The broth leaned lighter than I'd hoped — almost brothier than creamy, which is a real sin in the chowder world. There was flavor there in theory, just a little lost in translation. Not bad, not bold. The kind of chowder that's fine when you're hungry but doesn't stick with you when you leave.

Here's the thing — Jadin at the bar was the absolute highlight of the stop. She made me feel like a regular from the moment I sat down. Warm, attentive, genuinely fun to talk to. If customer service were the only clam category, this would've been a perfect five without hesitation. This is the kind of personality that makes you stay for another bowl, even when the bowl doesn't quite deserve it.

Blink and you might miss them. The clams were small enough that they almost felt like a rumor — present in the bowl, but barely announcing themselves in either flavor or texture. You had to take the menu's word that they were actually in there. More clam presence, please.

This is not your grandma's clam chowder — and that's okay. There's something in the miso butter that transforms a familiar bowl into something genuinely exciting. A warm, slightly savory, umami-forward depth you can't quite name but absolutely want more of. The flavor is bold, creative, and confident. This is the chowder you'd order again just to understand what you're tasting.

The kitchen is clearly where the passion lives. The front of house? Less so. The host greeted me with the energy of someone who had already mentally clocked out — seating me felt more like a task than a welcome. In a coastal town built on tourism, the basics matter. The food makes up for it, but barely.

Manila Clams were the right call — briny, flavorful, and they held up beautifully in that miso broth. The only issue: I ordered a bowl and received something closer to a generous cup. The clams were good. There just weren't quite enough of them to crown this the winner.

This might be the most technically correct chowder on the list. Thick. Creamy. Well-seasoned. A proper potato-to-clam ratio that doesn't apologize for what it is. I grabbed this one to-go — right after breakfast, not ideal timing for a bowl of cream and potatoes — and even at half hunger, it was legitimately great. No fusion, no gimmicks. Just Newport doing Newport.

I have to talk about the bread bowl. When I asked if I should add one to the to-go order, my server paused, looked at me, and offered: "...ahhh, if you like a lot of carbs." They had just opened. The coffee was still brewing. I wasn't asking for a wellness consultation. I got the bread bowl anyway. It was perfect. The chowder didn't need the commentary.

A solid, honest amount of clam in every spoonful. Thick enough that they didn't get lost in the broth. This is what you show someone when you're trying to explain what chowder is supposed to be. The clam is a main character here, not a supporting player.

"Cori" means heart in Chef Accursio Lota's Sicilian dialect — and you taste that philosophy in everything that comes out of his kitchen. Let me set expectations right though: this is not the Sunday-gravy, red-checkered-tablecloth Italian you might be picturing. This is Sicilian through the lens of a chef with serious technique and zero interest in doing the expected thing. Case in point: the aperitivo. Three warm donuts, filled with a savory carbonara-style sauce, topped with Cacio e Pepe foam. That sentence sounds like something from a cooking competition. It tasted like something that made the table go quiet. Every component freshly made in-house, every ingredient sourced directly from the farmers market — farm-to-table done the Italian way, where the tradition and the technique are both fully present.

Bridget has been with Cori for seven years and is now managing the floor, and the difference shows in everything. A server who grows into management brings something you can't train — institutional memory, personal investment, a genuine connection to every dish on the menu. She navigated us through the whole experience with the confidence of someone who's eaten everything on it and the warmth of someone who actually wanted us to love it. This is the kind of service that makes a meal feel like it was planned specifically for you. The whole dining room benefits from her being there.

The four here isn't a knock — it's a context note, and an important one. Cori is Sicilian with a serious twist: Mediterranean flavors pushed through the sensibility of a Michelin-caliber kitchen. The aperitivo donuts are the perfect example — familiar flavor profile (carbonara), completely reimagined form, executed with precision. The farmers market sourcing makes everything taste more alive than it has any right to. If you come expecting traditional Sicilian, you may be caught off guard. But if you come curious, willing to let go of what you expected this to be, you'll leave grateful. That single missing canoli isn't about quality. It's about the gap between tradition and innovation, and Cori lives proudly in that space.

