A disk of milk chocolate budino (the Italian way of saying pudding) with a dense, velvety texture was delicious. Two salted toast croutons on the side are perhaps a nod to some regional tradition, but I'd have preferred a cookie.
Service was friendly but inattentive. Water glasses went unfilled, the check took too long, and during neither dinner were we offered bread — even though patrons around us had baskets on the table (on a second visit we requested some, and the sliced loaf was stiff and dry).
It was also disturbing to see Rapicavoli stay in the dining room for almost the entire duration of one dinner — a busy Friday evening no less. You would think a fairly inexperienced chef such as he would be in the kitchen, perhaps even cooking; with outdoor tables mostly unfilled, there aren't many plates to be prepared. He might also put his time to better use by improving menu items — only the gazpacho and pasta were above tweaking. That said, Rapicavoli shows glimpses of true talent. He just needs seasoning.
Food is not 660's problem, but nearly everything else is. Partly because of its afterthought-in-a-lobby ambiance, but mostly because it is not run well, 660 feels less like a restaurant than simply a room where food and drinks are served to an assemblage of people — which sounds like the same thing but is very different. Nobody greeted us upon our entrance or bade us goodnight when we exited. There was no one to come by to see that all was going well, no one to chip in if our waiter got bogged down, no one to light the candle on our table, no one to apologize to diners for the inconvenience of that cocktail party, no one to notice that linens were placed quite crookedly upon the tables. It's like a ship without a rudder, a teen without parents, a restaurant critic without a word count.