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These pies are the province of master pizzaiolo Jerry Corso, who delivers a short list of European antipasti, seasonal salads, and terrific Italian desserts—along with cocktails, wines, and beers—to round out the main event.
Barolo Ristorante Westlake Ave Downtown baroloseattle. Is it all the beautiful male waiters in their Italian trousers? The Murano glass chandeliers and candle-waxy romance and pulsing music? The Italian food is satisfying, particularly the admirable tomato-oiled bean soups and meat entrees. Branzino Second Ave Belltown branzinoseattle. One of the last serious dinner houses in Belltown is this square room with high-backed booths and cozy spaces, swathed in autumnal hues—a bona fide warm restaurant in a city smitten with the stark and minimal. Vivid dishes—like grilled squab with seared foie gras or mushroom--stuffed rabbit leg wrapped in pancetta and served with a chickpea crepe and fennel and green salad—showcase fastidious attention to perfect ingredients and dazzling creative verve in the kitchen, a verve that stands in appealing contrast to the slightly time-worn room.
Cafe Lago 24th Ave E Montlake cafelago. And miserable parking. Cocktails too. Cantinetta Wallingford Ave N Wallingford cantinettaseattle.
A couple of rustic Italian ristorantes delight the crowds of Wallingford and West Bellevue with fresh, constantly rotating antipasti, contorni, housemade pastas, and mains—some rarely seen, like tortellini in brodo , and a stunning casoncelli with pancetta and amaretto crumbles—and some classic crowd-pleasers. Earthy studies in farmhouse minimalism with plank tables and wrought-iron chandeliers, the places are constantly slammed, owing about equally to the no-reservations-for-parties-of-fewer-than-six rule, the affable neighborhood ambience, the reasonable price tags, and the hard liquor.
Cicchetti E Boston St Eastlake cicchettiseattle. Nobody spins sexy ambience out of four walls and a kitchen like Susan Kaufman, whose Italian Serafina has played stage set now to two decades of pasta-twirling foreplay. And from upstairs, the sweep of the Seattle skyline will send a Manhattanesque shiver down the spine of any urbanite. Look for stunning cocktails and noshes reflecting the myriad Mediterranean influences the Moors hauled with them to Venice, from clams in fennel-saffron broth and prosciutto—goat cheese pizza to flatbread dips and crispy polenta cakes. The 15th food-service enterprise that Seattle mega restaurateur Tom Douglas has crammed into a single square mile of downtown real estate is all about fresh pasta, crafted by hand at a station near the door and showing up on your plate in the form of items like very buttery cappelletti with gnocchi in nettle pesto or delicate seven-layer Bolognese lasagna.
Robust secondi are better, including slices of smoky bistecca on bread salad: far and away the most fun steak is having in this town.
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The place is a looker, carved out of a South Lake Union brick-and-timber warehouse and sprawling into several private dining alcoves befitting different occasions and moods. The name honors M. The order-at-the-counter, lunch-only relocation of a beloved pasta popup has hit its stride, serving three to five daily plates all made from pasta cut, extruded, or hand formed in house that morning.
His repertoire is bottomless, his seasonality admirable, his passion winning. Nothing trendy about this timeless landmark, where the Smeraldo family—now without its patriarch, the late Carmine—has been serving sumptuous -Italian- classics for over two decades. If pressed, the establishment regulars will praise the peerless ossobuco, the garlicky rack of lamb, the noble cioppino—but nobody wants to cultivate competition for their favorite tables. Which, incidentally, are formally sheathed in white and arrayed handsomely in a windowed room, with a courtyard off the back for urban um, loud summer dining.
The bold, briny flavors and Moorish influences of Sicilian food were unrepresented in this town till La Medusa took a chance on Columbia City. Their kitchens and dining rooms, anyway. La Rustica is the kind of place all its neighbors and a few of its not-so-neighbors regard as home away from home—so much that its size is no match for its fan base. Straight-up Italian food completes the picture—bruschettas, pizzas, pastas, a robust toss of gnocchi and housemade sausage, a deservedly renowned lamb shank special with risotto and grilled vegetables; all served with addictive pillowy fingers of herbed garlic bread—providing happy sustenance and wistful homage to what life was like before Dr.
