The new place - separated by many years now from the orchestra-crowd glory days when the first Girasole on Locust Street regularly fed Riccardo Muti and Luciano Pavarotti late-night tagliatelle and porchetta – could certainly use the business.
But even so, there's only so much room inside this glitzy gold box of a space, and it made for a potentially awkward arrangement: our quiet little foursome in one empty front corner beside the bar, while a vast square of tables placed side-by-side anchored the heart of the dining room with a rollicking Neapolitan-style feast.
With all the pressed suits, pearls, and perfume dominating the room, it felt like we were crashing someone's silver-anniversary party. But those Mimosas were, in fact, a jolly group, and I'm grateful to them for sharing. Because when some of their off-the-menu delights arrived at our table as a sample - fork-tender rolls of garlicky beef braciole and homemade meatballs in gravy over pristinely plain polenta - I was reminded of the real kitchen soul that makes this edition of Girasole still worth their efforts.
It isn't an obvious cause. This oddly situated space west of Broad looks like a gaudy casino bauble; its golden cord curtains, tufted gold Versace banquettes, and shimmering gold tiles are simply out of place in this world of recession rustic. But this kitchen's heart still beats to the genuine Neapolitan touch of the Iovino women, with Angela running the line alongside her sisters-in-law, Rosaria and Maria, while her daughter, Michele, orchestrates the dining room with little sister, Pina, and brother, Salvatore, lending a hand.
