The very first question you have to ask about Manhattan's hottest new restaurant—before you wonder why Keith McNally has named the place for an obscure Italian painter, before you wonder why the King of French Bistros is now doing Italian food, before you ask how so many people wrangled reservations on Saturday night when the restaurant didn't even officially open until Sunday—is how any room filled with a million fast-talking people can still be quiet enough for conversation. You will get to know your neighbor; it's inevitable with seats this close together. You may even share their food (we did). And yet somehow this won't bother you. It's not because the food is so fine, although it is certainly fine enough. I've always wished chef Jody Williams flattened her carciofi alla giudea, so that they were a little crisper, but you can't fault the frying. There are fresh pastas (with ragu, stuffed with ricotta) and dry ones (alle vongole, con le sarde). There is the ubiquitious branzino and the non-ubiquitous fegato alla Veneziana. It is all pleasant and lovely and lively. But also a little odd. Balthazar is a great restaurant because it looks and feels so much like Paris that you're always surprised to find yourself on Spring Street. But Morandi doesn't feel remotely like Italy. It feels like just exactly what it is—hip New York indulging in yet another feeding frenzy. Morandi, 211 Waverly Pl., at Charles St. 212-627-7575
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