Profile

This venue is closed.

This Italian East Villager always seems to be full of people, but its cuisine certainly isn't the draw. Dirt cheap prices, overly generous portions, and a staff that will gladly sing "Happy Birthday" at the drop of a hat encourage the crowds instead. The most prominent feature of the interior—decorated with distressed-tile wallpaper, long, gauzy drapes, gilded artworks, and Roman columns—is the acoustics, which can handle the din that comes along with large parties passing plates of fish, seafood pastas, and familiar Northern fare designed for mass appeal. Very few palates would be pleased, however, by calamari as chewy as a wad of taffy or lasagna so mushy that it's difficult to tell the difference between the sheets of pasta and melted cheese. And fried ravioli with marinara dipping sauce has no business being on a menu that wants to be taken more seriously than a T.G.I. Friday's. But shrimp in a buttery whisky sauce saves the appetizers from being a complete wash and the chicken parmigiana, appropriately fried and smothered in an inoffensive marinara sauce, makes for a fail-safe entree. A mealy tiramisu is a final reminder of the menu's overall mediocrity; still, the restaurant banks on the clientele having too good a time to really notice.  — Kathleen Squires

Chicken parmigiana, $11