Atkins came along and ruined everything. The Sicilian proprietor named this Belltown cafe for the heartwarming Roberto Benigni film, and the place is warming as well—thanks to the brick oven behind the bar, the dimly lit intimacy of the -terra-cotta-tiled room, and inevitable after-work revelers. Start with the just-right caprese salad of tomatoes, fresh mozzarella, and basil in extra virgin olive oil; for a zesty counterpoint try the caponata, a tangy eggplant appetizer. If the oven beckons, order one of 22 thin-crust pizzas.
Otherwise, slightly spicy spaghetti di mare with tiger prawns, clams, mussels, Roma tomatoes, garlic, and white wine will serve well. And the pepper in the gnocchi al forno , served with Roma tomatoes and spinach, is moderated by chunks of fresh melty mozzarella. Mondello Ristorante 33rd Ave W Magnolia mondelloristorante. Magnolians are wild about their merry trattoria, swathed in the hues of clear skies and rosy sunsets and accented with the homespun sorts of tchotchkes that give restaurants soul.
Not that Mondello needed help with soul. Native Sicilians run the place, bringing a background burble of Italian to the house, which, combined with the lingua franca of classic Italian food housemade pastas and zuppe and meaty secondi , makes Magnolia Village feel like a neighborhood in Palermo. We love the spaghetti gamberoni , served reliably hot with juicy prawns and layers of flavor, and the fish specials, lemony and elemental. You have to want to find Osteria da Primo, tucked into an anonymous wall behind an unreadable sign it shares with the Ramlyn Engraving and Sign Co.
Look for the red oval. Clearly, lots of folks around Burien want to find it. Clearly, Burien knows Italian. Carlo Guida gives scrupulous care and minimal fuss to a menu translated as intact as the chilled desserts he flies in from Milan. Plus sinfully juicy chicken cotoletta and veal - saltimbocca and a spinach-and-white-bean contorno that could stand alone. Add a Sicilian pizza master who knows a wood-fired crust is never to be crisped. Osteria la Spiga 12th Ave Capitol Hill laspiga. A lot of people adored the rustic La Spiga on Broadway, and a lot of people adore its sprawling replacement on 12th.
The menu offers the same simple housemade tagliatelle and tortelli and crisp flatbread piadina , augmented now with more meat plates and enough vegetable sides to bliss out the herbivores. A loft raises private parties into the rafters. Beneath it the young and the old and plenty of the black clad, along with chefs wielding sheets of fresh pasta, buzz as if they had located the very epicenter of the Capitol Hill scene. Which they have. Grownups will be more interested in the vast list of housemade pastas, which are sometimes just fine, like the squid-ink fettuccine with white beans, anchovies, and garlic; and other times underseasoned.
Servers, aside from those friendly Kongs, can sometimes lose control of the enormous space. But more than any of these charms, the city owes its fondness for the Pink Door to the deck. Along about half past 80 degrees on a July afternoon, the ordinary Pike Place Market rooftop magically transforms into a slice of sun-dappled heaven. In short: The Door has never been about the food, a list of pastas and seafoods that unreliably satisfy. But we dare you to stop going. Look for big meat plates, Roman-style gnocchi made with semolina not potato , and a killer fried artichoke appetizer.
Go to the frenetic corner of Pine and Melrose. Step inside the bustling wedge of a restaurant. Enter Brooklyn. The veal is a house specialty and a guilty pleasure; the steak, known among cognoscenti, is a triumph. The fresh and cured meats are why. You can also carry out the coppa or prosciutto or fresh sausage. When Salvatore opened its doors at the corner of 61st and Roosevelt, it was one of dozens of neighborhood Italian joints with reasonable price points and a joyful excess of chianti.
Wait—that is a Vespa parked out front. Few chefs comprehend exactly what it takes to wow a palate like Stowell does. Here he wows with fresh housemade pastas, tossed simply with elegant enhancements like veal brains and brown butter, or short ribs and parsley. Truth be told, we prefer the main dishes—richly braised meats like lamb shank with eggplant, a masterful plate of branzino—since the short-order mandate of the pastas can get the better of its bustling open kitchen when the place gets slammed. Tulio Fifth Ave Downtown tulio. This handsome white-linen, wood-paneled ristorante off the downtown Hotel Vintage Park might appear the product of a hotel-restaurant cookie cutter, from waiters with Continental accents to busers in neckties.
