Sunny Days

Piattello Italian Kitchen, 5924 Convair Dr, Fort Worth. 817-349-0484. 5-9pm Sun-Thu, 5-10pm Fri-Sat. • The Rim, 5912 Convair St, Fort Worth. 817-663-2950. 10am-10pm Sun, 11am-10pm Mon-Thu, 11am-11pm Fri, 10am-11pm Sat.

This is a story about The Rim, but first, and as always for your favorite paisan, Italian food.

My wife d. and I had been desperate for a classy (“classy” for us two worker bees) pizza-and-wine spot since the closure of our beloved Taverna (R.I.P.). We’d tried all the stops suggested by friends and Joe Google. None matched Taverna and the criteria we had established from that splendid Sundance Square retreat: great food, great service, great atmo, great happy-hour pricing, great bar area, great people-watching (the front-window view of Houston Street never failed with its procession of shambolic tourists and dour fellow worker bees), and always buzzing but never busy. High standards, we suppose, but it’s 2026. Is a comfy, cozy, “classy” Italian joint with a comfy, cozy, “classy” bar area in a lively part of town too much to ask? (Yes. Yes, it is.)

Among our final few suggestions was Piattello Italian Kitchen. The Waterside spot has been around for a while and has earned a lot of accolades. Living in North Fort Worth, my family doesn’t normally consider hanging out anywhere farther than a 20-minute drive away, which is why Piattello was not one of our first stops on our Taverna Replacement Tour.

Since d. and I had arrived slightly before dinner service, we took a seat at the bar. All we could see was the other side of the U-shaped counter and, directly ahead and annoyingly unavoidably, some TVs tuned to the Olympics. Forgive me, not d., the daughter of an Air Force colonel, for eschewing a trip aboard the U.S.A. bandwagon this time around. Was not feeling very patriotic for obvious reasons. Taverna bar-area criterion met? Negatory.

When we were seated, our window view consisted of the Waterside common area amid a canyon of apartments (very Khrushchyovkas-esque) and, in our peripheral vision at ground level, a shadowy corner establishment with several groups of folks seated on its smallish patio, whence music of some kind seemed to be wafting. Saved for later. But Taverna-view criterion at Piattello met? Also negatory.

As much as d. and I love Italian joints, a solid Italian-food dispensary needs to offer more than just a margherita pizza and a house salad, and here is where Piattello outshines Taverna. Chef Marcus Paslay (Clay Pigeon) serves several vegetarian-friendly dishes, including spaghetti pomodoro, eggplant parmigiana, some appetizers, agnolotti (butternut squash pasta), and mafaldine cacio e pepe (cheesy pasta), which my wife loved and proved it. The woman who almost always takes home leftovers would leave empty-handed tonight.

I am certainly no vegetarian and proved that, too. Piattello’s lobster ravioli had me wanting to lie down biblically with it. My mouth has been pissed at me ever since for continuing to deprive it of this luscious mélange of buttery crustacean and pasta. But sorry, mouth. At $30, it won’t be entering your greedy realm anytime soon or very often.

As mind-blowingly tasty as Piattello’s food was and as excellent as the service was, the whole experience was more food-centric than what d. and I were looking for. We may be partly to blame for choosing to be seated instead of camping out at the bar, but the bar was so blah, we felt we really didn’t have any other choice. So, Piattello for food and beverages, absolutely, not for a business-casual happy-houring home away from home for this O.G. Italian boy from an O.G. Italian neighborhood up north.

On our gleefully full walk from Piattello toward our car in the parking lot, d. and I crossed that shadowy retreat across the way. The mere sight of The Rim was not what had me dragging my sweet, innocent wife toward the entrance. It was the sound.

The last time I’d heard “Can You Stand the Rain?” was probably high school, and as that New Edition hit from 1988 blasted out from The Rim into the common area and our earbuds, I knew we had to make a stop, even if just for a splash or two. Come on, baby. Let’s go get wet.

The kitschy pop-culture décor (heavy on The Beatles, Michael, and Elvis), the mostly Black staff, the live music — some gentleman was playing saxophone along to R&B classics — it all turned my eyes into heart shapes. I felt like I’d gone back to my childhood home. “Why have we never come here before?!” I marveled to d.

Having just eaten, we stuck with drinks at the brief indoor-outdoor bar counter: a macrobrew for me (don’t @ me) and an Old-Fashioned for my wife. A few packed tables nearby were celebrating a birthday, hence the strolling saxophonist, who at one point cozied up to me as I sang along to Force MD’s one and only hit and gave me a pound when I was done with the chorus. “Tender lurve / A lurve so teeenderrr.”

