Kenny's Italian Kitchen: Big Prices, Big Portions, Big Bore

Tucked into a strip mall that would challenge the most talented maze-running rats, Kenny's Italian Kitchen isn't easy to find by way of address. The restaurant's so far removed from the intersection of Belt Line Road and Dallas Parkway that street names and numbers don't make much sense; diners are well-advised to meander until they spot the neon green signs for "meatballs" and "veal."

Few restaurants telegraph their intentions as plainly as Kenny's Italian Kitchen, the third user-friendly restaurant from Kenny Bowers, who's had impressive success with Kenny's Wood-Fired Grill and Kenny's Burger Joint. The eatery's a third-generation riff on noodles and red sauce, designed not to recall the old country but the East Coast cookery its memories inspired.

You may want to take another swig from your straw-wrapped bottle of Chianti here, because we're about to get meta: Kenny's Italian Kitchen is a re-creation of a reinvention. "You will swear you just dined at a neighborhood Italian joint in the Northeast," the restaurant's website promises. Indeed. You will swear it upside-down and sideways, or risk being seated beneath the neon "Bada Bing" sign on your next visit. Capiche?

Kenny's Italian Kitchen dishes out the familiar- and such large portions!
Sara Kerens
Kenny's Italian Kitchen dishes out the familiar- and such large portions!

Location Info

Map

Kenny's Italian Kitchen

5100 Beltline Road, Ste. 764
Dallas, TX 75254

Category: Restaurant > Italian

Region: North Dallas

Details

Kenny’s Italian Kitchen 5100 Beltline Road, Suite 764, 972-661-9380, kennysitalian.com. Open 11 a.m.-10 p.m., Monday-Thursday; 11 a.m.-11 p.m., Friday; 5 p.m.-11 p.m., Saturday-Sunday. $$$


Calamari $9.99 Caesar salad $7.99 Chicken Parmesan $15.99 Meatball appetizer $7.99 Tomato burrata salad $9.99 Spaghetti and clams $19.99 Sausage appetizer $7.99 Veal picatta $21.99 Chicken Marsala $15.99 Tiramisu $9.99

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Like Tex-Mex, Italian-American is a freestanding and legitimate homegrown cuisine (although it could use a snappier name). Admiration for the soups of Puglia and Piedmontese risotto doesn't, or shouldn't, preclude affection for pans of burnished lasagnas gurgling with cheese and bronzed baked ziti sheathed with garlic and oregano. There's nothing wrong with making Italian-American classics the centerpiece of a restaurant. But if a restaurant's going to work in such an intensely familiar genre, its dishes have to be pretty good.

You can't fool Americans with spaghetti. There's not a diner who can twirl a fork who hasn't eaten hundreds of plates of spaghetti. The U.S. Army has been feeding spaghetti to its troops since World War II. Schoolchildren eat spaghetti, prisoners eat spaghetti.

Americans know spaghetti. So a restaurant can't serve a middling plate of spaghetti and expect customers to cock their heads and say: "Well, isn't that an interesting take on spaghetti." Restaurants that have a tenuous grasp on such standard preparations have two choices: They can get better, or go bigger. Kenny's Italian Kitchen's gone with the latter.

The portions at Kenny's are so overwhelming that it's almost impossible to notice anything else. Balance and seasoning seem like secondary considerations when faced with the very real question of how many days it might take to subdue a single serving of chicken cacciatore.

Kenny's approach could be defended as pastiche, except that customers are charged for it. A bland, pounded chicken cutlet the size of a human face doesn't seem so cute and kitschy when it's priced at $16. Nor is it especially satisfying to pay $25 for a bone-in veal Parmesan most of which ends up left on its vintage-y, faded red-fringed plate.

To be clear, I'm not typically cowed by large amounts of food. I've been known to parry waiters' recitations of the dessert menu with a second entrée order. But scanning my table at Kenny's, still set with an unfinished appetizer, unfinished salads and entrées, I had the sensation of staring through a magnifying glass. Everything was huge.

I'm not sure how Kenny's benefits from browbeating its customers with such massive servings, since the practice cranks up the bar for evaluation. The question becomes not "Is this an acceptable dinner?" but "Is this an acceptable dinner, breakfast, lunch and dinner again?" In most cases, Kenny's dishes can't meet that exacting standard.

If Kenny's could bring its prices in line with a chain restaurant like Carrabba's, it could be a fine neighborhood spot. Kenny's serves a number of decent dishes that might not merit a trip through the kitchen's magnificent giant-portion-expanding machine, but could be just the thing after a marathon Sopranos viewing session.

Décor-wise, the restaurant's grand Italian-American theme has been scaled back to Recession Era levels. There are heavy red curtains on the windows and red-checked tablecloths on the tables, but the hastily hung posters of Frank Sinatra and James Dean give the room an air of impermanence. It could be decorated for prom.

Much of the food is similarly half-hearted. To start, there's a wet and lemony Caesar salad of pale green romaine chopped down to nibs the size of checkerboard squares and disconcertingly spongy, warm croutons with all the structural integrity of puffed marshmallows. Other salads include a chopped salad, gorgonzola salad and a tomato burrata salad that gets a permanent slot on the menu—tomato season be damned. But while the tomatoes are pale, the green pesto's vivid and the soft white cheese is tangy. Even better, salads are offered in half-portions, an option that's not mentioned on the menu.

"I just have to enter it in the computer as a sub Caesar," explained a server who, like most of the servers we encountered, seemed to be stuck in an adjustment phase. Servers repeatedly told my table more about behind-the-scenes doings than we needed to know, usually speaking in restaurantese. Still, even if their instincts were off—one server was deeply alarmed by my drinking what I guess would now be classified as a "clean" gin martini, and enthusiastically offered to bring me a corrective side of olive juice—they were generally polite and efficient.

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