Dan Dapper
Google
We stumbled into this joint, and the second we crossed the threshold, it hit us: no receptionist. Zilch. You’re left standing there, praying a staff member notices you’re not a ghost. Took a solid 5 minutes to catch their eye.
They ushered us to a table so crammed between two others, our chair backs were practically spooning the neighbors’. Cozy? More like a furniture mosh pit.
Glancing around, the decor screamed “bargain bin chic.” Cheap furniture, tacky vibes. I clung to hope, thinking, Maybe this is one of those “hole-in-the-wall” treasures you know, the kind with 5-star reviews plastered all over the internet.
I’ve got this theory: the true test of an Italian restaurant’s soul is its Spaghetti Carbonara. So, I ordered it with a side of veal. My wife went for a New York steak with a side of carbonara and a bottle of wine to drown our sorrows.
My spaghetti carbonara arrived drowning in a white sauce, buried under a Parmesan avalanche and speckled with diced bacon. One bite, and I knew we were in trouble. The sauce had the right creamy vibe but tasted like it was spiked with regret and, I swear, a dollop of mayo. Halfway through, I waved the white flag. It was a culinary crime scene.
The veal? Overcooked, smothered in cheese, tasting like a cheesy funeral for flavor.
My wife’s “rare” New York steak showed up well-done, dry as a desert, and slathered in a sauce so sweet it could moonlight as pancake syrup. Her carbonara was equally tragic.
The only thing saving the night? A $12 bottle of wine they had the audacity to sell for $38. Cheers to that.
Plenty of better Italian spots in town. This place? One and done. Arrivederci, and good riddance.