But closer inspection rewards with inspired-Italian-with-a-flourish fare—preparations like a melting braised pork shank over fat corona beans crowned with horse-radish gremolata, crispy duck over farro studded with marinated figs, or a distinctively seasoned pasta alla-chitarra with braised pork, rosemary, and ricotta—pulled off with consistency rare in a hotel restaurant. How do a pair of Italian restaurants with the same names, menus, and owners manage to feel so very different? By virtue of addresses on rustic Ballard Ave and newfangled Kirkland.
Welcome to the polished, candlelit antidive whose banh mi is a warm, crusty baguette crammed with a moist, pulled roast Carlton Farms pork, crackling pickled veggies, and silky garlic aioli. But the real glories of Alicia are its mad forays into successful Vietnamese--Continental fusion: dishes like gilded scallops over sweet corn and a savory cilantro-flecked onion sauce, or a petite burger crafted of Mishima Ranch beef and pickled vegetables and brisk lime aioli.
At Boat Street Cafe, the Walrus and the Carpenter, and the Whale Wins, Renee Erickson has showcased two distinct gifts: sourcing and presenting perfect seafood, and spinning a magical sense of place. Both are in full bloom at Barnacle, her skinny seater with the copper counter, the Euro bar, and the chalkboard menu—heavy on the fishies. As for that patented Erickson atmo? The room is wrapped in white and indigo Moroccan tiles.
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Uh huh. An undersize North Carolina roadhouse in Frelard with crashing music and proof moonshine also has a maestro at the helm: Mike Law, who applies his impressive culinary pedigree to Texas smoked brisket and lemony fried chicken. Out of a winsome whitewashed farmhouse setting in Ballard come plates of inspired Korean fusion so buoyant they ricochet across the palate like pinballs: dishes like octopus-mizuna salad frisky with herbs and root vegetables and chili oil, or sumptuous morsels of broiled pork shoulder with kimchi-doused green apples—served as larges or smalls to enable full dinners or affordable grazing.
The food is intelligent and satisfying, the welcome genuine, the bar scene lively credit thoughtful cocktails , and the enchanting hidden courtyard a sun-dappled must on the romance tour. Overstuffed crab rolls are lush with lemon aioli and avocado, in shattering French bread; clam chowder is creamy and heady with aromatics. Drop-in casual, Ballard indie, heavy on the scotch at the bar, stiffer than you expect on the bill. All dim and brick lined, the place unites brainy cocktails with sly small plates: maybe grilled peaches with celery leaf and fennel and a smear of blue cheese puree, maybe a duck hot dog with salsa verde, maybe a Caesar salad stunningly recast in sandwich form.
Not even the Space Needle delivers a stiffer shot of Seattle than an organic pizza joint, hand built of recycled materials by its LEED-certified architect owner—he even made the stools. Humble Pie smokes its own GMO-free pulled pork, imports fewer than five ingredients from out of state, processes its own rainwater, and maintains a chicken coop. Mostly outdoor seating makes this a mostly-in-summer place, but bevs boutique brews, lots of ciders and the neighborhood vibe are irresistible even if you have to cram into the tiny building.
In a spot twinkling and cozy, with an upstairs view out over the heart of Fremont, owner-chef Derek Ronspies makes mad use of every last part of the animals he serves, duck testicles and pig face to blood sausage and offal crepinette. An eloquent country-house aesthetic prevails in this airy, two-level space off Occidental, with its bakery, deli, and in-house flower shop, painting a Jane Austen dream of the English countryside—right down to the cobblestones and leafy London plane trees out the window.
Loulay Union St Downtown thechefinthehat. The epicenter of downtown from the moment it opened—Loulay is one of the most cosmopolitan lunch and dinner stops in Seattle, its packed bar and plummy fixtures and soaring sight lines making it feel like a great party in a gloriously unaffordable home.
Look for careful execution on short, well-chosen menus of both French classics terrific fish dishes, seared foie gras and accessible everyman food, like the killer buck rib-eye burger, at prices below what you might expect amid this much style.
Great service. Miller's Guild Stewart St Downtown millersguild. This all-day downtown restaurant adjoining the lobby of the Hotel Max is like a cave designed by Martha Stewart: lights low, lines classic, firewood stacked at the entrance, flames leaping brightly out of the custom-built nine-foot grill in back. And holding forth at those flames is chef Jason Wilson, who eschews the nuanced refinements of his other restaurant, Crush, in favor of big pedigreed steaks, less-than-fascinating sides, and appetizers with an inexplicable Middle Eastern inclination. Salads are the best things on the menu.
