I hit up this spot on the edge of Little Italy that is practically the antithesis of anything related to Italian cuisine… if you don’t count meat-sweats and taking a nap after a big meal. We’re talking about BBQ, and not backyard pits that you nonno tirelessly tends to in between hosing down the driveway and fertilizing tomato plants – but the likes of which will make you question everything you’ve ever known about what you think you know.
Thanks and welcome to all my new Twitter followers and new “likers” on Facebook. A big shout out to all of you I’ve been talking to this past week. You all are awesome and I’m sure, sexy as hell.
Having been opened for a few months so far, if you’ve read my ramblings long enough, you’d know that I like to let new restaurants have a chance to get the pots and pans a little dirty before checking it out. Little did I know that holding to this philosophy would take a completely different meaning when we visited Ice House. Not to say that Icehouse is “dirty” dirty, but the kind of dirty that’s dirty in all the good dirty ways, if you know what I mean.