Arriving on a sleepy Tuesday evening in September, I walked into a stylish space true to Funke's vision of exuding the charms of your grandma's house if your grandma was Sophia Loren. Maneuvering to Felix's host stand required a lot of polite and purposeful elbowing through the crowded dining room, and even with a reservation (which you should most definitely get), there was still a small wait. The galère, like me, were all there for the same reason: a chance to eat their way through plates of Funke's handmade pasta.
Funke exclusively uses flour from Italy, milled specially for the restaurant, shipped via boat. Upon arrival, the flour is promptly whisked away to a temperature-controlled room to begin its acclimation to its new environs. It sits for 30 days before Funke even thinks to use it. Finally, off in the glass-walled pasta-making area that anchors the dining room, every single noodle is shaped by hand on ample wooden surface space, embodying the restaurant's favorite hashtag, #FuckYourPastaMachine.