Aldino's

Either it is exceptionally difficult to park on UIC’s campus, or there’s something a little weird about the fact that Aldino’s has valet. Dean Zanella, the restaurant’s chef and a co-owner, along with Chicago’s Italian-restaurant impresario Scott Harris (Francesca’s, Purple Pig, Nella Pizzeria), has a nice pedigree, including spending more than a decade at 312 Chicago in the Hotel Allegro. Still, this is a restaurant that will be (and already has been) most welcomed by families and gray-haired couples living a few blocks away.

This has partly to do with the room, which is unpretentious if generic, and the staff, who are welcoming if underinformed (especially when it comes to the Italian-dominated wine list). But it has mostly to do with Zanella’s menu, which plays it safe enough to be comfortable, while still pushing beyond Little Italy standards. For starters, there are arancini, triple the size of those that have earned such acclaim at Purple Pig, filled with toothsome risotto, their saltiness contrasted with the chopped grapes they’re set atop. Bruschetta are spread with subtle, light ricotta, but the hunks of pancetta make the dish. For dinner, pappardelle are expertly made and tossed with a straightforward ragù for a simple, classic dish. And a generous portion of arctic char arrived with a sprinkling of crisp, burned-in-a-good-way brussels sprout leaves, and a skin so crunchy I peeled it off and snacked on it.

Still, some of the dishes are a bit too comfortable and need something to push them to the next level. “Anna’s” veal meatballs were strongly recommended by the waitress, but I found their texture over-emulsified. Better moist than dry, to be sure, but they still bordered on mushy and, perhaps more important, bore a sort of washed-out flavor. Squid-ink chitarra is a briny, serious dish, and while, again, the pasta is beautifully made, the dish lacked definition and contrast to move beyond its murkiness. Same deal with the milk-braised pork: a massive portion, best when dredged with a fork through the creamy, lemony sauce on the borders of the plate, but still not exciting enough to make much of a dent in.

But a few dishes are excellent enough to transcend even the “for the neighborhood” qualifier: The beet salad goes beyond tired beet salad tropes, combining toasted fregola, dollops of yogurt sauce and little bits of mint into a bowl of something really distinctive. Same with the grilled octopus, tender and charred, nestled with giant white beans, blood orange segments and celery leaves in a dish both simple and surprising. And if you’re seriously craving bomboloni (filled Italian doughnuts), then maybe it’s worth a short drive after all. These things, the clear standouts among the mostly decent desserts, are nearly the size of tennis balls: One is filled with tart lemon curd, another with vanilla bean–flecked pastry cream. A third is light and airy, nothing more—and nothing less—than a fried-dough monument to close-to-home comforts.

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