DIFRANCO'S
I went to DiFranco's expecting a good Italian meal.
I left wondering why I had spent so many years allowing myself to be lied to about pasta.
This place is absurd.
The food is actually seasoned. The pasta tastes like somebody in the kitchen has met an Italian person before. The sauces have depth. The portions don't feel like they're being rationed by the United Nations. You take a bite and immediately understand why restaurants were invented in the first place.
And then I started thinking about Oliver's Italian.
I don't know why.
Maybe because I had recently eaten there.
Maybe because trauma has a way of resurfacing when you're finally somewhere safe.
Oliver's isn't so much an Italian restaurant as it is a building that has somehow acquired an Italian menu.
You walk in and immediately get the sensation that you have entered the back room of a convenience store where someone has placed a tablecloth over a washing machine.
The wine situation deserves its own investigation.
I am not accusing Oliver's of anything.
I am simply saying that if someone told me they bought their wine from King Soopers, poured it into a different bottle, whispered the word "Chianti" over it, and charged me three times retail, I would not be shocked.
At DiFranco's, the wine complements the meal.
At Oliver's, the wine feels like it was selected during a fire drill.
And the cleanliness.
Look, I'm not saying Oliver's is dirty.
I'm saying that if you dropped a piece of pasta on the floor at Oliver's, I would give serious consideration to picking it back up because I don't know whether the floor or the pasta has a stronger immune system.
DiFranco's feels like a restaurant.
Oliver's feels like the restaurant equivalent of finding a raccoon inside your garage and discovering it has somehow obtained a liquor license.
But here's the thing.
DiFranco's is so good that I don't even feel angry anymore.
I feel free.
The pasta arrives and suddenly I'm standing on a mountain in Tuscany wearing linen.
I'm hearing Italian accordion music.
I'm forgiving my father.
I'm calling my ex.
I'm buying a Vespa.
I don't even know how I got here.
There are tomatoes.
THE TOMATOES HAVE FLAVOR.
Do you understand what this means?
I've been eating tomatoes at other restaurants that taste like they were grown exclusively for decorative purposes.
DiFranco's puts a tomato in front of me and the tomato has a fucking résumé.
This review has now become less about DiFranco's and more about my ongoing legal case against mediocre Italian food.
Your Honor, I would like to submit Exhibit A:
DiFranco's.
Exhibit B:
The pasta.
Exhibit C:
Whatever the hell Oliver's is doing with that wine.
I rest my case.
Actually, no.
I don't rest my case.
I want dessert.
And if Oliver's is reading this, please don't take it personally.
I'm sure your restaurant is lovely.
I'm sure the wine is wonderful.
I'm sure the floor is clean.
I'm sure the mysterious substance underneath table seven is completely normal.
I'm sure nobody has ever looked at the ceiling and wondered if they were about to witness a minor structural event.
I'm sure everything is fine.
Everything is fine.
Everything is fine.
Anyway, DiFranco's is fantastic.
10/10.
Would return immediately.
Would recommend to anyone.
Would probably fight a man in a parking lot to defend the pasta.
And if anyone needs me, I'll be outside DiFranco's, staring into the middle distance, trying to remember what I used to think Italian food tasted like. read more