This is the newer outpost of Morsel on the Ave, which inherited its biscuit mandate if not its recipe from the much-mourned Nook, and whose product is every bit as exceptional—craggy-crunchy on the outside, angelically fluffy and just-over-the-border of sweet within. And —as luck would have it—enormous, whether as a buttermilk or a daily special biscuit, perhaps carrot cardamom, sliced and warmed and honey buttered, or as an overstuffed, melting colossus of bacon, scrambled egg, cheese, and fire-roasted tomato jam. Coffee is terrific and servers are sweet. Drive-through window!
Note also the original quarters on the Ave. The flights of sly imagination Mike Easton brings to nanoseasonal daily pastas at Il Corvo he applies to Roman-style pizzas—pay by the kilo—in this windowy brick-lined Pioneer Square room for weekday lunches. Has a pizza meal ever left you so radiantly nourished? Note to the confused: The entrance is on Main. Pomerol N 36th St Fremont pomerolrestaurant. From prolific Continental classicist Vuong Loc comes a sleek, modern, and crisp-edged room that looks like Fremont but cooks like France. Off a wood-fired grill come highly composed plates of unapologetically traditional fare—glistening short ribs over cauliflower puree with shallot confit, slices of lamb leg on an anise-fennel-carrot braise, moist pan-roasted chicken in a lush sherry sauce—executed with a seasoned hand and near-perfect consistency.
Desserts are busy, busy, busy—but delectable. Some will like it better, with its emphasis less on sports bar classics and more on platters to share fish tacos, ounce grilled tri-tip around the game on TV or the fire pits outside. Some of the more exuberant attempts at originality fall flat, so we advise sticking with tried-and-trues like a braised lamb tostada with avocado cream and cotija cheese, or the simple veg plates from the roof garden.
Private rooms. The steak frites lineup, offering five cuts of meat up the ladder of price points with a choice of four sauces—a swell match to how the Madrona mix of families and young professionals want to eat. Service is careful; at times, overly so. Chef Eric Donnelly built his casual raw-beamed fish house as a Montana fishing lodge smack in the heart of upper Fremont. Here, his wild Mexican prawns over Anson Mills grits is a sure-handed and bright Napa Valley—style plate; his mad variety of finfish preparations, often topped with handfuls of leafy herbs, are exact and supremely satisfying.
Affable service completes the picture; a perfect place to bring your out-of-town guests. Open late. Tallulah's 19th Ave E Capitol Hill aneighborhoodcafe. Cocktails are creative, coffee is Stumptown, gluten free and vegan are carefully marked on the menu, and a welcoming staff scatters bonhomie about the room. But the main event is Korean barbecue in the main dining room where tables have grills for DIY cooking of cuts like Wagyu chuck or pork belly with sesame salt. Take your meat off the heat, cut it with scissors, then dress it with the lettuce leaves and fresh herbs and kimchi and other Korean embellishments known as banchan and ssam —marveling as the flavors and textures ricochet around your palate, enhanced with every collision.
Witness Broadway E Capitol Hill witnessbar. Apparently Broadway needed a shot of old-time religion, because it has taken to this Southern church—themed bar with evangelical zeal. The fried chicken and waffles featured terrific bourbon maple syrup, but the chicken strips—crisp and moist to be sure—held no flavor. The cocktails, for their part, runneth over with flavor—including hickory-smoked cherry in the bourbon-and-Benedictine concoction known as Witness cocktail; and a tequila, lime-ginger beer--cassis blend, el Diablo, one can only call inspired.
Westward N Northlake Way Wallingford westwardseattle. All year long Westward is a thoroughly original collision of Northwest seafood and Mediterranean preparations, in dishes like wood-roasted branzino with tart avgolemono sauce for doctoring or killer fish stew in currylike ras el hanout broth. Inventions can miss from time to time, and the place can suffer from a surfeit of tropes. But oh, that beach in summer.
