Best Italian Meal

There’s an unspoken rule in our house: when you have Italian blood coursing through your veins, as I do (50% from my mom’s side, thank you very much), you don’t just eat Italian food—you judge it. Ruthlessly. Which is why finding an Italian restaurant in the South that could live up to my family’s standards felt about as likely as finding a cannoli in a gas station that doesn’t taste like regret.

But then it happened. The heavens opened, the angels sang, and we stumbled upon Casa Nuova. The name alone promised magic, and boy, did it deliver. This wasn’t just a meal. This was a spiritual awakening, a carb-laden pilgrimage to the heart of the boot-shaped peninsula. And because life with three kids is never boring, it was also the most chaotic, laugh-until-you-can’t-breathe dinner we’ve had since moving south.

The restaurant was charming, with tablecloths and the kind of dim lighting that makes everyone look like they just stepped off a movie set. We were seated right by the kitchen door, where the amazing staff continued to make sure we were satisfied every time they walked past. The owner brought the kids little boxed gifts with fun activities and candy canes. Blake immediately declared, “This is the best place EVER,” before he’d even tasted a breadstick.

Speaking of breadsticks, it was actually garlic bread—and my kids had three baskets of this taste of heaven. Warm, garlicky, and brushed with just the right amount of butter, they disappeared faster than Blake’s last soccer medal. Brittany, who approaches every meal like a seasoned food critic, took one bite and said, “Mmm, not bad. But they’re not perfect.” (This from the girl who considers mac and cheese a food group.)

Then came the menu. Seth, my 20-year-old, scanned it like he was deciphering the Dead Sea Scrolls. “Do I go classic with lasagna or adventurous with veal marsala?” he pondered aloud. Meanwhile, Blake decided he’d found his soulmate in buttered noodles. “It’s a BIG bowl, right?” he asked the waiter. “Like REALLY big?”

When the food arrived, it was as if we’d been transported straight to Nonna’s kitchen. My chicken rollatini was a masterpiece—crispy on the outside, tender on the inside, and smothered in a marinara sauce that tasted like it had been simmering since the Renaissance. Seth’s rack of lamb with spinach pasta was so good it could have its own reality show. Brittany’s mussels were so fresh she declared, "I think the ocean’s in here!" And Blake? Blake ate his buttered noodles with the kind of gusto that only a 7-year-old can muster. (I’m pretty sure he’s still finding parmesan in his hair.)

But the real highlight of the night was dessert. Tiramisu, and cannoli, —oh my! Brittany took one bite of the tiramisu and announced, “I’m moving to Italy.” Blake tried to negotiate a trade: his last garlic bread for a second cannoli. And Seth, ever the charmer, declared, “Mom, we need to come here every week when I am in from college.”

Oh, and let’s not forget the drink that elevated the entire evening to legendary status—my cranberry mojito. Fresh, minty, with just the right kick of tartness, it was so good I dubbed it "Jesus Juice" to my littles. Seth raised an eyebrow, Brittany snorted into her tiramisu, and Blake asked if Jesus could bring him a Sprite instead.

As we rolled out of the restaurant, full to the point of bursting, I couldn’t help but laugh. This wasn’t just about the food (though it was phenomenal). It was about us—a loud, opinionated, slightly unhinged family with a deep love for carbs and each other. Somewhere between Brittany’s “constructive criticism” and Blake’s buttered noodle escapades, we’d found a little slice of la dolce vita.

Moral of the story: you can take the Italian out of Philly, but you can’t take the carb-loving, sauce-slurping, family-bonding Italian spirit out of us. And if you’re ever in the South, let me know. I’ll tell you where to find the best chicken rollatini this side of the Atlantic.

~ Mary

#MomLifeWithMary