The Hole-In-The-Wall Virginia Spot Where Every Bite Still Tastes Like Sunday Supper
Hidden down a winding street in Cleveland’s charming Little Italy neighborhood, Guarino’s Restaurant has been a beloved culinary landmark since 1918.
As Ohio’s oldest restaurant, this family-owned gem has stood the test of time, weathering world wars, economic downturns, and shifting food trends, all while staying true to its roots in authentic Italian cooking.
Inside, the atmosphere feels timeless, with cozy dining rooms that have hosted generations of families, friends, and first dates. The modest exterior may not demand attention, but Clevelanders know better—Guarino’s is where tradition lives, flavors linger, and memories are made. Those who know, go.
Recipes Passed Down Through Five Generations
The magic begins with a tattered recipe book that’s been handed down since 1907. Every gravy-soaked biscuit and crispy fried chicken piece follows instructions penned by great-great-grandmothers who cooked by feel rather than measurement.
I watched Miss Betsy, the 78-year-old matriarch, roll out pie dough with the same rolling pin her grandmother used. “Some restaurants chase trends,” she told me with a wink. “We chase memories.”
These recipes haven’t changed because they don’t need to – they’ve already achieved perfection through decades of Sunday dinner refinement.
Family-Style Seating That Turns Strangers Into Friends
The first time I visited, I found myself elbow-to-elbow with a retired coal miner and a young couple celebrating their anniversary. By dessert, we were sharing family photos! That’s the Homeplace magic.
Long wooden tables accommodate eight to ten guests, meaning solo diners and small groups inevitably become temporary family. The owners insist this arrangement wasn’t a business decision but a reflection of how Sunday suppers should feel – crowded, noisy, and brimming with conversation.
Many regulars claim they’ve made lifelong friends across these tables, united by nothing more than good food and proximity.
The Mysterious Gravy That Nobody Can Replicate
Lord have mercy, that gravy! Smooth as silk yet hearty enough to stand up to the fluffiest mashed potatoes you’ve ever tasted. Golden-brown with tiny specks that hint at its complexity without revealing its secrets.
Countless food writers have tried to decode the recipe. One food blogger claimed to have watched the kitchen for three hours, only to leave more confused than when she arrived. Even America’s Test Kitchen failed to reverse-engineer it after multiple attempts.
When asked about ingredients, the cook just smiles and says, “A little of this, a little of that, and a whole lot of Sunday.” Whatever that means, it works.
A Building That’s Older Than The State Highway System
The restaurant itself deserves a historical marker. Built in 1897 as a family farmhouse, the structure has weathered two centuries with minimal renovation. Original heart pine floors creak beneath your feet, telling stories with every step.
Mismatched chairs surround tables made from repurposed barn doors. The walls, adorned with black-and-white photos of stern-faced ancestors, feel like a living museum of Appalachian life.
During a particularly harsh winter storm in 1978, the entire building served as emergency shelter for stranded travelers. Even then, the owners cooked Sunday supper for everyone – establishing a tradition that continues whenever bad weather strikes.
No Menus, No Choices, No Complaints
“What’s for dinner?” I asked innocently on my first visit. The waitress – Mary Lou, according to her hand-embroidered name tag – laughed so hard she nearly spilled her coffee pot. There are no menus at The Homeplace because there are no choices to make.
You get what’s cooking that day, served family-style until you can’t possibly eat another bite. Sunday might bring ham and fried chicken, while Thursday could feature pot roast so tender it falls apart when you look at it.
Remarkably, despite this take-it-or-leave-it approach, I’ve never heard a single complaint about the food. Not once.
The Three-Hour Rule That Nobody Breaks
“You can’t rush Sunday supper,” Mr. Wilson told me as he topped off my sweet tea. At 92, he’s been eating here since he was a boy and has never once felt rushed.
The Homeplace operates on what locals call the Three-Hour Rule – the understanding that proper meals take time. Dishes arrive when they’re ready, not when you are. Dessert appears only after conversation has properly digested your main course.
In our hurried world, this deliberate pacing feels revolutionary. I watched a businessman check his watch repeatedly before surrendering to the rhythm, eventually lingering longer than anyone else at the table.
The Dessert That’s Worth The Drive Alone
My first bite of blackberry cobbler nearly brought tears to my eyes. The berries, picked from bushes growing wild on the property, burst with sunshine and rain in equal measure. The crust – somehow both crisp and tender – provided the perfect contrast to the warm, purple filling.
“The secret’s in the butter,” whispered Alma, the 68-year-old dessert specialist who’s been making this cobbler since she was tall enough to reach the counter. She churns it herself from cream provided by a neighbor’s cows.
People have been known to drive three hours from Richmond just for this dessert. After tasting it, I completely understand why.