Image: Olivia Brent The pomme de terre aka a clever potato salad at Hommage. The benefits of this are clear in the era of Yelp, whose reader evaluations live on into eternity. Changing names has a certain wipe-the-slate-clean appeal. With McCrain taking his general manager and beverage director with him, the Almquists were looking at a fresh new start for the classic space appended to their winery in the office-park district across the ship canal from Fremont.
They closed for a couple of months, painted creamy surfaces a more contemporary blue, rewrote the menu, and in October Hommage was born. No, Hommage was going for something more youthful, more everyday in its appeal even, as Sumi Almquist has said in interviews, a place to bring the kids , more comfort-food oriented, more accessible. Indeed, we walked into a room both darker—against which the twinkling bar seemed to loom larger—and louder, pulsing with chill music.
More youthful, absolutely. More accessible…not so much. The menu is organized not by course, but by type of food—Dairy, Seafood, Animal—which delivers another layer of obscurity as you work out how to put a sensible meal together. Less dinner house than nosh bar, Hommage is the restaurant a winery built—loaded with fromages and terrines including a terrific rabbit terrine with onion jam and potent mustard and sea salt on the side that beg for fat cabernets.
Bring the kids? And then there was the boeuf Bourguignon with mushrooms and truffle potatoes gratin: so overrich and overdone it had no business in a restaurant, period. Ah inconsistency…perhaps the most youthful quality of all.
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Much attention was paid that turn-on-a-dime conversion last September, wrought after Stratton and his investors realized nobody understood the arcane Catalan dishes he was producing there. Folks would sit down, scan the menu, then stand up and leave—a shock of cold water to the face of the chef whose Italian Spinasse and Artusi on Capitol Hill were nightly turning folks away.
A turn, as at Hommage, for the accessible. Mind you, Vespolina is no Spinasse redux—the decor of the high-ceilinged, high-windowed room, virtually unchanged from its gig as Aragona, is airier and colder than the burnished-wood warmth that is Spinasse.
Stratton fans should aim instead into the ragged chicory salads and antipasto plates and sagey glazed-carrot contorni and, mostly, really fine meats—from a braised duck leg with pears and vivid taggiasca olives to a killer plate of slow-roasted pork ribs over tuna sauce. He also has no qualms about reprising stuff from the old Aragona card, only in Italian garb—the same stuffed trout, only now with prosciutto and Marsala; the same fried dough dessert with truffle salt, now called bombolini, and every bit as sexy a triumph.
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From the look of it, guests are liking Vespolina better than they ever did Aragona. Does that mean it is better? Two restaurants, both of which reinvented themselves in a more populist direction, are currently taking stock. And butts in seats ultimately comes down to three things even more important than menu organization or pasta proficiency: location, location, and location. Hommage wants a young hip demographic, but can offer neither the buzzy neighborhood nor the foot traffic to draw them in.
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Vespolina knows it needs tourists and has offered the centrally located, accessible Italian menu no tourist in history has ever been known to resist. Image: Olivia Brent The occupants of maybe two dozen apartments can glance out their windows to see if Single Shot has an open table. And whatever intangible it takes to invest a place with a sense of place—Single Shot has it, with an understated white-on-white elegance from marble bar to starry votives, and a foot antique rifle stretching across the mirror-backed bar for arch counterpoint.
He can, however, cook a piece of Arctic char to within a millimeter of perfection. And the good sense he demonstrates by showcasing that fish on a menu that defines the perfect neighborhood gastropub—a flatbread, a mac and cheese, some charcuterie, a pub cheese, four entrees, a few sweets—heralds good things, one hopes, to come. Allow time to find parking, though moving to the neighborhood may be faster.
Image: Olivia Brent Passing Plates Diners choose whatever looks appealing off trays or a bright red cart. Stir the two batches together in a large bowl. Taste and season with salt and pepper, if needed. Cook, following the package instructions, until the pasta is al dente. Drain into the colander and transfer to a large bowl. Using a ladle, add enough of the cheese sauce to generously coat the pasta, then transfer to a 9-inch baking dish.
Ladle the remaining cheese sauce over the top of the pasta, pressing down with the bottom of the ladle to compress the pasta so it is somewhat flat on top. Sprinkle the seasoned breadcrumbs evenly over the top of the pasta and bake until the breadcrumbs are toasted, 25 to 30 minutes. Remove from the oven and sprinkle with a little more freshly ground black pepper. Serve hot. To-Dos allows Tasting Table members to store and remember all of the food and drink recommendations we send out each week. You've now added the To-Dos below to your personal list. Happy eating! Thanks for Signing up.
