I Cavallini, NYC

An astonishing restaurant to be revered and celebrated, in a city that is having a golden run.

New York City is having a moment right now. Actually, several moments. Every day is a celebration. The FIFA World Cup Final is this Sunday, and the entire city is in the grip of World Cup fever.
Bars are overflowing with a tide of drunk fans all wearing their national jerseys, most of them screaming, “Vamos Argentina!”. It’s messy. The Knicks recently won the NBA championship for the first time in 53 years, and everyone is still as high as Snoop Dogg at breakfast. Newly elected Mayor Zohran Mamdani is confusing voters (and politicians), by doing exactly what he said he would do; potholes are getting fixed, free childcare is sorted, billionaires will pay more tax and covetous landlords are being made to fix their decrepit buildings. New York City is having a golden run.

I have loved every bit of it. The Knicks, the World Cup, the city wide Mamdani boy crush; I was even happy that Taylor Swift could close down six city blocks to host her jumping castle party at Madison Square Garden. But none of these things gave as much joy as dining in one particular restaurant two nights ago in Williamsburg.

Williamsburg gets a bad rap from New Yorkers. Some have described it as, “what happen when money replaces art.” Some think that Williamsburg is full of tech bros pretending to be artists, living in overpriced condos so they can stare at Manhattan every morning in a ketamine fog whilst eating their activated almonds. There is an element of truth to that but there is one thing that Williamsburg has that nowhere else has. I Cavallini.

Owned by the proprietors of highly esteemed restaurant Four Horsemen, I Cavallini (“little horses”), opened in July 2025 and is more Italianate, but no less popular that its sister restaurant. My one hope for the future is that they buy the retro dive bar “Horses and Divorces” and corner the market with the trifecta of equine named venues. Getting a reservation at I Cavallini is as likely as Barron Trump being employed as E. Jean Carroll’s personal wardrobe stylist. I would suggest walking in early or late, as we did.

We arrive at 9pm on a Tuesday night to be told two seats at the bar would be available in 30 minutes. Perfect. Just enough time to drop in to the local bar for a pint and watch the World Cup highlights of Belgium’s illegal, stolen win over the United States.

The restaurant has a seductive intimacy: it is dimly lit, wooden tables glow with amber candlelight, a white brick wall features colourful still life paintings and a section of high-top tables are separated by faux windows which delineate the bar area. But the most striking thing is something far less tangible. It is calmness. Control. There is a satisfying hum that only exceptionally good restaurants can create. Yes, there is some muffled chatter, but most diners are focused on the plates as every smiling staff member glides past with the grace of an Olympic figure skater. They had me at hello.

And then the food arrives. My goodness. One dish that has become synonymous with this restaurant is the nervetti with onions and chive blossom vinegar. It’s a classic Venetian dish, beef tendons are simmered for hours with citrus peel, celery and fennel seed: they are pressed into a terrine, chilled and sliced into very fine translucent ribbons: then tossed with macerated white onions, black pepper, vinegar, and mandarin zest. The salad is slippery and jiggly, with a mouthfeel akin to eating black fungi or cold noodles. The vinegar adds a welcome sharpness to a dish that tastes neither fatty nor remotely oleaginous. Hidden under the raft of onions and tendons are drops of clarified bouillon made from the reduced cooking liquor; they taste like carnivorous gummies and are very edible.

Every subsequent dish is delivered unobtrusively, each one an illustration of refined technique and precision. Squash flowers are filled with ricotta and shallow fried, the lacy golden cervices of the batter gleam with a drizzle of green onion honey. A piping hot large round focaccia is gilded and crisp, its fried craggy edges ideal to drag through the accompanying creamy whipped ricotta and grilled leeks.

I decide to wander through the restaurant into the garden terrace where high tables are full when I see the restaurant manager. I comment, “It’s a stunning patio you have out here”. He replies, “yes, it is but there is just one thing missing. What’s that? We need a huge TV screen right here on this brick wall.” That is when I realised this city really is enthralled with the world game.

I arrive back to a plate of “tortelli di erbetta.” Five gossamer thin egg pasta parcels are filled with ricotta, parmesan, nettles and spinach lacquered in an acidulated butter sauce scented with dill. I haven’t eaten a better pasta dish in years. Malloreddus, the tiny, ridged pasta from Sardinia, gleams in a canary yellow emulsion of corn, sea urchin, shrimp, and butter. It’s the only dish that doesn’t quite sing, it’s adequate but after three mouthfuls the flavour is cloying, overtly sweet and one dimensional: the culinary equivalent of trying to watch Home Alone, Home Alone 2 and Home Alone 3 on one night.

A grilled Berkshire chop is juicy and has a whiff of smoke; the richness of the high-quality pork is counterbalanced by a delicious slightly sour red cherry glaze. The side salad here would be a stellar appetiser at most other restaurants. It is a Spring still life in edible form. Thinly sliced baby fennel, snap peas, mint and SarVecchio cheese, (Parmesan without the attitude), shine in a wonderfully sharp classic vinaigrette.

Two thin roasted house-made lamb sausages are gamey in flavour with just the right amount of pork fat, garlic, fennel pollen and mace: they are fat spittin and succulent resting on a rustic bed of braised peas, ramps, risina beans, moistened by a grassy lamb broth. It’s a dish that you would rarely see at a restaurant of this calibre, which is the point: it’s a dish that is emblematic of I Cavallini. Surprising yet luscious.

A modestly described dessert, “harry’s berries strawberry sorbet with soft whipped cream”, is a revelation. “Harry” is a berry producer from Oregon who supplies all the top restaurants in the city and I understand why. A luminous sphere of strawberry sorbet is cushioned on a cloud of vanillin whipped cream. The sorbet has an extraordinary, intense balance of sweetness and acidity offset by the ethereal cream. Strawberries and Cream turned up to 11.

A scoop of snowy white apricot kernel gelato glistens in an ivory river of zabaglione, finely ground biscotti crumbs are scattered over the top resembling a lunar landscape. My fingers are slathered in the creamy custard as I can’t resist swiping the coin shaped biscuits through it.

Eating here is to sit in your own culinary pleasure bubble. I Cavillini is the distilled essence of everything I hope for in a great restaurant. Innovative, creative food that delights and surprises, thoughtful service delivered with flair and warmth.

The great restaurants make it look easy; it is anything but.
That is the goal, the illusion.
A nightly conjured magic trick.
A magic trick that not many can pull off.


i Cavallini
https://www.icavallinibk.com/