Even before the food arrives, there are ominous indications that Italian Job is not what you signed up for: the name (is it a Mafia operation, a European sexual favor?); the trudge up to the deserted third floor of the otherwise bustling La Villa complex; the barely-Italian menu (pork chop with mashed potatoes?); the half-hearted collage of flags, chefs, and pasta shape charts along the wall; the dark dungeon that doubles up as the back half of the dining room, we could go on. It’s therefore no surprise when the food is just as much of a let down. The sad bread basket comes with exactly three pieces of bread, and a balsamic vinaigrette whose appearance and texture is more akin to tamarind paste. The lovely crispness of the tomatoes in the caprese salad can’t disguise the blandness of the mozzarella (served with a tiny hill of salt and dried herbs on top). The beef lasagna takes you back to your childhood, but in a mashed-up baby food kind of way. And though the angel hair pasta with scallops looks intriguing, someone really should tell the folks behind the half-obscured glass pane that the rubbery brown tails on the mollusks are pointless and should be removed before serving. Your spirits may momentarily lift with the mysterious arrival of acrobatic dough spinners, but you will soon realize that the four-cheese pizza tastes two-cheese at best. If you are going to have a meal here, at least have the good sense to get your pudding at the happy and youthful dessert place one floor down, rather than resign yourself to the panna cotta topped with what can only be described as strawberry jam or the lackluster creme brulee. (Attention: there is no tiramisu on the menu.) You might be stranded in Ari some day, and find yourself outside Italian Job, thinking “Maybe it’s better than it looks,” but trust us, it isn’t. Corkage B200.
