The wind was fierce as we crossed the city. It was one of those wayward April evenings when Boston forgets it’s spring and channels February instead. We walked from the Back Bay, coats buttoned and collars high, letting the city’s grit scrape the edge off a long workday. By the time we reached Rowes Wharf, cheeks flushed and hair windswept, we stepped into Pasta Beach and crossed a threshold into warmth, light, and the first deep breath we’d taken all day.

Inside, the warmth was a relief, and the faint scent of yeast and garlic hanging in the air introduced the promise of a fantastic dinner. Our gaze was immediately drawn to the bar... a laid-back air of sophistication with warm lighting and a playful sense of design. Three oversized, bold red pendant lamps hung dramatically from the ceiling, suspended by thick nautical ropes that echo the restaurant’s seaside theme. The seating is modern and sleek, with high bar stools and the feel of a place where business meetings dissolve into happy hour, and weekday worries slip away with the first sip of a well-poured cocktail. We opted for a table instead, though, as it felt more like a meal, less like an escape.

The wine list read like a travelogue, with stops through obscure corners of Italy. My dinner guest sipped a crisp Sauvignon Blanc from Friuli, sharp as sea glass, while I discovered a Lambrusco that shimmered with a dry, fizzy brightness… playful and just serious enough. We toasted to Tuesday.

The Focaccia Rosmarino arrived first: puffed rounds, golden to perfection, with a brittle crust that yielded to a pillowy, herb-perfumed interior. It was one of those breads easily torn with fingers and shared with wide eyes. Then, the scallops: sweet, plump, and gently seared, resting on a bed of garlic-slicked potato purée with smoky oyster mushrooms and wisps of bok choy. A simple plate (the featured photo), but the kind you remember when you're craving comfort.

We were already on our way to being full in that wonderful, lingering way and took a beat as the menu demanded further attention. Real Italian, not Italian-American -- and outside of the North End at an Italian restaurant in Boston is a distinction that feels increasingly rare. A glance of the menu was all it took for my eyes to focus on Bucatini cacio e pepe. I had eaten it at a locals-filled trattoria in Florence last December, washed down with a bottle of straw-bellied house Chianti wine. Nostalgia wins, always.

The pasta arrived in a swirl of pecorino and black pepper, perfectly al dente, silk-slick and unapologetically rich. We shared it, of course, so we could also order the chicken Milanese pounded thin, breaded crisp, and made decadent with a tangle of molten Parmesan and a generous ladle of tomato sauce. It came with a plated pile of arugula, which I usually tolerate more than enjoy. But here it worked, as the bitter greens were softened by shavings of cheese and the sweetness of cherry tomatoes.

The portions were generous. Too generous. We surrendered, happily. There was no room for dessert, only curiosity to learn more about this restaurant. The manager stopped by and shared the story behind this place: Pasta Beach, born from the vision of the Ropolo family of Torino, expanded with care across New England and now into Charleston, South Carolina. We learned that this Boston location opened in 2010, and reopened in 2022, following renovations from a fire. The chef, Andrea Congiusta, trained in the temples of taste… Niko Romito’s Il Reale among them. You taste that pedigree in the food. Nothing fussy. Just clean flavors, perfect execution.

I promised myself I would return, if only to try the roasted bone marrow with lobster, or from the Pinse section of the menu to taste the pizza with roasted tomatoes and burrata the manager described like a summer romance. Next time, I would sit outside. One of the two patio seating areas overlooks the harbor, and I imagine, come June, it will be a stage for people-watching and salt-tinged breezes.

We did not drive to Pasta Beach, but it’s good to know they validate parking. And for anyone running the upcoming Boston Marathon, this would be the perfect place to load up on carbs and comfort. But you don’t need an excuse. Sometimes, Tuesday is reason enough.

Charlene Peters is a travel, food, and wine writer and author of "Travel Makes Me Hungry."