Start with the squash blossoms. Golden, just-fried, laid out over arugula with a marinara dipping sauce on the side — and when you bite in, a creamy ricotta center with a quiet thread of Italian meat running through it. They set the tone for everything that follows. The main courses hold nothing back: the Pollo al Marsala arrives blanketed in a marsala cream sauce with mushrooms, alongside roasted fingerling potatoes and braised artichokes, the kind of plate that makes you slow down and eat deliberately. The wide pasta ribbons come in a slow-braised ragù, glossy and rich and deeply satisfying. You will reach a point at every course where the right call is to set the fork down and simply wait. We did, more than once. That is not a complaint — that is Neapolitan cooking being honest about what it is. One honest note: the cannoli, when they arrived, didn't quite carry the freshly-made crispness the rest of the night had earned. The shells felt pre-made, and the filling lacked the conviction of everything that came before. A soft landing after a strong flight.

Philip introduced us to Siamo Napoli, and on this visit introduced us to Flavio — one of the owners — and that second introduction changed the texture of the whole evening. Flavio greeted us like returning guests, had drinks moving before we'd fully settled in, and carried that warmth through the night without making it feel performed. The rest of the service team kept everything flowing smoothly and were genuinely friendly throughout. The honest note is this: Siamo Napoli is a full, buzzing restaurant, and the servers simply don't have the bandwidth to stop and share the night with you the way Bridget does at Cori or Giuseppe does at Vinarius. They're working with purpose and they're smiling while they do it. It just doesn't linger. On a night like this one, the connection with Flavio carries what the floor alone can't quite reach.

Siamo Napoli means "We are Naples" — and they mean every word. The menu opens with a Sophia Loren quote and closes with "Il dolce è come un bacio, non si dimenticare mai" — dessert is like a kiss you never forget. Between those two lines is a restaurant that doesn't approximate Neapolitan dining; it channels it. An open kitchen working at full volume, tables pushed close enough together that the energy of the room becomes part of your meal, conversations layering over each other the way they do on a Friday night in a neighborhood trattoria south of Rome — this is the whole point. These five canolis aren't for any single dish. They're for what Siamo Napoli does that almost nothing else in San Diego can: put you somewhere else entirely. One thing worth knowing before you go: this room is loud, intentionally and wonderfully so. If you want that bustling, everyone-talking-at-once Napoli energy, there is no better table in the city. If you're planning a quiet date night where you'd like to actually hear each other, this may not be that night. Know what you're walking into. If it's the former, you'll leave grateful.

Start at the salsa bar. Seriously — before you order, before you even sit down, walk the whole length of it. Ten to twelve fresh salsas, each one distinct: sweet and smoky, bright and citrusy, deep red and quietly dangerous, a green that bites back just enough to remind you it's paying attention. One honest note: no pico de gallo in the lineup, which felt like a gap — a classic fresh tomato salsa would've rounded out the spread nicely. Still, this isn't a side attraction — it's the architecture the whole meal is built around, and it earns five tacos on its own. One more thing that deserves mention: the corn tortillas are made fresh in-house, and you can taste it. They have a warmth and a slight chew that the packaged stuff just can't fake — it quietly elevates every bite. Then the food itself: the shrimp taco is breaded, fried, warm, and generous in a way that makes one taco a complete argument for the concept — one will genuinely fill some people, a fact worth knowing before you order three. The chicken chipotle burrito is massive, fresh, crunchy in the right places, and lands exactly where you want lunch to land — satisfied, not regretting it, quietly thinking about going back. Everything out of this kitchen tastes like someone actually cared.

The vibe is food truck: efficient, friendly, zero pretension, zero fuss. The team is warm and genuinely kind, and they keep things moving without making you feel rushed through it. One honest note: my Spanish wasn't keeping up with theirs, and there were a few moments where I felt the gap — not in an unwelcoming way, more like a gentle reminder that I was a guest in their house and probably should have brushed up before walking in. The four tacos here reflect service that was genuinely good; the missing one is on me more than them.

Here's the honest version: I wasn't expecting fried, breaded shrimp inside a taco at a spot like this. I'd built a picture in my head of something more traditional, and when the plate arrived it took me a beat to recalibrate. Once I did — once I actually tasted it instead of comparing it to what I'd imagined — it worked. The shrimp pairs brilliantly with the salsa bar, which is really the secret weapon of the whole operation. The 3.5 isn't a knock on the taco. It's an honest score from someone who came in with an assumption and left with a full stomach and a revised opinion. Lesson learned: read the menu before you order, and let the salsa bar guide you the rest of the way.