From the street, the restaurant doesn’t look like the scene of a rebellion. But inside Enoteca Sociale something important is taking place.
Beyond the door to the rustic, Roman-style restaurant, past the interplay of servers and diners, a square of yellow light at the end of the room draws the eye to the cramped kitchen.
There, the staccato sound of knives chopping punctuates clipped conversations. The kitchen tempo is fast. It’s a place of noise and action and heat where cooks slice, dice and mix, assembling plates and sending them off in rapid succession.
Curt instructions delivered in the voice that’s part drill sergeant, part professor punch through the humid air. Each command is met with “Yes, Chef,” but the simple phrase is notable for the respect and admiration behind it.