As a high school sophomore whose culinary expertise extends no further than the hours I’ve spent watching the elaborate dicing and sauteing on MasterChef Junior, it is unsurprising that a worryingly large percentage of my dinners consist of unforgivingly undercooked penne, a globby ladle of Rao’s (supposedly) Homemade tomato sauce, and enough heaps of grated parmesan to obscure the pasta entirely. After all, when tests and projects are raining down, to be “stuffed” is to gain a full brain, not a full stomach. Consequently, eating anywhere other than the unadventurous bounds of my home is hardly a regular occurrence of mine—but this week, when I was tasked to craft a food review as an assignment for journalism class, it almost felt predestined.
Naturally, I interpreted it not as homework, but as academically sanctioned permission to abandon my desk and eat well under the guise of scholarly responsibility. So there I was, ensconced in a cozy corner booth at Spring House: a recent Italian-American addition to Tenafly’s growing restaurant scene, and as luck would have it, one of the few places on my short but sacred food “bucket list.”
My family’s visit fell squarely in the dead of winter, yet Spring House’s ambiance stayed true to its name. Strands of warm string lights lined the exterior of the abode-turned-eatery, offering the quiet promise that something inviting waited just beyond the door. Crossing the threshold brought a sudden shift into dim, intimate serenity that made the outside world’s bitter wind feel instantly distant. Despite our lack of a reservation—a decision I would normally consider reckless, though this time unavoidable given the spontaneity of the outing—we were met with easy accommodation, and seated almost at once by the friendly, attentive waitstaff.
The dining room was undeniably fancy, but not in an intimidating, white-tablecloth-and-whispers kind of way. Instead, it managed the rare feat of being sophisticated without being stiff, still urging us to laugh a little too loudly or savor each bite slightly longer than etiquette would normally allow.
We started with Crispy Artichoke, which, against my better judgment, I actually enjoyed. Fried to a perfect golden-brown crisp and brightened with a squeeze of lemon, it almost made me reconsider my lifelong indifference to the peculiar, leafy oddity.
For my entrée, I ordered the Pappardelle, served with a wild mushroom ragu and finished with a sprinkle of Parmigiano Reggiano. The noodles, my waiter informed me, are made fresh in-house every day, a detail that made my typical at-home penne experiments seem embarrassingly amateur. The ragu was earthy and rich, while the delicate truffle essence lent a subtle elegance. Each bite was evidence itself that the pasta had been cooked to a perfect al-dente: tender but with just enough chew to make every forkful feel deliberate and satisfying.
My mom’s Branzino was a side filet, deboned and roasted, dressed with Salmoriglio and a touch of Calabrian chili. Light, sharp, and zesty, it had just enough heat to keep things interesting without overshadowing the fish. I took a bite and immediately understood why she went for it, and I also secretly envied her choice. It was the kind of dish that spoke for itself, affirming our trust in the restaurant’s kitchen.
For dessert, we shared the aptly named Double Trouble, a duo of a molten chocolate cake and a Basque-style cheesecake. As a self-proclaimed cheesecake connoisseur, I had high expectations, but unfortunately this one was far too sugary, lacking the finesse and tang I prize. By contrast, the molten sponge was decadently sweet, offset by a whisper of bitterness, with a gooey heart that oozed out the chocolate counterpart of liquid gold. Together, they closed the meal with unapologetic indulgence and a hint of theatricality.
Prices were on the high side, though fair for the quality on the plate. The Crispy Artichoke was $23, while the Pappardelle and Branzino were $39 each, and Double Trouble $17. Compared to my usual TV-dinners, this felt like a justified investment, not just in taste and craftsmanship, but in the rare, fleeting pleasure of believing that even my high-school palate had been elevated for an evening.
In the end, I left Spring House full, satisfied, and just a little smug, already plotting my next scholarly excuse to return.
