Dubai doesn’t do subtle. Not in its skyline, its shopping, or its sense of occasion. So when Carbone arrived at Atlantis The Royal, it didn’t tiptoe in. It stormed through the door like the star of its own film – all red sauce, chandeliers, and swagger.
If New York was the birthplace, Dubai is the encore – bigger, glossier, more self-assured. The tenth outpost of the famed Italian-American institution, Carbone Dubai brings its brand of high-octane nostalgia to the Middle East for the first time. The restaurant, born in Manhattan’s Greenwich Village in 2012, was dreamed up by chefs Mario Carbone and Rich Torrisi, and restaurateur Jeff Zalaznick of Major Food Group.
The original New York dining room became an instant sensation: equal parts Scorsese and Fellini, with martinis shaken to a rhythm of Sinatra and the occasional celebrity cameo. The captains, in their burgundy tuxedos designed by Zac Posen, are the show’s true leads. With a flick of a spoon or a tilt of a wine bottle, they orchestrate the performance, carrying the Carbone legacy from Manhattan to Miami, London to Hong Kong – and now, to Dubai.
Inside, the restaurant looks like old Manhattan after a generous dose of Emirati confidence. Designed by Ken Fulk in collaboration with Bishop Design, it’s a lavish swirl of Venetian mirrors, velvet booths, and crystal chandeliers. The coffered ceiling gleams like pressed gold, while a vast jellyfish tank glows along one wall – a surreal, hypnotic centrepiece that reminds you this is Dubai, where even dinner comes with an audience.
The menu reads like a list of edible folklore. There’s the Carpaccio Piemontese, raw beef tenderloin shaved paper-thin and topped with truffle, cremini mushrooms and walnuts – delicate and decadent all at once. The Burrata & Caviar, impossibly creamy and topped with golden Oscietra, comes with sesame bread that feels too perfect to tear. The Octopus Pizzaiolo swims in agrodolce and garlic chips, while Calamari Marco, rice-flour battered and crisp, lands with a whisper of white wine sauce.
Then, of course, comes the main event – pasta. Carbone’s Spicy Rigatoni Vodka is already the stuff of legend. Its fiery tomato-cream sauce clings to the rigatoni like a silk slip – the dish that launched a thousand Instagram stories. The Lobster Ravioli, jet-black from squid ink, is filled with lobster and shrimp cream so rich it should be declared a luxury good. There’s Tortellini Tartufo Nero swimming in white truffle butter, and a Lasagna Verde layered with spinach pasta, mozzarella and béchamel – the culinary equivalent of slipping into a cashmere robe.
The meat dishes are no less theatrical. The Veal Parmesan, molten and golden, is presented on a platter with a flourish worthy of Broadway. The Chicken Massimo – roasted with balsamic glaze, Parmesan and cipollini onions – is a masterclass in subtlety. The Double Lamb Chops arrive flanked by sauces in the colours of the Italian flag, while the 32oz Wagyu Tomahawk is a showstopper that could double as a centrepiece.
At the bar, where the lighting flatters everyone, the classics get their due. The Negroni is mixed with reverence, the Espresso Martini dangerously smooth. There’s a Daiquiri with Aperol and passionfruit, and an Old Fashioned that tastes like a good decision disguised as a bad one. It’s easy to lose an evening here, and harder to want it back.
Outside, diners spill onto the terrace, martinis in hand, watching the Skyblaze Fountain Show erupt in choreographed bursts of flame and water. It’s pure Dubai – lavish, performative, and a little bit mad. But somehow, it works.
Atlantis The Royal, recently crowned one of the World’s 50 Best Hotels, has always been about spectacle. With 760 rooms, 44 private infinity pools, and enough celebrity chefs to fill a film premiere, it’s luxury turned up to eleven. But Carbone brings something new to the mix: character.
Carbone has always been more than a restaurant – it’s a time machine. 1958, New York City: burgundy tuxedos, martinis in motion and interesting conversation.
The captains have arrived. The chandeliers are lit. The rigatoni’s waiting.
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