Citarella's Preview Indicates One Hell of Show on the Way

On 42nd St. young Italian tourists steal glances at me, smile and whisper. Is it the sequined, lacy and beribboned lavender and mint tiny handbag or the toeless hose? A weary Dominick Dunne passes. Then we can't get around some cameramen and poster-wielding Green supporters in front of the old Daily News building. Dapper Green comes charging out, is given a cheer and shakes hands all around. A few yards later, Vallone comes charging out of WPIX and greets his own poster-wielders.

We make it to Tudor City without sidestepping further candidates and look at a few studios. They're not quite as big as I remember my friend Nick's old one to be. Plus he had a little low balcony. He told me it was scary, but he crept onto it in the mornings to eat his cereal there. I stepped out into night air and decreed, "This isn't scary." He said, "If you weren't messed up, you'd be scared."

We walk up 2nd Ave. and Vallone comes charging out of McFadden's and almost knocks me over, undoubtedly en route to another happy hour glad-handing session. It's starting to rain fat sloppy drops. Looking west, a pousse-cafe of white over blue over stormy gray is a backdrop for cascading corners of slick steel skyscrapers. It reminds you of the Metropolis we thought we'd have now when we lived in the 60s.

Apartment-shopping and candidate-dodging work up an appetite. The old Hurley's has been Citarella for a few weeks. Disco plays in the deco lounge, with a lighted bar and tabletops of striated bowling-ball-ultramarine. An elevator takes us to the third-floor dining room, which overlooks the second-floor dining room. Sparkled walls with lit blue portholes. No they're pink. No wait, they're blue. Mild jazz is unobtrusive. It's been a warm day, but now I'm freezing in spaghetti straps. The banquette I'm seated on is red and pinkish and I'm told my dress matches perfectly. Table bouquets of peach rose blossoms and herbs alongside screened-in tea lights.

"Citarella is in preview" in small print on our menu. Junior front-office types sit near us. When they don't know the meaning of "organza," my high-school English teacher companion almost jumps up to offer a lesson. Fortunately, their classy and actressy waitress is able to illuminate.

A wandering videographer takes some shots. Referring to the baby traders, my companion wonders, "What would it be like to work all day with people who had nothing interesting to say?"

Hello. Welcome to my career. "It makes you feel like hiding under the desk in your cube, squeezing your eyes shut and praying no one finds you."

A glass of Rothbury shiraz ($7.50) is brusque, woody and strawberry-finished. The Riverbend pinot noir ($10) is berryful and silky; quenching as red pop on a dusty day when you're six. Crusty rolls with sweet butter are portioned out. A precious amuse-bouche of eggplant fritter with a piping of smoked tuna and teensy tomato, popped into my mouth, is an eye-opening positive portent. Hearts of palm salad ($12) with frisee, roasted nectarine, mild slice of cheese and marinated red onion is pungently dressed. But its hidden pistachios delight like found treasure. Three slender shrimp rolls ($16) recline over Indian mint sauce. Crackly Japanese wrappers encase centers of savory shrimp. Chunks of too-sweet cantaloupe accompany, along with bean sprouts, which I never like, in a sesame sauce. Delicious.

The lights are turned down. An appetizer of softshell crab ($17) is thinly battered and fresh from the sea; fleshy, plump and slurpy. It's served over a melange of caramelized onions and scallions. Barely cooked salmon ($25) lies adjacent to a purple pool of blackberry sauce. The sweet-tart sauce against the lightly peppered fish occupies every tastebud. Atop the thick slab of coral freshness is a generous serving of fatty, decadent foie gras. I am unable to set my fork down until it has vanished. Also on the plate are strands of swiss chard and sauteed but still-lively spinach. On the table are unnecessary, yet lovely, silver and glass mills of pepper and gray salt.

Irritated by our trader neighbors, my companion imagines herself at the head of their classroom: "There's going to be a test. Could one of you say something, anything, that is at all engaging or clever? No? You all fail."

The lights are turned up. Our enthusiastic waiter steers us away from the vanilla cake with 12-bean ice cream ($12), saying that while it is one of his recommends, it's small for sharing. Which makes me more determined, as small often equals rich. On a base of sturdy vanilla custard the cakelet is golden-crusted with a dusting of fine sugar. Moist to the point of wetness, it oozes a gold vanilla sauce when poked. A curl of vanilla-y vanilla bean-speckled ice cream sits on a carpet of yellow vanilla gelatin. Vanilla is maybe my favorite flavor, so no complaints.

Decaf is robust and the high-test is a rich nutty roast. The large pots are left on the table. The lights are turned down. Complimentary black-sesame tuilles are brought, along with dark chocolate boats of truffle cream topped with chocolate-covered sweet cherries. Oh, I couldn't possibly well maybe I could. Did I say my favorite flavor was vanilla? I meant sesame. The seeded cookies are delicate and taste of honey; the ultimate hippie food.

The lights are turned up. If this is a preview, there's going to be one hell of a show.

Citarella the Restaurant, 1240 6th Ave. (49th St.), 332-1515.