Clean Plates All 'Round

I haven't been exposed to much fine dining, the principle of which, according to writer Alex Shakar, is, "My animal needs are divine." Well, I'd like to think so anyway, so on Valentine's Day I went with my photographer Amy and her fiancé Richie to Osteria Stella, a classy joint on 50th Street.

"Two nice ladies, two nice racks," commented Richie, looking at Amy and me, who are both on the ample side.

"What did he say?" I asked.

Richie thought I might have been offended. "I'm sorry. I don't know you well enough to say that?" But really I wanted to verify that I'd heard him say "rack." Broads had racks 50 years ago, and I'm always pleased when an archaic term is fished out for use. Richie had worn a special brown velour shirt for the occasion, and Amy was duly impressed.

"You look so handsome in that shirt; it's been so long since I've seen you in one. Let me take a picture of my sexy blue-collar man with his nice shirt!" she raved, encouraging him to keep up wearing shirts that button.

Chef Salvatore Calisi came out to meet me, just like I was a real food critic. He spent summers cooking in both northern and southern Italy while training with the Culinary Institute of America, has worked at Union Pacific and grew up working in the kitchen of his father's Bronx restaurant, Yolanda's on E. 149th Street. Calisi practically lives at Osteria Stella, unlike when Rocco had that reality show and was always flitting around.

"The chef is personable," noted Richie. "It's in his body language."

"He has nice hands," added Amy. "He'd be good with kids. I wonder if he has any kids?" (Amy and Ritchie are getting married in September and are eager to breed.)

The first thing we got was an appetizer called robiola, which is sea-salt focaccia with robiola cheese and white truffle oil. Jeez, one minute you're plowing through a five-pack of Ramen, the next you're on top of the world.

I wanted to know how they met.

"It's thanks to this guy Rocky, who was supposed to fix her phone," explained the groom-to-be. "They'd sent him to the wrong address at first, and he refused to go back, so I went. Amy opened the door and I was bowled over by her boobs, I mean her beauty, I mean her boobs! Then she proceeded to tell me how to do my job, so I put her back in her place."

"I kind of liked that," Amy piped in.

"So then I called the company and-"

"Let me tell it the right way!" Amy interjected. "He asked if they had an underground pair-"

"So Amy rips open her shirt-"

"And I said I'll show you an underground pair!"

"She said 'you can touch them,' but I told her I wanted to wash my hands first."

"Which I thought was so nice!" Amy added, sportily.

"Then we made hot monkey love for a few hours," Richie ended, triumphantly.

"Most men might think you were a slut, and never have called you back," I said, knowingly.

"Yeah, that's true, why didn't you think I was a slut?" asked Amy.

"I think I can read body language!" Richie answered, returning to what I sensed was a recurring theme.

Chef Calisi continued to amaze. Out came a Valentine's special, ostriche fritte-oysters with a tangy cream, topped off with caviar.

"I think this is the best thing I've had in my life!" Amy raved. It came along with argosta lessata, an invention of Calisi's consisting of Maine lobster with artichoke salad, shallot crackling and white balsamic vinegar. I immediately dug in, unfamiliar with the concept of a "tasting menu," which perhaps means not always being a member of the clean-plate club.

We worked methodically on our dishes, while Amy told me about the crucial element of every New York relationship: getting rid of the roommate. "I used a Friends metaphor and told her it was time for her to go live with Joey. She understood that. She wasn't very bright!"

Meanwhile, even more food was arriving. Calamari that wasn't rubbery came with shrimp in a light flour batter, and then it was lasagna with a little red wine; light and unique, it's one of Calisi's favorites. He's not really a red-sauce guy. I snatched it back from Richie, directing him to eat the rolled pasta, which I found it a bit salty; he was fine with the trade.

Then came pasta with a sea creature that resembled a crawfish on top. "It's staring at me!" Amy complained.

"It's actually a langostino," Richie explained, being somewhat of a foodie. "It looks like a huge crawfish. It's in the same family as lobster, but it's actually considered a shrimp! It tastes like lobster, but sweeter."

"At first I was put off, because it was so much uglier than a lobster, but it's great!" Amy concluded.

For our Valentine's Day dessert, we got a mixed-berry tart that made Richie literally shut his eyes and go silent.

"Are you having a moment?" Amy asked lovingly.

The blackberries reminded me of picking them as a very young hick.

An apple cinnamon tart was served flambé, but I couldn't forget that blackberry.

"Let's go home and be fat together," Amy said. "And just hold hands."

Yeah, right.

Osteria Stella, 135 W. 50th St. (betw. 6th & 7th Aves.), 212-957-5050.