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Two years you wait for a table. Then finally your cousin gets off his butt and calls his dentist whose brother-in-law CPAs for a guy whose stepfather once dated the line cook's sister. While you wait—and you will—listen to the names of the regulars pouring through the door and understand why it takes civilians so long to get into Rao's. Is it finally worth it for a bowl of ziti, some roasted peppers, baked clams, and a flat of lasagna? Yeah, it really is. Rao's is a part of New York you thought had disappeared. — Hal Rubenstein