All our food: pizza, calzone, buffalo moozarell', olive oil. These [can’t print that word in a family magazine] had nothin'. They ate pootsie before we gave them the gift of our cuisine.
– Paulie 'Walnuts' Gualtieri
I’ve meditated in the innermost sanctums of Fanjingshan. I once witnessed a meteor shower crackle apart into cosmic ash behind the diaphanous dazzle of aurora borealis – during a lunar eclipse. I’ve even hung out with jazz musicians. But no matter how hard I searched, inner peace somehow always eluded me…
…until I looked for it at Kevin’s Italian Bistro. There I discovered that happiness requires nothing more than a warm plate of spaghet and a titanic red. “Who’s heading this kitchen?” I pondered in my reverie. “Could this be the work of a thousand nonas? The long-fabled kilonona?”
No. It was all Kevin Champlin: the chef who owns the joint.
“I’ve always preferred Italian cooking,” said Chef Kevin. “Not the drown-it-in-marinara and bury-it-under-cheese corporate stuff, but the authentic cuisine. Ragù bolognese. Simple sugo. Meatballs made with beef, veal, pork, cream, ciabatta and Parmesan. Chicken Marsala, served with hen of the woods, shitake and risotto. Focaccia, which we bake in our kitchen because no nearby bakeries make it light and fluffy enough. We serve the classics because the classics can’t be improved on. Nothing beats real Italian.”
You woke up this morning
Visited KevinsItalianBistro.com
Mama always said you'd dine at
6399 City West Parkway, Eden Prairie