N.Y. FILM FEST AT 50; WHAT’S COOKING WITH LADY GAGA’S FOLKS
Joanne Trattoria, owned by the pop singer’s parents, should come with a warning label
Maybe Lady Gaga’s parents are forsaking their famous daughter.
How else to explain Joanne Trattoria, Joe and Cynthia Germanotta’s incomprehensible upper West Side eatery?
As if on purpose, the place is missing the creativity and commitment that made their daughter a star. The result is a careless, lifeless production that feels like a weird facsimile of a restaurant rather than the real thing.
I came with an open mind, even though most of my colleagues have portrayed Joanne as the worst thing since herpes.
The first sign that they may have been right plopped on the table before we ordered: Four pale, blank-tasting pieces of “Chef Art’s Wood Oven Baked Focaccia” with the texture of kitchen sponges.
“Chef Art” is Art Smith. He was Oprah Winfrey’s personal chef, and his specialty is Southern cuisine. While his name’s on the menu as executive chef, it’s been widely reported that he’s gone AWOL while “pursuing other projects.” His apparent absence is palpable. Though a server told us Smith had dropped by “a couple of weeks ago,” Joanne clearly lacks adult supervision.
When a wan Caprese salad with mealy tomatoes and cloying balsamic costs $18, should a server quip that cheese is sourced from “whoever gets it to us cheapest” — especially when the viscous mozzarella seems to bear that out?
When a restaurant charges $18 for fried calamari, should the dish arrive so sloppily plated that it looks like the kitchen threw it back in the bowl after dropping it? Should the appetizer glow with grease or boast
patient. They genuinely seem to enjoy sharing the stories behind Joanne’s recipes, like the “Sunday gravy” Joe cooks for family, and which finds its way onto lifeless spaghetti and meatballs ($23) here. A friendly, earnest host greets each table personally. He takes his time to explain the restaurant’s back-story — including that of Joanne, who apparently inspired young Stefani to embrace her creative side and blossom into Lady Gaga.
But any goodwill you muster will go out the window when you notice “Expresso” — yes, with an “x” — for $5 on Joanne’s menu. It’s more like concentrated Sanka, but you’ll need it to avoid choking on a tiramisu cake ($14) whose desiccated base holds gelatinous cream tasting vaguely of plastic.
“Born This Way” is a nice sentiment in one of Gaga’s greatest hits. But it doesn’t apply to restaurants. Joanne’s one of those cases where you can actually blame the parents. more breadcrumbs than squid? And should the accompanying marinara sauce taste like a powdered mix?
The most edible appetizer, baked stuffed mushrooms ($14), still wouldn’t pass muster in a diner. Eight caps are stuffed with breadcrumbs and shoved onto a tiny iron skillet, whose surface glistens with oil. The dominant note of this icky, mushy octet is salt. Seven of them are left abandoned on the serving platter.
Entrees get even more egregious. Eggplant parmesan ($24) arrives a gloppy, sloppy, flavorless mess whose net effect is the culinary equivalent of old cars in a massive pileup. A skin of barely melted cheese only worsens the pain.
I don’t know the Germanottas’ Aunt Josephine, but I imagine she’s a doll with a warm, welcoming cucina and a big heart to match. So why did the poor dear lend her name to Joanne’s meat lasagna ($26)? This is the Potemkin village of lasagnas, Stuffed mushrooms (above) and lemon chicken (r.) are just two of the dishes we can’t recommend at Joanne Trattoria. an appealing surface that gives way to neutered meat, cheese and sauce. When your first impulse is to add salt to this Italian dish, you know you’re in trouble.
A dry lemon chicken ($28) did have a discernible taste, but only in its zesty skin. The meat itself came closer to those supermarket birds in foil bags. And people: That $28 doesn’t include sides. The only adornment is a shriveled lemon segment perched atop the meat. Sauteed spinach or rosemary fingerling potatoes will set you back $9. Gaga may blame her recent weight gain on her father’s “freaking delicious” cooking, but you’re more likely to leave here hungry.
Joanne almost makes you feel guilty for stating the obvious. The front of the house is decorated with Germanotta family photos. They include the restaurant’s namesake — Joe’s sister, a promising artist felled by lupus at age 19. Quaint pastoral paintings, all chosen by Cynthia, decorate the walls. The low-ceilinged room is charmless and generic, but the place is supposed to be a passion project for the couple.
Servers are sweet, too, solicitous and