It felt like one of those evenings where a place quietly settles into you, not because it’s trying to impress you, but because everything about it feels so gloriously rooted in where it comes from. Via Emilia’s new Notting Hill restaurant has that calm, lived‑in confidence with a chic, yet understated aura. The room is soft and neutral, full of light, and you can sense that the whole idea is to let Emilia Romagna speak for itself. Their joyously authentic menu is built around the region’s traditional fresh egg pastas, each tied to a specific town and made by hand to family recipes. What surprised me most was learning that the pasta isn’t just handmade daily—it’s actually made fresh to order. You can taste that difference immediately; it was the freshest pasta I’ve ever eaten, almost impossibly delicate but still full of character.
When Anna and I sat down, we started with the Gnocco Fritto – warm, puffed pieces of fried bread that arrived with a generous mix of cured meats and cheeses. There’s something wonderfully unpretentious about eating them with your hands, tearing into the bread and pairing it with prosciutto or a shard of parmesan. It set the tone for the whole meal—simple, tactile, and deeply tied to tradition. We drank sparkling red Lambrusco served in white ceramic bowls, which felt playful and old‑world at the same time, like being let in on a regional secret rather than a restaurant gimmick.
For my main, I had the Tajadèl bulgnaisi con ragó, a tagliolini with a slow‑cooked ragù from Bologna. It was rich without being heavy, the kind of dish that tastes like someone has been tending to it for hours. Anna’s Caplaz ad zuca was almost the opposite in mood—pillowy ravioli filled with butternut squash and parmesan, finished with butter and sage – the epitome of comfort food. Both dishes felt like they belonged to real places and real families, not just a swanky London restaurant concept. We ended with a pillowy light tiramisù that didn’t weigh us down (made with egg whites only), more airy than indulgent, the kind of dessert that lets you leave feeling content rather than defeated.
What stayed with me afterward wasn’t just the food but the sense of care behind it. Via Emilia doesn’t seem interested in reinventing anything; it wants to preserve the simple gastronomic traditions of Italy. The sparkling red wine in bowls, the dialect names, the insistence on matching each sauce to its proper pasta shape—it all feels like an invitation to slow down and appreciate a region through its rituals. Walking out into Notting Hill afterward, I found myself thinking about how rare it is to eat somewhere that feels both new and deeply old at the same time, and how quietly special that can be.
