Rubirosa is a super buzzy, casual Nolita spot turning out tasty Italian dishes, a generous gluten-free menu, and 'grammable pizza. But are celeb endorsements and social-media heat a proper barometer for quality?
On approach, you’ll clock staff filtering in and out past would-be diners who are either obvious tourists or look like a background casting call for Euphoria. Every inch of the interior (plus its curbside COVID shack) is maximized; the only way to fit more bodies would be by allowing standing room. If it weren’t so frenetic, you might appreciate the rustic touches and romantic lighting. Maybe that happens midweek. On weekends, however, it reads more hip bar than trattoria, with a dinner and bathroom line to match.
Drinks are crowd-pleasers: a tidy craft-beer list, a decisive wine program with three house bottlings, and cocktails that are good, clean builds rather than mixological wonders. The Daisy (mezcal, Aperol, St-Germain, lime) drinks bright and balanced with a whisper of smoke. Classics are perfect; textbook, balanced, priced to encourage a second round.
Service is gracious, friendly, and highly efficient; clearly tasked with moving seatings along. And I suppose this is the place to note Rubirosa’s entire parallel menu of vegan, nut-free, and gluten-free dishes, making it ideal for anyone with dietary restrictions.
Food is dialed in. A trio of meatballs arrives tender and well-seasoned, smothered in the star of the night: sauce. The marinara is neither oversweet nor herb-bombed, leaving room for that rusty, concentrated, caramelized tomato note that tastes like a memory of Sunday dinner. Lightly sauced cavatelli with broccoli rabe and sausage follows the nonna ethos (a few ingredients treated properly): pasta with sturdy chew, bitter greens to temper richness, sweet/savory sausage coins tying it together.
And then there’s the pizza.
Rubirosa’s most famous pie is the “tie-dye,” which is essentially a margherita but with vodka sauce and pesto swirled on top instead of basil leaves. It’s the one you’ve seen online. Mainly eating as a vehicle for excellent sauce, its cracker-thin crust (closer to Chicago tavern style than NYC slice or Neapolitan) is pale and mostly bland, crumbling into unenticing shards by each slice’s end. The mozzarella brings lactic notes without much chew; the pesto’s welcome basil/allium hit gets drowned by the rich vodka sauce. It feels better as a primo piatti than a main.
So in New York City, where you can get a good-to-great version of almost anything—pizza chief among them—does Rubirosa’s pie warrant the hype? Let me ask you this: must a dish be the target of neomaniacal focus and hyperbole to be worth eating?
Dessert was a wonderful cannoli: crisp shell, not oily, not too sweet, standing up to a beautifully light, tasty cream. I wish I’d gotten two.
I walked into Rubirosa cold and found plenty to like and a few puzzlements. One can really only evaluate a place by what’s on the table, its environment, and whether you walk away satisfied. By that criteria, Rubirosa was a bit of a mixed experience. When I go back—and I will, but only on a weeknight—if someone wants a pizza for the table, I’ll happily grab a slice but really, I’ll be there for the rest of the menu.