My dear wife was clueless. She grew up all over the world. Not a lot of music from our ’80s heyday reached her overseas, and old-school R&B was especially absent. I explained the Quiet Storm to her. Smooth grooves? Soulful singing? Lovey-dovey lyrics? *whoop* Right over her head. I could have stayed the whole night. Running a little late now, I vowed to return.

A week or two later, my next visit, with my 14-year-old Black son, started off terribly. Imagine the worst contemporary country music you’ve ever heard, just whiny, twangy, cliched bullshit. Now, multiply that times 100, and that’s what was blasting out of The Rim’s speakers at our seating. “Excuse me / But I think you love me”?! I mean, I had to ask.

“Oh, that’s just the random playlist,” our delightful server replied before sprinting away.

Well, I was thinking, get rid of that shit. I understand that Waterside, with its assorted high-end restos and Whole Foods, is more like Whiterside, but pandering to Whitey? Come on, now.

This lunch hour, a sizable house bustled. A. and I sat in a booth in the small bar area, outfitted with: several TVs (two unfortunately tuned to local Fox); old-timey celebrity mugshots; a cigar-store Indian; one huge colorful painting involving, among others and if I recall correctly, James Dean, Marilyn Monroe, and John, Paul, George, and Ringo; other brilliantly hued bric-a-brac; and a life-size frozen Han Solo for a storage door beside a mini-Tardis. Assorted musical instruments line the upper portion of the southside wall. There’s a lot going on here, and after Piattello and a lot of other new eateries that my family’s visited over the past couple of years, my boy and I certainly appreciated the visual loudness. It gave us something to talk about, one (“It’s weird because while Paul is my favorite Beatle, John wrote more of my Top 10 Beatles songs” — me), and, two, it just felt welcoming, cozy, friendly, not funereal and self-serious like so many other places, from haute cuisine to diners and coffeeshops. Hang a freaking painting, people, ffs.

From the enormous menu, I went with the Burley Bird from the lunch combo section. The smooth, buttery, heartwarming accompanying creamy-asparagus soup adorned by three croutons disappeared from beneath my patchy, graying beard in a whirl of silver spoonfuls. The turkey sandwich involved a lot of disparate ingredients — some sort of red spread, some kind of aioli — that did not come together in any meaningful way. The bird itself saved every bite. Succulent and “m-word” (my wife hates “moist” — sorry, babe!), it transported me to Thanksgiving dinners with my childhood family before death, babies, distance, and politics separated us.

As A. and I chowed down, we immediately noticed a change in the air. A few notes. A few non-twangy notes. Then that voice. Our eyes locked.

“That’s Adele,” I said, my mouth full. “That’s Adele!”

“That’s Adele!”

We high-fived. The god-awful country plaguing us, and everyone else at The Rim and the entire s

olar system, had given way to smooth, mature class and actual musical talent. I had to order another, celebratory macrobrew.

Like Adele in a mood, A.’s cheddar cheeseburger rocked. Coming out well-done and done up only by ketchup and mustard as requested, the sandwich delivered a splendid mix of salty tang and peppery kick with mouthwatering meatiness in between. The onion rings were onion rings.

I did briefly consider it. For a solid minute as I enjoyed another non-country tune (“Is this Coldplay?! Nice!”), I thought about asking for one of The Rim’s legendary Bloody Mary Breakfasts. This $24 delight comes with essentially an entire meal as garnish: Cajun-dusted jumbo shrimp, a chicken wing, andouille sausage, applewood-smoked bacon, a bacon-wrapped pretzel, asparagus, and a pickle. A couple factors stopped me. Reasons 1-10, my paltry bank account. Reason No. 11: It seemed gratuitous, grossly gourmandizing, and flatly inappropriate. U.S. soldiers are being sent to their deaths overseas by untouchable billionaires in an illegal war over oil and pedophilia while the oligarchy replaces us worker bees with AI and drinks all our water. When he dies, I’m-a order two of them bad boys. Until then, not entirely appropriate.

My family and I have made The Rim part of our repertoire. Even though the menu lacks creative vegetarian-friendly offerings, d. loves the Southern, soulful vibe as much as A. and I do. There’s also always so much to talk about. Paul = John.

The Rim Waterside

Burley Bird $15

Rim Burger $14

Piattello Italian Kitchen

Lobster ravioli $30

Cheesy pasta $22