Flashily settled into the greenhouse that was formerly home to Imperial No. 9, trattoria/crudo bar Isola is set up like the fanciest Italian back garden you've ever seen, complete with lush trees, chandelier clusters, an overhead centerpiece adorned with glass vases, and marble-topped tables held up by Roman columns, which generally involve Mike Lupica going on rants about naked marathons.
Handmade pasta (bucatini w/ fennel sausage, crab & Calabrese peppers) and pizza (burrata, squash blossom pesto, and roasted tomato) form the foundation of the menu, and're bolstered by non-traditionals like the Isola Burger w/ truffled lardo, balsamic red onions & gem lettuce, which is unfortunately a very real vegetable and just not a Hologram. Said crudo rawness is handled by the freshest possible ocean dwellers and includes compositions like snapper w/ Fuji apple, cantaloupe & pickled red chile, plus tuna w/ white balsamic, jalapeno, watermelon & pine nuts, who are way more palatable than birch nuts... no one cares about your wimpy non-evergreen trees, superfans!
Italian sips are sectioned off into Spritzes, Negronis, and a bunch of cocktails like the tequila/ honeydew/ lavender Columbian Exchange under a section dubbed "Market Fresh", which those marathoners totally weren't, much to the chagrin of all the Roman columnists in the up-close press seats.
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