For a town covered in Old Bay seasoning and the objectively insectoid crab meat, to happen across subtle, poetic Italian food was as shocking as finding out there was gambling at Rick's American Cafe. Straight up tomato soup brought the very best out of the fruit (it's a fruit, look it up). House-made penne with a selection of shellfish (when in Rome...) used the gimmicky squid-ink in a delightful way. Tortellini in an autumnal sauce avoided that icky melon-y taste of pumpkin. A semolina - based cake far exceeded its advertising. In short, spotlighting the underlying flavors instead of just dousing everything in olive oil apparently is an art that exists outside the Bronx. Bravo!
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