Culaccino

Culaccino feels like someone dropped a piece of Florence into downtown Franklin and gave it just enough polish to keep the locals in leather boots and denim jackets comfortable. It’s not shouting at you with its heritage—it’s humming. The room is warm, modern, and just loud enough to feel alive.

The casarecce was everything you want in a pasta dish—twists and folds made to trap every bit of sauce, which clung with purpose. Deep, tomato-rich, with just enough punch to remind you someone in the back gives a damn. The tonnarelli was silkier, more restrained—an elegant balance of chew and richness, the kind of pasta that makes you stop talking for a minute and just nod.

We washed it all down with a Super Tuscan, smooth and structured, like the soundtrack to a meal that doesn’t need a single flourish more. No fireworks, no gimmicks—just thoughtful Italian food, done right, in a town that’s figuring out how to do a little more than comfort food. Culaccino isn’t trying to be Rome. It’s just trying to be good. And tonight, that was more than enough