Seventeen Dollars and a Teabagging: My I Sodi Experience

I was relieved that the front-of-house staff at I Sodi couldn’t have been more gracious and welcoming. We rolled in right when they opened on a weekday, and the place was still mostly empty, the kind of quiet where you can actually hear yourself think. The space is cozy, intimate, maybe even a little rustic with all the wood—like you’re eating in the dining room of a Tuscan lumberjack who suddenly learned restraint.

Fool that I am, I ordered a mocktail. Seventeen dollars. Seventeen! For what was essentially a glass of juice in drag. Sure, it was refreshing, but can anyone actually justify twenty bucks on something that tastes like a Whole Foods sample with a better PR team? It was chilled with one of those artisanal ice cubes the size of a toddler’s fist. I asked a passing waiter if I could have a straw. He said, “We don’t have straws.”

Listen. I’ve about had it with this performative straw-shaming. All because of that one viral video of a turtle who snorted a straw like it was trying to relive its frat days. Now we’re all forced to either (1) suck liquids through straws made essentially out of toilet paper that collapses faster than my willpower on Seamless, or (2) at I Sodi, get absolutely teabagged by a giant cube of frozen water every time I take a sip.

The waitress asked if we wanted bread and maybe some olives. Naturally, I said yes. Who doesn’t want olives? Maybe some plump green ones, a briny kalamata, the whole Mediterranean fantasy. Instead, they served us four oddly enormous orbs that looked like they crawled out of a New York City drainpipe. To add insult to injury, they give you a pit dish—so you can chew, spit, and destroy any chance of maintaining romance across the table.

I ordered the pappardelle al limone. Now, this could’ve gone horribly—sometimes “al limone” is code for “we waved a lemon in the general direction of the kitchen.” But not here. The homemade pasta was hearty, the sauce was light, and the lemon actually lemoned. The acidity of the lemon cut through the richness of the sauce. I’d order this again. Portion size: slightly more than “just enough.” Price: steep, but at least you don’t leave starving.

Here’s my problem: what exactly sets I Sodi apart from the hundred other Italian restaurants in this city? The food is good, sure. I wouldn’t warn anyone off it. I’d go back if a friend insisted. But me? I’m not booking a table six months in advance or selling a kidney to get through the door.

And about the staff. I Sodi has a rep for being snobbish. Is that still a thing? Are we all meant to quake before the Server Who Cannot Smile? They still go home and shit in a porcelain toilet like the rest of us, right? At one point, I matched my server’s curt, frosty energy with my own, and shockingly—it worked. She thawed. Imagine that: humans responding to basic human cues.

Here’s the thing: I cannot be intimidated by a waiter or chef. I refuse. I need all parties involved at the dining scene to be a little less serious. If you’re gonna strut around acting like serving tagliatelle is on par with splitting the atom, I’m out.