The other night, seated in a booth in Il Gatto's clamorous dining room, I reached across the table and scooped up a spoonful of buttermilk ice cream that accompanied a wedge of polenta cake. When I slipped it into my mouth, the room froze, as if somebody had hit the pause button. For an imperceptible moment, rushing servers stopped in their tracks, conversations ceased, and I slipped into a reverie. The bite was full and voluptuous, gloriously smooth, and ripe with a cheesy, fermented tang: This was why we lay cooks set aside the spatula, put down the pots and pans, and pay talented... More >>>