We sent you a verification email. Please verify to begin receiving our newsletter and using your account. Print Save. Yield: 4 servings plus leftovers. Cook Time: 1 hour. His sister helps with the management, and a slew of teenage cousins are brought in to bus, plate, and clean. While space is a challenge at times, careful planning has made everything work so far. He's been thinking ahead.
For his meals, Rosh relies on local farms and retailers as much as possible and presents a list of his suppliers to the guests in hopes of promoting their businesses. He also is hoping to start a vegan line of baked goods to sell at local small business and farmers markets — Woody's Goodies. As fall approaches and the temperature cools, Rosh is beginning to plan the next backyard events, and considering hosting events at other private homes. Instead of planning bigger parties, the goal for the moment is to keep things small.
You know, underground. Choosing among the many, many world-class steak houses in the Valley is a darn-near impossible task yeah, we know — cue the pity party. So this year, we're giving the Best Of to the one upscale steak joint that made us feel we were actually somebody — and this in a roomful of real somebodies. In other words, a trip to Donovan's is a glimpse into the world of high-rolling lawyers, doctors, CEOs, athletes, and, yes, the occasional celebrity. The windowless restaurant is dimly lit, beyond tastefully appointed, quiet, comfortable, and exudes class all the way.
The servers and their seemingly endless parade of assistants are simply pros — helpful, courteous, and attentive. If you're like us, you probably can't afford to eat at a place like this more than once every year or two. For at least one day, you'll feel like somebody, too. Perched atop a mountain ridge hundreds of feet above the Valley, Rustler's Rooste is hardly underground. But follow the winding road up to this cowboy-themed chophouse, wave at "Horny" the live bull standing in his outdoor pen, and ease open the massive wooden door. Suddenly, you'll find yourself inside a cramped, rock-lined mineshaft literally hacked into the side of South Mountain.
Wrapping around the corner, guests emerge into a massive two-story dining space brimming with kitschy-cute charm, including a waterfall streaming down one entire rock wall and a metal slide leading down to the second floor. Yes, a slide. No wonder this year-old landmark has hosted everyone from Clint Eastwood and former President George H. Bush, to, um, Ice-T and Coco. Sadly, only two of those people rode the slide, and it wasn't Dirty Harry or the commander in chief. Ask a Mormon family to see their pantry and you might get a tour of the kitchen, but ask to see their "year's supply" and given the house's floor plan, you'll probably end up in the basement.
A year's supply is an LDS tradition, heavily encouraged by church leaders, in which individuals and families carefully plan, can, jar, and store basic items water, flour, rice, salt in ratios per person in the house and per month of expected storage. Church members say a year's supply is never something purchased at once or backed into the garage with a truck. The collection of what could easily be mistaken for a quick fix for or total wipeout is a stash of long term storage with a rotating "three month's" supply of more perishable food items in case of community disaster, a sanitation issue — hell, even a crappy economy.
It's all about preparedness, church documents, and food preparation pamphlets, and it's often hard to do especially in the desert and in houses without pantries — or basements. But individuals and families have adapted and thank modern-day solutions read: The Container Store for tubs easily disguised as hallway benches and false shelves that rotate to reveal hand-jarred preserves and tightly packed grains. When you think of old Arizona charm, the first thing that comes to mind is likely the Wild West and the kitschy cowboy aesthetic.
Fair enough. But in its ninth decade of existence, the Biltmore resort — and its Frank Lloyd Wright-inspired architecture — is inextricably linked to old Phoenix, too. It truly is a jewel in this desert city, one worth visiting every now and then to appreciate the beauty and history of the Biltmore's environs.
Wright's understanding of design and lighting carry over in this comfortable restaurant, where diners can enjoy the Biltmore's longstanding tortilla soup, Mexican grouper, dry-rubbed pork spare ribs, and such comfort foods as grass-fed burgers, steak and potatoes, meatloaf, barbecued pork, and a couple of different pizzas. The meats and produce are locally grown and cooked with an attention to detail that one would come to expect from a restaurant with Wright's legacy attached to it. We recommend saving enough room for dessert, specifically the Tableside S'Mores, billed as "a Biltmore tradition.
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