These days, everyone’s got pasta on the menu. I understand: It’s cheap to make, and it’s easy for a restaurant staff to move some noodles. But it’s also easy to roll your eyes when you see cacio e pepe yet again on a menu where it simply does not fit. New York’s surplus of spaghetti also makes it difficult for real Italian restaurants to stand out, which is why I was so charmed by LaRina, a neighborhood restaurant on Myrtle Avenue in Clinton Hill.

Inside, the lights are dim and the setting is romantic — without laying it on too thick — while the staff has an easy rapport with the regulars who have clearly been coming here for years. The first night I dropped in, a very hot waiter was speaking Italian with a guy at the bar as well as two other fellows who were sitting by the window, sharing a bottle of wine and eating ham.