Given this scattershot approach, some dishes are bound to hit and a few to miss. I liked the very fresh crudo (king salmon, scallops, toro flavored with lemon zest), most of the pastas (chewy bucatini carbonara with plenty of guanciale, small orecchiette dressed with broccoli rabe and crumblings of sausage), and the fat Parmesan fritters specked with nuggets of prosciutto. I didn’t like the pork panini, which was stick-dry, or the strange, unwieldy gnocchi, which were sliced in discs, like sausages from North Carolina, and drenched in a weirdly sweet, nutty ragù. But you can obtain a first-class veal chop at Accademia di Vino, as well as a well-aged Nebraska prime rib, cut in the Florentine style and scattered with frighteningly heavy Tuscan beans. The desserts aren’t memorable (the best, I dimly recall, is a serviceable panna cotta with a glazing of sugarlike crème brûlée), but they’re not horrible either. If you don’t mind subterranean dining, and are looking for a decent meal in that great gastronomic wasteland above Bloomingdale’s, you could do an awful lot worse.

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