My grandmother judged every Italian restaurant by one thing, the bread basket. She said if a place couldn’t get warm bread right, nothing else mattered, and after eating at hundreds of spots with her over the years, I believe it.
That rule was running through my head the night I found a restaurant hiding in a quiet corner of Georgia that changed my whole opinion on what a neighborhood Italian spot could be. Garlic rolls hit the table before I even opened the menu, and I knew right away this visit would take longer than planned.
The dining room felt lived in, not staged for photos. Servers moved like they had done this for years and actually enjoyed it…