As if the two-joint Nancy Silverton/Mario Batali/Joe Bastianich creation needed additional acclaim. Now you won't be able to get in until 2016 (they can take you at 5). I am of the unworldly belief that no restaurant is worth such a fuss - and even L.A. Magazine's Patric Kuh seemed to be wondering the same thing when he tried to get reservations. "Once, after a tortuous exchange with a host, I proffered three dates," he writes in the November issue. "No, none worked for the restaurant. Finally I blurted, ‘Okay, you tell me when you have an opening.’ My God, the abject position that uttering such a phrase places you in." Thing of it is, he really likes it, though he does have a few quibbles with the osteria's heavy use of fried rosemary (who knew?) and some of the main dishes. Here's how he closes:
There’s one basic question that Mozza has to answer: Is it worth all the fuss? The answer is yes. To offer a gamut of Italian dining—one that runs from pizza to waiters in cuff links—is a monumental undertaking. Certainly no other restaurant in Los Angeles is attempting it. Mozza has its failings, but the failings themselves are signs of its ambitions. When Mozza took so long to open, I began to wonder why Batali and Silverton were in partnership at all. He didn’t need her to establish a beachhead in Los Angeles. She didn’t need the money. Though the two sides of Mozza are not equally successful, I have no doubt that the restaurant will get there. Silverton and Batali are kindred souls who share a heartfelt passion for the pleasures of the Italian table.
The LAT's S. Irene Virbila gives the osteria three stars in today's review, which starts on the food section cover. Here's but a sample of the gushfest:
Between bites, I'm taking in the crowd, a wild mix of ages and styles that only a city like L.A. or New York can produce. Come early, come late, the place is alive. Just watch the entrance. Everybody wakes up and preens a little the minute they walk in the door. And though the place is casual, they're dressed to impress. Parties waiting for a table lurk at the "amaro bar" at the back, sipping Prosecco or obscure Italian bitters as they survey the room, hoping for that quiet(er) table in the corner, or that deuce not two feet from some famous face.
Shoot, we just missed that 5 p.m. slot. We're now up to 2018.