Um, uh, yeah, so I think I, um, had some chicken parmesan or something here. Obviously this place is about as memorable as a morning dump. The decorations looked as if they were bought at some terrible Italian import/export warehouse in Jersey. The tile floor, fake fire and aloof waiters gave the place an odd, cold feeling. The over-priced food gave me a cold, empty feeling–right in my wallet. These places may fool clueless theater-going tourists, but we know a run-of-the-mill Italian joint when we taste it. Like most Italian restaurants in the city, the food wasn’t bad, just not remarkable, and hardly worth the inflated cost for the Broadway crowd. Sometimes a meatball isn’t just a meatball. [MF]
623 9th Ave.