Fiamma

Baby scallops and snails in a parsley pesto

Photograph: Jeff Gurwin

Until recently, I had no idea how vulnerable to change the state of Italian fine dining in New York City was. Scott Conant’s decision last year to bolt from Alto and L’Impero created a domino effect that left some of New York’s top Italian restaurants chefless. Michael White abandoned Fiamma Osteria to replace Conant at both restaurants, and Fabio Trabocchi, a celebrated toque in D.C., relocated from Maestro in suburban Tysons Corner to head the kitchen at Fiamma. We’ve already seen what White has done in his new role­—a solid yet unremarkable transition that resulted in a few tweaks and continued high competence. Four months in at Fiamma, however, has found Trabocchi making far more dramatic changes—so much so that Osteria has been removed from the name entirely. He’s also erased White’s Tuscan touches and has added something decidedly richer, almost French.

With the appointment of the new chef, designer Jeffrey Beers has taken the opportunity to spiff up the culinary crown jewel of Steve Hanson’s B.R. Guest empire. The duplex dining rooms now have a steakhouse vibe, with its new and darker palette (chocolate, gold and burgundy), comfortable, generously spaced tables and overly bright lighting that’s defiantly unromantic. The clientele reflects that fact, with a heavy presence of all-male Wall Street power tables. The European-heavy wine list tickles those expense accounts: Triple-digit barolos and burgundies are eagerly decanted by the staff. (My $55 selection, however, was left to sit in the bottle.)

Trabocchi’s unctuous style befits the moneyed crowd. The chef, who grew up in central Italy and honed his skills in London, Spain and Moscow before winding up outside Washington, constructs heavy dishes with big doses of game, syrupy gravies and enough foie gras to prompt a PETA boycott. A seared foie gras appetizer offered a glistening portion, with a grape chutney that painted a bed of chestnuts beet red; in the entrées, it was draped over a clean, meaty filet of red snapper, enveloping the fish the way hot fudge coats ice cream.

If you think you can dodge a bellyache with some smart à la carte ordering, think again: The meal is served only as a three- ($85), five- ($105) or seven-course ($125) prix fixe, though five is the standard—appetizer, pasta, fish, meat, dessert—and there’s serious richness from the get-go (even the token salad centers on creamy burrata cheese).

Decadence is Trabocchi’s hallmark, no matter the platform. A seafood appetizer juxtaposed sweet baby scallops and briny shelled snails in a parsley pesto casserole. Pastas featured black truffles in the gnocchi, lobster in the ravioli and risotto sauced with amarone. A beautiful bucatini paired sweet, rare shrimp with shimmering sardines dusted in bread crumbs, and the fine tagliolini formed a delicate platform for slow-cooked rabbit, pecorino and uncharacteristically mellow guanciale.

In the entrées, lean Scottish pheasant with salty pancetta was offset by a sauce made from the bird’s drippings, with golden raisins and savoy cabbage. Butter-sautéed hazelnuts were the dominant taste in a gummy roasted veal rib eye served with braised cheeks over a pasty osso buco sauce. That misfire aside, Trabocchi’s dalliances with excess generally work.

Early critics have mostly raved about the new Fiamma, though I was less impressed. Trabocchi can cook, but there was too much sloppy service (empty plates left sitting around, wrong dishes presented, the aforementioned wine snub), too much unrelenting heaviness, and pastry chef Thomas Welling’s concoctions, whether intense (apple cake with a glass of apple jus) or subtle (mascarpone panna cotta) were merely very good, rather than great. New York is always better for absorbing out-of-town talents, but I’m not sure that Hanson got the most out of this trade.