Restaurant Review: Sal’s Pasta & Chops – A Northern Italian Homecoming in Little Italy

There’s a certain kind of restaurant opening that feels less like a debut and more like a return, a restoration of something intangible. Sal’s Pasta & Chops, newly arrived on College Street in the bones of the short-lived Wolfie’s, is one of those places.

Sal’s is the latest from Michael Sangregorio and Fabio Bondi, the co-owners behind Junction favourite Lucia. The name itself is an homage, a tribute to their fathers—both named Sal—who arrived in Toronto from Italy with little more than grit and an address in Little Italy. Photographs of family hang on exposed brick walls. The banquettes are upholstered in olive green and the lighting casts the kind of golden hue that makes everyone look just a bit more like they belong.

The menu is, in theory, Northern Italian with a Toronto accent, though that undersells its depth. Take the beef carpaccio. It arrives like a study in contrast. Thin slices of beef dressed with a silk of pecorino crema, a scatter of fried capers, and tiny anchovy filets so unapologetically salty they almost dare you not to enjoy them. A whisper of fennel pollen, a flash of tarragon, and some sturdy croutons made from sourdough lend crunch and tang. It’s a plate that doesn’t pander: bold, structured, and not afraid to push a bit too far. And that’s part of the charm. When a dish walks the line between excess and finesse, and mostly stays on the right side of it, you know someone in the kitchen cares more about flavour than Instagram.

The focaccia is not just bread. It’s a love letter on a plate and it’s made by local baking legend David Mattachioni and delivered daily by bicycle, which feels less like a fun fact and more like a mission statement. It arrives on the table still warm, doughy and golden, leaving your fingers glossed and your appetite primed.

The star of the night, however, was the ravioli, a dish that manages to be both ancestral and slightly unhinged. The filling is a chicken liver and mascarpone mousse. The pasta parcels arrive scattered with escargots, slicked in a parsley butter. It’s rich, unctuous, and assertively old-world in its flavours. There’s no nod to restraint here, no polite tempering for the timid diner. This is a dish that knows exactly what it is and dares you to come along. This is what it looks like when a chef cooks not to please everyone, but to honour something specific and personal.

Not every dish screams for attention. The branzino is a quiet triumph and conjures up memories of the Lucia days. It’s grilled whole, butterflied, and topped with a salsa verde so fresh it could have been picked from nonna’s garden. The fish is expertly cooked, the skin crisp and flesh moist, and it’s served without pretense with a lemon wedge.

Even the cocktails play into the duality of tradition and playfulness. The Negroni Sour is a thoughtful riff, brightened by citrus and softened with froth, a little less bite, a little more blush. It’s the kind of drink that feels like a compromise between generations: bitter enough for Nonno, fun enough for TikTok. The wine list, meanwhile, is impressively curated, balancing Chianti and Barolo with draft wines from Niagara’s Tawse. Yes, draft wine. It sounds like a gimmick until you sip the Tawse Chardonnay—creamy, oak-kissed, with enough structure to stand beside the food. The Pecorino white by the glass was a particular standout, citrusy and clean.

Dessert was a cassata semifreddo, that half-frozen, wholly nostalgic nod to Sicilian confection of ricotta cream, candied fruit, chocolate, cherry sauce, pistachios. It was sweet, no question, but unapologetically so. Like someone’s nonna made it for a birthday and insisted you finish your plate.

Service was warm and human and there was earnestness in every interaction. At one point, Sangregorio told me about the morning bread run. Not to show off, but to share something. That distinction matters.

By the end of the night, it was hard not to be charmed. Sal’s doesn’t chase trends, it channels memory. It’s not perfect, but it doesn’t want to be. It wants to be yours. The restaurant is young, and maybe it will change. But for now, Sal’s feels like exactly what it is: a love letter to a neighborhood, a cuisine, and two men named Sal who dreamed big.

Bisous,

Mme. M.

4/5

La rubrique de Madame Marie

1 étoile – Run. Before you get the runs.
2 étoiles – Mediocre, but nothing you couldn’t make at home.
3 étoiles – C’est bon, with some standout qualities.
4 étoiles – Many memorable qualities and excellent execution. Compliments to the chef.
5 étoiles – Formidable! Michelin Star quality. Book a reservation immediately.