To get things going, we (there were nine of us) started with a few piccolini, little nibbles from a menu of bar snacks that were the right partner for the big bottle of Prosecco we ordered to get the night started. By the time I tried them—Parmesan-battered wedges of cauliflower in agliata ($6), juicy bite-sized meatballs infused with rosemary, mushroom rafts loaded up with minced pancetta and pork, a smooth-as-butter chicken liver pate crowned with caramelized onions ($5), deviled eggs with the slightest hint of truffle ($4), and grape-sized arancini ($6)—I wondered how I’d go on to eat more. Somehow (shocker) I managed.

Burrell trained in Piedmont, Tuscany and Liguria in Italy, and at Felidia, Savoy and Italian Wine Merchants here in New York, but is probably best known as Mario Batali’s right-hand woman on Iron Chef. Her extensive immersion in the foods of Italy has given her a fine command of this genre of cooking. She divides her menu in traditional form, between antipasti, primi (pasta) and secondi (fish and meat). After draining our Prosecco we moved onto a bottle of white—Friuli, Tocai, Borgo Maddalena (‘05, $33), a fresh bright white that married well with our antipasti. Escarole is clearly a leaf lettuce that doesn’t get enough love. My feeling is this: move over romaine, forget iceberg, and step aside arugula, this is the green of the moment. It’s got wide leaves that come off a crisp ribbed center, and a robust flavor that can stand up to strong garnishes. It was the right backdrop to some very clever accessories: shaved sour apple, toasted crushed hazelnuts, and shavings of Pecorino ($10). This salad was sharp, sweet, sour and nutty and had texture. How brilliant.

The pizzetta ($12), a crisp rectangular flatbread, is marked from the grill and crowned with stracchino (fresh cow’s milk) cheese, crumbled bits of hot sausage, and a fluff of baby arugula drizzled with chile oil that gives off a soft subtle heat that sneaks up on you and warms your mouth at the right moment. A new dish for fall combined tender just-charred grilled sepia with a wedge of roasted acorn squash and a salad of dandelion greens, apples, and pumpkin seeds ($15). While the flavors of this dish really capture the season (it’s supposedly fall), and the flavors worked together so nicely, I found it a bit awkward to eat. The acorn squash is served in its skin, and I think it might work better if the chunks were cut up and tossed in with the salad. But there was nothing awkward about the roasted beet salad, a pretty collection of beets, Thumbelina carrots, and pickled radishes that colored the plate in rose, orange, pink and yellow.

At this point in our dinner, Jamie posed a question that most of us have heard at some point. “Who’s on your list?” she asked. “What list?” I responded, pulling a slice of pillowy homemade foccacia from a bread plate and dabbing it in some grassy green olive oil. “You know, your list! Your freebie list? Of famous men you can sleep with!” “Oh right, my list of famous men I can sleep with. Of course!” I said. I guess I had missed out on the other half of the table’s conversation while concentrating on the escarole salad. “I don’t know, that’s a tough one. Who’s on yours?” I asked the table at large. The names ranged from Vince Vaughn, Ed Norton and George Clooney, to the guy from Unfaithful, Ed Burns, and some tennis player I had never heard of named Feliciano Lopez. My list included Mr. Clooney, as well as Clive Owen and Mark Ruffalo. For the record, I think Craig looks a little like Clive, and I’ve always loved Mark Ruffalo (he’s so cute), and who wouldn’t have George Clooney? I was also considering Patrick Wilson from Little Children, but I’m not much for blonds. But truth be told, I probably could be convinced. (Note that when I asked Craig who was on his list he took the Fifth. Smart man. Though I know his list includes Eva Mendes and Jennifer Connelly.)

By the time we had debated our lists, our second courses were landing, and in this respect the table disappointed me- four of my friends ordered the same thing: the pici. This is generally a no-no, but since it was Alison’s birthday I didn’t make a fuss. I mean, it’s great, but four of them? Well, at least I got a good taste of it. The pici, which is handmade spaghetti that’s sort of ropy (but perfectly cooked), gets lavished with a thick and meaty, sweet and spicy sausage ragu ($14). It’s a mother of a meat sauce, rich, hearty and nurturing, like it’s been cooked for generations. But the surprise pasta of the night was the raviolo al’uovo ($12), which Ruth ordered, breaking away from the pack. The dish consists of one solo raviolo filled up with ricotta cheese and a secreted egg yolk that’s like a wave of golden sunshine inside of a fluffy cloud. It’s rich, baby, so one is enough, especially with the garnish of crispy guanciale.

I went for the crispy skate ($22), and was pleased to discover that this was a star fish. A sweet meaty wing is dusted in flour and pan fried, and served in aquapazza (crazy water) swimming with shrimp, calamari bay scallops and fregola (Sardinian cous cous) and shaved raw fennel. The broth was crazy alright, bright, lemony and light and infused with all that raw fennel. What a rare presentation. Originality never gets old. Alison’s friend Matt ordered the Heritage pork chop, served over Swiss chard with crispy bacon skin and baby turnips ($28). The chop was big and beautiful, grilled to a charred skin, and brined so it was pink and juicy, and invited many people to ask for (and receive) a taste.

After some time to digest and a bit more hilarious conversation that included flashbacks to when Alison and I had that bowl-top Dorothy Hamill haircut and both were mistaken for little boys, we moved onto dessert (all $8) and a rather sad off-key rendition of Happy Birthday. As Alison made a wish, we drove our forks into a hazelnut cake layered with nutella mousse, which was demolished in record time, and slurped down a “grown up” ice cream soda of bubbly Prosecco poured over cool, tart scoops of green apple sorbet and crystallized ginger. While these were both terrific, my favorite dessert was a plate of unusually buttery tarallucci (they are typically hard cookies for dipping into wine) served with a bowl of warm salted caramel for dipping. I’d encourage you to dine at Centro Vinoteca for these cookies and that warm salty caramel alone. If you bring this salted caramel home with you, I’d say you won’t be going anywhere for a while. It is one of the most simple and most compelling desserts I have had in recent memory.

After dessert was cleared, we sat around and chewed the fat for another hour, talking about god knows what, but cracking up. Reality was effectively on hold; the escape plan had worked. But the next day the world, and all its wounds, was back. The summer temperatures were up, and so was the body count from the war. I don’t mean to end this review on a hopelessly sad note, but I do sometimes feel there’s so much devastation happening around us that it’s a bit frivolous to make all this fuss about food. But then, I also think that perhaps the reason we need to make such a fuss about food is precisely because we’re so lost in so many other ways. It is our comfort, our safety, our home, and for an evening at least, our escape.

Centro Vinoteca is located at 74 Seventh Avenue South, at Barrow Street, 212-367-8040.

Andrea Strong