Two weeks ago, I wrote a brief review of La Cucina di Rosa that didn’t give the restaurant the time it deserved. The visit was rushed, the assessmentequally so. While one dish didn’t land as it should have, the larger issue was that I was trying to take a snapshot where a longer look was required. Food, it turns out, is not especially cooperative when treated like a drive-by.
Returning with time, context, and the sense to slow down revealed something very different.
La Cucina di Rosa does not shout for attention. It doesn’t rely on gimmicks or volume to create atmosphere, nor does it attempt to dazzle diners into submission. Instead, it offers something far more compelling: care. Care in the pacing of service, the restraint of the menu, and above all, the food itself.
The restaurant takes its name from Rosa, the Italian grandmother of owner and head chef Tom Philips. Her kitchen shaped his understanding of food long before professional ones entered the picture. Her lessons were practical rather than performative. Recipes were guides, not shortcuts. Sauces were giventime. Garlic was used with intent rather than enthusiasm, a distinction that many kitchens would do well to revisit.
Those principles are evident on the plate.
On my return visit, the food was balanced, assured, and clearly allowed the time it required. Pasta was cooked with precision. The sauces were rich without being heavy, and full of natural flavours. Ingredients were allowed to speak without being drowned out by unnecessary flourishes.
What stands out most is the consistency. From starters through to dessert, the menu feels coherent and considered. Nothing is there simply because it is expected, and nothing feels like it has been added to satisfy a trend.
That same care extends beyond the kitchen. The team works with calm efficiency, the sort that comes from mutual respect rather than fear. Service is attentive without hovering, knowledgeable withoutlecturing, and refreshingly free of unnecessary theatrics.
On a busy evening, the dining room hums with conversation rather than chaos. Diners linger because they want to, arguing over the last bite in a way that suggests no one is in a particular hurry to leave.
La Cucina di Rosa is not trying to reinvent Italian cooking. It doesn’t need to. What it does instead is honour one Italian grandmother, one kitchen philosophy, and the simple truth that good food takes time.
I arrived in a hurry and wrote accordingly. I returned, slowed down, and paid better attention.
And the restaurant, it turns out, had been doing things properly all along.
Chapter 10
Tom
“Read it,” Rupert says,lifting his mug. “Trust me. You won’t regret it.”
I eye the paper on the counter. I’ve been orbiting it all morning, pretending it isn’t there.
Rupert grins. “I’m going to wake Glen with a little oral action.”
“I don’t need to know that,” I say.
“You do,” he replies cheerfully, already halfway to the stairs. “It’s part of the household ecosystem.”
I ignore him. As always.
The paper waits.
I sit down. I open it. I brace, out of habit more than expectation.
And then I don’t need to.
It isn’t flashy or defensive. It isn’t written to soothe egos or make amends loudly. It’s careful. Thoughtful. Fair in a way that feels almost personal.
She owns the earlier review without drama. No grovelling, no posturing. Just a calm acknowledgement thatshe rushed something that required time. That the fault wasn’t the kitchen. It was the pace.
That lands harder than praise ever could.
Then she writes about Nonna.
Not as a hook. Not as branding. As a presence. A kitchen. A woman who mattered.
I have to stop reading for a moment and breathe.
She’s paid attention. Not just to the food, but to what sits underneath it. The care. The restraint. The reason things are done the way they are.
