What Makes a Restaurant Truly Italian? A Story from California
I’ve been living in California since 2017, and one of the questions I still hear all the time is: “Do you know any real Italian restaurants here?”
It’s not always easy to answer. Because what does “real” mean, anyway? Is it about the ingredients? The people? The vibe? The noise of clattering cups or the type of pasta on the plate?
The longer I live here, the more I realize that you can feel when a place respects the heart of Italy. You can see it in the menu. You can taste it in the balance of a Negroni. You can hear it in the way the espresso machine bangs behind the bar.
One day, I walked into a small pizzeria in Orange County, Irene. No big sign, no grand opening banner, no fake Italian flags. Just a few tables, a short curated menu, and a proper wood-fired oven. They served maybe seven kind of pizzas, each one thoughtful and balanced. They poured wine at the table. The dough had that delicate airness you only get when someone truly cares. It wasn’t a place trying to impress. It was a place trying to do things right.
Squash Pizza at Irene Pizzeria in Orange, CA.
Then a few weeks later, I went north to Marin County and found Emporio Rulli, tucked into a corner of Larkspur, Ca. I stepped inside and instantly felt it. Wooden cabinetry, marble counters, the clinking of porcelain, the smell of real pastry cream and espresso. I asked the owner a few questions and learned he interned in Italy forty years ago, brought back a sourdough starter from there, and never looked back. His passion was quiet but undeniable.
Display of Emporio Rulli’s cakes and pastries.
These places don’t just cook Italian food. They carry it.
They understand that garlic isn’t something you announce. That lasagna is made with béchamel, not piled high with melted cheese. That Italians rarely eat pepperoni pizza. That tradition doesn’t have to be rigid, but it should be respected.
When I walk into a restaurant and see a small menu, I smile. It tells me someone’s in control. When I see pasta shapes like mafalde or orecchiette listed by name, I know someone cares. When I hear the staff greet guests with warmth, not performance, I feel at ease. These things matter. They tell a story.
I am not here to criticize American—Italian cuisine. In fact, I tell my Italian friends to go try it when they visit. It’s part of the American story, and it deserves to be experienced for what it is. But if you are looking for a taste of real Italy, the kind that reminds you of a Roman alimentari or a beach town in Liguria, you need to look a little deeper.
And when you find it, when the espresso comes with a glass of water, when the wine is poured with care, when the food reminds you of someone’s grandmother instead of a theme park, you’ll know.
You feel it.
That’s the Italy I carry with me. That’s the Italy I try to share.