentials of Classic Italian Cooking has a permanent home on my kitchen shelf, and its pages are littered with sauce stains if that’s any indication of how essential it truly is. The only way in which I sometimes veer from this recipe is to separate the eggs, reserve the yolks, and then put one atop each serving of pasta for the diner to break open, so it can ooze down the mound of pasta like a glorious overflowing volcano of culinary perfection. I thank Batali for that idea and take no credit for it whatsoever, no matter how many oohs and aahs I get at the dinner table—though I’ll admit it’s tempting.

There was supposed to be an umbrella in the car—or at least that was my recollection of the conversation. But as 5 of us pulled into a parking spot just off 187th Ave. in The Bronx in my little red Mazda 3, the hopes of finding that blasted umbrella washed down the sewer drains with the teeming rain. I managed not to start in with relentless ranting, though, because 1. I had actually found a spot without having to circle the blocks over and over, and 2. I knew a lot of really good Italian food was mere steps away from the car. Only problem was, I completely forgot we were heading into the true “Little Italy” known as Arthur Ave. the day before Easter, and were bound to meet with long, impatient lines of people waiting to buy their goodies so they could go home and begin preparing their feasts. They were cold, they were wet and they were as tightly fit into small shops as Anna Nicole Smith in a size-8 dress, but there were nearly no complaints.

We stepped foot inside Casa Della Mozzarella, took a number and fell into line. Despite the cold spring New York rain and the long lines, the faces both in front of and behind us mostly wore smiles, even as they jibed the guys behind the counters that someone should be walking around with complimentary cups of espresso and Sambuca shots for the loyal patrons. If all you know of fresh mozzarella are those pre-packed balls of bland wetness you find in your grocery store you’ve no idea how mind blowing good fresh mozzarella can be. I’m not even going to bother flogging you for only equating Polly-O with mozzarella because I assume my readers are all…well…better than that. But I will tell you without a drop of humor that I waited in line for nearly 35 minutes in order to get a pound of Casa’s fresh mozzarella, and I’d gladly have waited another 35 if they had in fact served me a little espresso. Along the way to the deli counter we picked up some long fusilli (my favorite pasta), which is nearly impossible to find outside of specialty Italian shops. We also got some mixed olives, some pecorino di tartufo (sheep’s milk cheese with black truffles) and a pound of thinly sliced imported prosciutto di Parma that nearly melted in the warmth of my mouth.

What I love most about Arthur Ave is that you can go from store to store, on the hunt for your favorite specialties. Most lazy shoppers nowadays despise that, and would rather have everything under one roof, but I like getting my scallops from the fishmonger, my chops from the butcher, my ravioli from the pasta maker, my bread from the baker and my coppa from the salumeria. I even picked up an interesting bottle of Croatian wine at a small wine shop, which carries Italian specialties like Liquore Strega that you’re as likely to find at your average liquor store as you are to find honesty in Washington DC. Most places, like Teitel Brothers, have been in business for several generations, and hearing “sweetie” and “honey” sound much less sexist when they’re coming from a man behind a counter who’s handing you sample after sample of cheese until you find what you’re after. It’s here that you find the patience and the attention that existed decades ago, before anyone knew what the fuck an “Express Lane” was or would be. If you can’t decide what size shrimp is best for your recipe, no one will walk away from you rolling their eyes; instead they’ll offer up their advice, tell you which one their wife uses, and wait beside you while you make up your mind.

Tourists and novices can keep Mulberry Street for what it’s worth—which unfortunately isn’t much any more. You can find me nearly 200 blocks north of it, listening to the rhythms of idle Italian conversation, smelling the semolina loaves freshly pulled from the ovens, watching the dance of customer and purveyor, tasting the still-warm mozzarella and absorbing the genuine energy that is Arthur Avenue.