Though I'm always seeking new gnocchi frontiers, I always return to those shores where the gnocchi is reliably nummy.

One such shore is Max, a popular Italian restaurant in the East Village and site of a now-infamous first date on which I suffered just the teeniest bout of fainting. The Husband and I ate there recently on our first anniversary, which seemed an appropriate occasion. It also presented an opportunity to exorcise the ghosts of personal humiliation, EMT chaos, and nosy questions from fellow diners suffered on our first visit.

The gnocchi at Max is served with a simple marinara and chunks of mozzarella--a classic presentation that showcases its tender texture and satisfying potato-y flavor. Really, it's the freshness factor that separates this gnocchi from the pack; it tastes like they just rolled it in the kitchen that night. And hell, maybe they did (though the staff looks a little too relaxed to have been prepping and serving food from scratch all night. ) Anyhoo, our dinner was enhanced by the charming atmosphere in the backyard--the rain only added to the "Olde Worlde/ 1950s Sophia Loren film" ambience, and I regretted that my cleavage was not better supported.

As is the way with most good gnocchi, the reheated leftovers were almost better than the original dish. But I chalk that up to the sheer joy I experienced upon remembering it was in my fridge 2 days later...Truly a bite of Valhalla for the pasta warrior in all of us.