Edward H.
Google
I have eaten at many fine establishments in my life — some with Michelin stars, some with questionable napkins — but Tappo Restaurant may now live forever in my memory the way Notre Dame football fans still talk about the 1988 national championship: loudly and with unnecessary dramatics.
Let’s start at the beginning. I walked into Tappo with the confidence of a Notre Dame quarterback on game day — chest out, stomach ready, maybe slightly overdressed. The vibe inside? Warm lighting, great music, and a faint whisper of garlic that could make even the most committed keto dieter throw down their cauliflower rice and weep. I felt good. This was going to be a touchdown meal.
Then… the wait.
Friends, when I say I waited an hour and 30 minutes for my food, I mean I waited an hour and 30 minutes the way Notre Dame fans wait for another national championship: with optimism, pain, and a lot of internal negotiations with a higher power. I had time to reflect on my life choices, re-live all four quarters of the 2012 BCS Championship in my mind, and check the wine menu 47 times.
But then something magical happened — the manager, clearly a hero recruited straight from South Bend, came over and comped me a drink. Just like that, the mood shifted. It wasn’t a flag on the play — it was a perfect fourth-quarter interception that turned the game around. The wine was smooth, a little bold, and frankly made me forget that my stomach had started to question whether food was real.
And then… the pasta arrived.
The Alfredo pasta came out like Rudy sprinting onto the field. Creamy, rich, unapologetically decadent. I twirled it on my fork, and I swear I heard the faint sound of the Notre Dame Victory March playing softly in the distance. It didn’t just coat the pasta — it hugged it. Every bite was a warm embrace from an Italian grandmother who somehow also tailgates in South Bend every Saturday.
But hold on — the mushroom sausage pasta? My God. If the Alfredo pasta was the quarterback, this dish was the offensive line, running backs, and entire defensive unit combined. Earthy mushrooms, perfectly seasoned sausage, pasta cooked just al dente enough to remind you that life is good and carbs are a gift. It was like watching Notre Dame pull off an overtime win in a snowstorm: unexpectedly glorious and slightly emotional.
The service, despite the Great Wait of 2025, was genuinely kind. My server checked in, refilled water like they were running a no-huddle offense, and managed to keep my wine glass from ever being empty. Respect.
Now, was the night perfect? No. Waiting an hour and 30 minutes for pasta is a commitment — like sticking by Notre Dame through those “rebuilding years.” But honestly, when the food landed, when that creamy Alfredo and that mushroom sausage symphony hit the table, it was all worth it.
Would I go back? Absolutely. Like a true Notre Dame fan, I’ll keep showing up, yelling at nobody in particular, and believing this time it’ll be our year. And if the pasta takes another hour and a half? I’ll order more wine, hum the fight song, and prepare my taste buds for greatness.
Final score:
Tappo: 38
My Patience: 14
Alfredo Pasta: MVP
Mushroom Sausage Pasta: Heisman Winner
Manager Comping My Drink: National Treasure