Dried spaghetti, every shape and size extruded from bronze dies and covered with a thousand scrapes and scratches to catch their awaiting sauce. I bought the spaghetti and ate it with butter, however.

Eataly, the Hedonism II of Italian food, is one of those projects that people in the food media really don't get. Maybe this is obvious to me because I'm in the food media, and I didn't get it until yesterday, when the place opened up and I visited it. The discussion behind the scenes of Mario Batali's Italian mega-store in New York's Flatiron District was about the scale of the place, where the pizza ovens came from, how much it cost, the likelihood of it ever recouping its immense debt load. Then I saw the spaghetti section, and I realized how wrong we all were.

Eataly is a fever dream of food love — a fantasy, an orgy, a theme park. I can't believe it will ever make any money, but then what do I care if it makes money? I'm not an investor. I'm a New Yorker who can now go into a store on 23rd street and buy the veal chop that they use at Alto and Del Posto. There are whole aisles of spaghettis that are to your local Shop-Rite brands, in flavor and texture, what sashimi-grade bluefin is to Bumblebee. I fought with eager matrons to try to get to the fresh mozzarella counter, where it was made before my eyes, only to be plunged infanticidally into cold water. (Though I'm told that might change in the future.) I stood gobbling focciacia so alive with acidy sweet tomatoes and grassy olive oil that I thought it might start screaming.



I supposed I should have tried to shoot this pizza before eating half of it, but I'm only a man, damn it! It was extraordinary, even by Vera Pizza Napoletana standards. Very little in the way of tip sag.

I did all those things at Eataly, in the chaos and din of its first day, and I'm here to tell you that even as a jaded and effete observer of the food scene, I am overawed. I don't know about you, but I never expected to see 16 kinds of San Marzano canned tomatoes, or a fresh pasta counter selling tiny agnolotti del plin and spaghetti alla chitarra made that day; the shiny serpentine bodies of sea bream and orata laid out on ice, or five kinds of beef tartare served to you at a counter. As I worked my way around the place, which is as big as Macy's, I began to feel my excitement start to tinge with panic. How would I eat all this stuff? How much of it could I buy? How many times a week could I come here, and where would I park? Everything I needed for human happiness could be found here, with the exception of perverted sex, and after eating all this food I wouldn't be in much shape for that either. And wait... Is that... LaFrieda ground beef? In a regular store?

I passed out and was revived when medics passed Sardinian pecorino under my nose. My first feeling was one of gratitude to Eataly and its creators. This fever dream of Italian gastronomy was the most poetic, visionary, and utterly insane act of creation since the Crazy Horse Memorial. And you can't get veal chops at the Crazy Horse Memorial.

The Gate of Gluttony.

Wait, when did Mario get thin? This is disturbing. Maybe some mozzarella and veal chops for him. Is this what comes from eating Piedmontese beef? If so, it's still not worth it.

The bread counter. Now this is just getting ridiculous.

I like the big fishes and the olive oils and everything, but the meat counter is what makes Eataly unique. Don't let them fool you into buying Piedmontese beef, though. Not with all this Creekstone beef and Mennonite veal!

This veal chop, held lovingly by this raven-haired dream girl, is as far beyond the reach even of gourmet stores as a passing airplane is of bushmen.

Mark Toscano, formerly of Babbo, mans the meat counter, which has six kinds of Italian raw meat dishes. If only they weren't made from Italian meat!

Have I mentioned yet that Meataly, I mean Eataly, carries LaFrieda products? People think that I write about the LaFriedas because they're like family to me. But the truth is that they're like family because I love the meat so much, like these Iowa pork chops. Look at that firm creamy fat!

The meat that launched all the hype. Don't even think of broiling or grilling this. Make a puck, cover it with kosher salt, and flatten it on hot iron. Flip at the end and then eat as it bleeds. You won't go back.

Dried spaghetti, every shape and size extruded from bronze dies and covered with a thousand scrapes and scratches to catch their awaiting sauce. I bought the spaghetti and ate it with butter, however.

This kind mozzarella woman didn't give me a piece of warm, salty fresh cheese to try. At least not officially.

There are beans here I had never heard of; even a whole vegetarian restaurant! Needless to say, I didn't try them, nor visit it.

"It's an old Sicilian message. It means Luca Brasi sleeps with the fishes."

Please, Eataly. Stop. I don't have money or time to start eating salumi, too.

Josh Ozersky Josh Ozersky was Esquire's Food Correspondent and a regular contributor to Esquire.com.

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