La Magolfa

There are two La Magolfas, nested in the Navigli canals. Terry picked the quieter one. I'd been to the original a few times myself. The menu carries over exactly, no compromise between locations. La Magolfa is the kind of place you take a friend you haven't seen in a while, or someone who you see too often: nothing to prove, a glass of cheap house wine, room to actually talk. We came on a quiet night, which Terry said is rare here. We started with the cotoletta, crisp and classic. The potatoes next to it were the miss, mushy from being par-cooked and reheated. Terry didn't defend it. He explained the process instead. The cold cut platter split down the middle. The cheeses were the strength. Pecorino, gorgonzola, parmigiano, and crescenza, pungent and creamy at once. Coppa, speck, and prosciutto fell short, all a shade too dark and curling at the edges, the tell for meat that's been sitting. The pizza came on Terry's suggestion, prosciutto and rucola with shaved parmesan. Thin, crisp, no soft edge to fight through, and it held instead of going soggy. Good, not exceptional. No artisanal ingredient doing extra work here, nothing chasing a trend. Terry's point stood: pizza in Italy is rarely bad. The tiramisu was the actual highlight, silky, not overly sweet or coffee-forward, finished with panna on top, a nice touch I haven't seen elsewhere. Order that with a glass of the house wine and you've covered the two non-negotiables. The room does exactly what it's built for. Unpretentious, cheap, fast. Exposed brick, yellowish-white walls, old photographs of the place hung between them. Even the tables carry the history: orange paper instead of cloth, printed with a photo of the original location, torn off and binned after every sitting for the next. It runs on a crowd of regulars, the kind of place that knows your order before you sit. Fast is the whole point here. The manager said as much himself, and the plates backed him up.