Ernest Thomas (Randy Jr)
Google
So look—when you get invited to lunch with your boss, his boss, and the big boss, you don’t come empty-headed or empty-stomached. You come ready to represent and ready to eat. We pulled up to Spasso Italian Grill in Old City, Philly—because apparently when execs break bread, they do it with taste.
Let me just say this: Spasso is him.
In a post-COVID world where most places barely remember how to do lunch right, Spasso said, “Let me show you how we used to do it when the food came from the soul and not the freezer.” Ain’t no chain energy here—this is straight Italy, no passport required.
I ordered what looked like a humble plate of linguine in red sauce with seafood, but baby, that thing hit like Sunday morning on the third stanza of Total Praise. The noodles were homemade, soft but not mushy—had that little bounce to them, like they was tryna two-step in the sauce. And the sauce? Rich. Simple. Tomato-forward. Tasted like somebody’s auntie been simmerin’ it since 9am with the windows open and a Luther Vandross playlist on repeat.
The seafood wasn’t stingy either. Full chunks of flavor in every bite. Not chopped up mystery meat. This was seafood with a name and a résumé.
Even the bread came with style—roasted red peppers, parmesan, oil, and some lil marinated veggies that honestly made me pause and reflect on how blessed I was. That bread alone deserved a praise break.
Then came the cappuccino… listen. It showed up with a lil’ foam hat, cinnamon dusted on top like it had somewhere special to be. Smooth, comforting, and grown. No sugar needed. Just vibes.
We did have cannolis too—but I ain’t get a pic ‘cause the moment was too good to interrupt with a phone. Just know it was crispy on the outside, creamy on the inside, and balanced like a good choir director. Sweet—but not too sweet.
Would I go again? Without a doubt.
Should you go? Only if you’re ready for real Italian food and not that reheated stuff folks try to pass off in the microwave.
Spasso is where you go when you want lunch to mean something. When you wanna eat food that got memory, history, and respect in it. Ain’t nothin’ fancy—just food done right, with care and culture.
That’s my kind of spot.