Red in the brick, the awnings, the sign, the curtains, the seats, the napkins, the wine.
And, of course, the sauce.
Built into an old Victorian home on College Street, Italian restaurant Villa Lulu loves its reds even more than most Italian restaurants. Having loved my own share of Italian reds, I started with a glass of the Chianti Classico from Villa Cafaggio ($15), whose website offers a brisk six-century history of the estate and in some sense the world. Fresh out of the bottle, the nose of this ’22 bottling gave me ripe and reduced cherries, mild pomegranate and occasional hints of green pepper and smoke. To taste, the cherries, which the menu had promised, dominated all the way to a slightly drying finish, though the also-promised spice notes were feeling quite shy. Half an hour later, the wine seemed to have breathed itself into a spicier and more decadent place, with, for example, dashes of dark cocoa and marzipan lasting for one sip apiece, though I can’t rule out the pairing influence of my pasta.
But that’s getting ahead of things. I began the meal, not counting the wine, with a green: the Cime di Rapa ($8)—a “cicchetti,” or small plate, of cooked broccoli rabe. The dish smelled great, with the rabe’s famous bitterness accented by torched garlic, but the eating was a letdown; the greens were too soft, the garlic and salt too light.
I turned back to reds, and, sure enough, things turned around, with another, not-so-small cicchetti: the Crostini ai Funghi, ($14, no parm). Served with shards of Italian bread in a cast iron skillet (and, okay, also garnished with some green), the chunky red sauce was naturally sweet and a little savory, while the mushrooms brought rich, earthy, funky balance and a supple chewy bite. The fresh, flash-toasted Italian bread added layers of texture, from the spongy crumb to the sometimes crispy crust. I liked how Lulu’s deconstructed presentation, which stood the bread up rather than topping it like toast, let me discover the way I most enjoyed eating it: chasing each big saucy forkful of shrooms with an immediate bite of the bread, then chewing them both together.
More carbs were coming. For my entree, I ordered the Orecchiette alla Norma ($25, pictured at top), a house-made pile of “little ears” pasta tossed in red sauce with hunks of eggplant. The pasta was perfectly cooked, with bite and no starch, while the sauce, a pomodoro, was a nice evolution: saltier and more herbal than the crostini sauce, which, after all, had had to leave space for those assertive mushrooms. Reminding me more of a floppy gardening hat, the “little ears” shape was delightful, pooling the sauce and its flavor like tiny versions of the bowl that was holding it all. The eggplant almost melted in my mouth, a surprise given how large the cuts were. Cooked down to an ever-so-slightly spicy sweetness, some bites carried a subtle but telltale vegetal musk that further distinguished the ’plant from its nightshade cousin, the tomato.
Come to think of it, “Nightshade” might be a good name for Villa Lulu’s striking black stone bar top, where thin, long, drip-like veins range from lunar white to blood moon. Still, the bar’s focal point is undeniably the phrase “Aperol spritz,” spelled out on the back bar in marquee-style bulbs, whose orangey amber glow, if you really stare at it, might even pulse with a glimmer of red.
Written and photographed by Dan Mims.
