Il Mulino, and the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pasta

We first started eating there in the late 1990s, and I don’t think a full year has ever gone by without one of us getting serenaded by the waiters as they race through their heavily accented version of “Happy Birthday.” When a few dinners have passed without choosing the mothership, the next birthday girl feels the pressure to pick up the baton. Think of it as our homage to “The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants,” but instead of passing on an enchanted pair of jeans, we pay the magic forward with pasta.

Why Il Mulino? Well, for starters, there’s the food, of course. Founded by two brothers from Abruzzo, Italy — chefs Fernando and Gino Masci — the restaurant features a wide array of wonderful dishes on its set menu as well as a litany of specials that your waiter will recite from memory. (As he works his way through the seemingly endless list, I’m reminded of the scene in “Forrest Gump” where Bubba reels off all the possible ways to prepare shrimp.)

Choosing what to eat is always a tough decision. Should I try something new or order the dish I’ve been dreaming about for the past month? Each one of us has our favorite. For me, it’s the simple but perfectly executed spaghetti alle vongole — the al-dente pasta gets tossed with olive oil, juicy penny-sized clams still in their shells, and enough garlic to kill a whole coven of vampires with one strong exhale. Be still, my Spanish heart.

For dessert, we usually share the zabaglione, a boozy custard that’s served with whatever berries are in season. It’s a classic but delicious dish that sometimes defies logic, like the time we were presented with strawberries so beautiful — juicy, flavorful, and just the right texture — that we spent the rest of the meal speculating about who the chefs had had to bribe to acquire them in the dead of winter.

So yes, the food is always excellent, but one does not go to Il Mulino just for the food. After all, you cannot shake a fistful of linguine in this city without hitting a couple of Italian restaurants, and a decent percentage of these are good. Nor is Il Mulino drawing customers for its interior design — an unremarkable mix of exposed brick walls and beige patterned wallpaper so anodyne that it could have been lifted straight from your nonna’s bedroom.

Will you see famous people? Possibly. We once crossed paths with Harvey Keitel, and ate a few tables over from Elvis Costello and Diana Krall. But it’s an unusual hangout for celebrities because there’s no secret den in the back — just one small dining room where the seats are so close together you could practically grab a few grissini straight out of your neighbor’s bread basket.

The only way to have a fully private meal at Il Mulino is to shut down the entire place, as Bill Clinton and Barack Obama did back in 2009. In the case of old mafiosos who have reportedly dined there — like Vinny “The Chin” Gigante — it seems that flaunting their presence may have been the whole point. But even if you don’t glimpse a boldfaced name, there is usually some sort of entertainment available. On more than one occasion, we’ve had front-row seats to other people’s arguments, or played the game of “Is that his daughter or his mistress?”

Ultimately, what keeps drawing our sisterhood back again and again is the feeling we get when we walk through the door. After causing a small pile-up near the Lilliputian coat room up front, we are greeted by the boisterous maître d’. A tall white-haired gentleman with a booming voice, Claudio serenades us with a chorus of “bella,” “signorina,” and, “Uh oh, here comes trouble! The ladies from NBC” — even though only one of us still works there. All of it is spoken with a broad smile.

After bantering for a bit, he leads us to our table, where the waiters immediately swarm. Before you’ve even cracked open the menu, one is filling your dish with garlic bread and focaccia, and another is serving up thin slices of pan-fried zucchini, salumi, and marinated mussels. If you sense a looming presence near your elbow, it’s probably the Goodyear-sized wheel of aged Parmigiano-Reggiano from which a third waiter is excising large hunks.

While none of these antipasti will end up on your bill, Il Mulino is not cheap, and the cost of these “extras” is factored into the prices. Still, there’s something disarming about the way the whole performance unfolds. For this child of immigrants, I am spirited back to the large family gatherings of my youth, when my parents, aunts, and uncles spent the night circling the cobbled-together Frankenstein of a table, ensuring that everyone ate and ate and ate.

“We are treated like we are part of their family,” says Tammy, and Marci echoes the sentiment. “The food is amazing but it’s the warmth of the place that makes it so special.” That warmth comes from veteran staff members who take their jobs seriously. “The waiters are always so welcoming,” says Kristin, “and it seems like they’ve worked there for a hundred years.”

It’s the rare place that can pull it all off in a way that resonates with a gentler dining past, before social media and Yelp reviews. With its ’80’s origins, immigrant roots, and tuxedoed staff that would not be out of place in the swinging era of Frank Sinatra, Il Mulino defies trends and time. It is old-school New York before “old-school New York” in air quotes collapsed under the weight of “too cool for school” ironic hot takes.

In the years that have sped by since we started going there, Il Mulino is where we’ve marked the passing of our lives — not just commemorating our birthdays but also complaining about our bosses. It’s where we’ve laughed about dating disasters and fêted career reinventions, vented about the pressures of being a caregiver, and cried about the parents we’ve lost. In a city where the average apartment is only slightly larger than a camper van, restaurants like Il Mulino are where we come together with the people who matter to us — not to see or be seen, but to listen and be heard. And to eat some damned good food.

Like our group, the restaurant has gone through changes of its own. The Masci brothers sold their stake years ago, and the new ownership has built a mini-empire of Il Mulinos (I Mulini?), featuring roomier locations in Manhattan and beyond, including Florida and Vegas. There’s even a line of jarred pasta sauces.

Our hearts, however, will always belong exclusively to the cramped and dimly lit dining room in the Village, where we eat way too much and laugh until our stomachs hurt (outcomes that are probably related). In June 2023, we visited for Marci’s birthday, so this year it was my turn to take the baton of the traveling pasta and run with it all the way to West Third Street.

Il Mulino is open daily for dinner.

Sofia Perez is a freelance journalist based in Manhattan. She has written for the BBC, Condé Nast Traveler, Gourmet, Literary Hub, the New York Times, Saveur, The Wall Street Journal, and others. In 2023, she was a finalist for the American Society of Journalists and Authors writing awards in the food and drink category. Follow her on Instagram and Bluesky. 

Janice Chang is a Los Angeles-born illustrator now based in Brooklyn, N.Y. Her work spans across editorial, animation, and commercial projects, as well as large-scale murals, usually featuring bold colors and expressive characters. Follow her on Instagram. Follow Resy, too.