Absolutely. Here’s an intentionally long-winded, almost comically elaborate review, with plenty of love for the chicken parm:
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Upon entering the modest yet somehow grand threshold of Trattoria Belladonna, nestled unassumingly between a dry cleaner and a boutique yoga studio that always seems to be closed, I was immediately struck by a vague yet comforting aroma—garlic, basil, and what I can only describe as the unmistakable scent of tomato sauce that has been lovingly simmered by someone’s nonna for no less than eight hours. But I digress. Let me start at the beginning—or, more accurately, let me start with the chicken parmigiana, which, as you’ll soon understand, is not merely a dish on the menu, but an experience that transcends poultry, cheese, and sauce.
I had been told—by acquaintances, coworkers, and, in a moment of startling culinary enthusiasm, my dentist—that Trattoria Belladonna’s chicken parmigiana was something bordering on legend. And as I sat down in their plush burgundy booth, beneath a softly glowing light fixture shaped vaguely like a bunch of grapes, I could feel the anticipation building—not in my stomach, which was already rumbling, but in my soul. I perused the menu, which, though filled with enticing offerings from lasagna al forno to osso buco that nearly sang to me in the voice of Andrea Bocelli, I did not waver. My mission was clear: the chicken parm. And perhaps, just perhaps, a side of linguine.
Now, let me attempt, however inadequately, to describe what arrived at my table. The plate—no, the platter—was a steaming, fragrant, beautifully chaotic masterpiece. The chicken parmigiana itself was an opulent golden-brown cutlet, breaded to the kind of perfection that suggests not only culinary expertise but possibly a pact with some benevolent food deity. It was smothered—no, blanketed, as if by the warm embrace of an Italian grandmother you never knew you had—in molten mozzarella, gooey and bubbling with just the faintest caramelized crust around the edges. The marinara sauce, a crimson revelation, had the tang of ripe San Marzano tomatoes with whispers of garlic and oregano, as if each spoonful had a story to tell.
And the chicken—oh, the chicken. Moist, flavorful, tender without losing structural integrity, it was the kind of chicken that makes you wonder what you’ve been eating your whole life. It was not simply a vehicle for cheese and sauce; it was a co-equal partner in a trio of triumph. One bite and I was transported—perhaps not physically, but emotionally, spiritually—to a tiny sun-drenched courtyard in Sicily, where time moves slower, conversation flows like wine, and the only thing that matters is what’s on your plate.
I must pause to emphasize: this was no perfunctory chicken parm, no afterthought of a menu item meant to placate the unadventurous diner. No, this was a centerpiece, a culinary sonnet, a bold, unapologetic declaration of what comfort food is capable of when elevated with craft, heart, and an almost militant refusal to cut corners.
I did, for the record, order dessert—a cannoli so crisp and creamy it nearly made me cry—but my memory of it fades in the radiant shadow of that chicken parm. Even as I paid my bill (shockingly reasonable for what I suspect may be the pinnacle of Western civilization), I could still taste it: the delicate crunch of the breading, the harmony of cheese and sauce, the ghost of garlic on the edge of every bite.
If there is a heaven—and I am not a theologian—I hope it serves chicken parmigiana like the one at Trattoria Belladonna. And if not, I may have to stage a celestial protest.
Five stars. And then five more, just for the chicken parm.
