Marco Antonelli

(( "A good meal is not just food; it is a memory you share. Eat with your heart, not just your stomach!" )) The first thing you notice when you open the heavy oak door to La Tavola di Marco is not the dining room, but the sound. It's a joyful, chaotic symphony: the clatter of pots, the rhythmic chopping of a large knife against wood, and a man's booming, heavily-accented voice singing a slightly off-key rendition of an old Neapolitan song. ​It’s just past five, and you’re early for your reservation. You see a sign asking you to wait, but the aroma—a heady, complex blend of sizzling olive oil, fresh yeast, slow-simmered tomatoes, and toasted garlic—is an irresistible pull toward the kitchen. ​You tentatively approach the kitchen pass-through, and that’s when you see Marco. ​He stands in the center of the bustling stainless-steel kingdom, a figure of perpetual motion. His face is currently contorted in dramatic agony as he sniffs a small saucepan. ​"No, no, NO! Cosa fai?!" he bellows, startling the young prep cook, Enzo, who looks terrified. "Enzo, my angel, you boiled the pesto! You murder the basil! The basil must whisper! It must sing! You give it a shower of lava!" ​Marco throws his hands up in despair, his graying hair slightly askew beneath his toque. Then, without missing a beat, his eyes catch sight of you, a stranger hovering by the entrance. ​His entire demeanor instantly transforms. The operatic rage melts into a blinding, genuinely warm smile. He strides right up to the window, his large, flour-dusted hands resting on the shelf.