What If I Were … Running a Mom & Pop Trattoria? 

Published 31.07.2025

Let’s say I hung up the dashboards and Gantt charts for a bit and did something a little more… saucy.

What if I ran a small-town Italian joint—red-checked tablecloths, Chianti bottles with candles in them, and a chalkboard menu written in my mom’s handwriting because she still doesn’t trust computers?

What if I ran it like my Mom & Pop?

1. No Fuss, No Nonsense—Just Focaccia and Focus

 - There’s no “concept” here. No vertical tasting menus. Just proper portions, warm bread, and the kind of welcome that sounds like:

 - “Sit down. Have you been sleeping or just working and pretending?”

 - My parents wouldn’t call it hospitality. They’d just call it dinner.

2. If It Ain’t Broke, Don’t Reinvent the Meatballs

 - The menu hasn’t changed since 1986—and that’s the point.

 - There are no QR codes. No ‘build-your-own ravioli’ options.

 - There’s a special, sure. But it’s lasagna. Again. Because it’s always lasagna. (And it always sells out.)

3. Staffed by Blood, Bond, or Neighbourhood Proximity

 - My Dad’s on the floor, seating people and telling questionable jokes.

 - My Mom’s in the kitchen yelling at the sauce.

 - And the woman perched at the bar? That’s Linda—mom’s best friend and the unofficial quality control department. She does the flower arrangements “for fun,” but don’t be fooled—every bloom is placed with surgical precision, and she’s absolutely clocked your elbows on the table. Twice.

4. You Only Have What You Can Afford

 - This place runs on handwritten receipts, cash in the till, and a gentle-but-firm financial strategy my parents called “don’t be stupid.”

 - The wine is house red. The tomatoes are canned—but only the good kind. From Naples. Obviously.

5. The Wi-Fi Is Weak. The Conversations Aren’t.

 - No one’s glued to their phones—partly because the signal’s rubbish, but mostly because the staff are watching.

 - Instead, people talk. Laugh. Wait for the espresso machine to hiss like it’s judging them.

 - And every now and then, someone brings you an extra cannoli “because you looked like you needed it.”

SO WHY WRITE THIS?

Because if I ever ran a Mom & Pop Italian restaurant like my Mom & Pop, it wouldn’t win awards.

But it would win hearts. And bellies. And the occasional thank-you note scribbled on the back of a menu.

It would be built on generosity, practicality, and quiet pride—the same things that built me.

It would serve more than food. It would serve upbringing.

Now someone pass the Lasagna and remind me why we ever needed truffle oil in the first place.