Osteria Cotta: Inauthentic Italian restaurant is remarkable only for its small portion sizes

On a Thursday night, Osteria Cotta fills with a Columbus Avenue crowd: pony-tailed women in pantsuits living large off that last promotion and over-aged frat boys looking for a little weeknight action. A cozy balcony overlooks the bar, affording the ultimate voyeuristic dining experience. Look down for a peek into the pickup scene, or watch a Rangers game unfold on the flat screen TV suspended precariously on the far wall. At 8:30 p.m., the night is young—plenty of time still to get drunk before Friday morning.

This pseudo-casual Italian restaurant with a clubby soundtrack and wanna-be-clubby clientele took over 513 Columbus (between 84th and 85th streets) from Senor Swanky’s in early March. Sergio and Mario Riva’s latest attempt piles on the faux fancy. Rustic, dimly lit, and built with nooks and crannies galore, Osteria Cotta affects a romantic Piedmontese watering hole. But an exposed aluminum ventilation duct hints—if the flat screen isn’t already the giveaway clue—that this is not, in fact, an Italian tavern. Instead, Osteria Cotta is a refuge for Upper West Siders who don’t want to go downtown to feel hip.

Andrew Kraft is the chef, which isn’t surprising considering his relationship with the Rivas: He got his New York City start in their restaurant Irving Mill. Unfortunately, Kraft’s touch with Italian fare feels less than nuanced.

The restaurant’s meatballs are pleasant enough, similar in taste to that consistently ordinary Italian deli down the block—the one you go to for eggplant parm and roast beef. They are innocuous but perfectly enjoyable with enough focaccia to squeegee the excess sauce. But broccoli rabe billed as spicy lacks any heat whatsoever. The only flavor comes from a sprinkle of salty ricotta salata.

Another “small plate”—code for lilliputian serving size—is a precious ramekin of lukewarm and oily mushrooms. Despite the off-putting temperature, there’s an admirable fungal hit in this dish.

Three dollars for three bites—the tomato and mozzarella bruschetta tastes bright and creamy. But the tiny portion makes a seemingly sweet deal go down bitter.

Osteria Cotta prides itself on its pizza oven, and the pies arrive blistered like a sunburned baby. They’re about the size of a baby, too, so savor every delicately measured slice. A Calabrese pizza is topped with tomato, mozzarella, sopressata, and olives. Greasier than Ray’s or Famiglia’s or any other artery-clogging chain option, Osteria Cotta’s pizza leaks fat like a rendering slab of lard. Finishing the small serving leaves diners begging for wet wipes and an enema. Ironically, the Calabrese comes with a bottle of garlicky chili oil—as if this creation needed more lubrication.

Stuffed with eggplant, ricotta, and tomato, a plate of homemade agnolotti costs $11. An order includes six pieces of al dente, above-average pasta. Clocking in at $1.80, one agnolotto could buy two Absolute Bagels, a small cup of Oren’s coffee, an armful of Greenmarket apples, or a washing machine cycle. Is it worth it?

For Columbia students, no. Whether it’s date night or parent’s weekend, Osteria Cotta is an inestimably bad choice for college kids looking for reasonable deals in a less-than-absurd setting.