My daughter’s strawberry-blond waves bounced to the melody of “This Must Be the Place” as she twirled in front of an oversized mirror. The four women seated beside her chuckled at the show they were getting “for free.”
I shot the table a nervous smile as I spooned silky hummus into my nine-month-old’s mouth. I couldn’t believe my luck. It’s not normal to go to a cool new restaurant—with your kids—and feel totally relaxed.
Leading up to the night, I texted three different people to see if they could watch our kids. My tactful approach was to go out early so no one would be on the hook for our chaotic bedtime routine. But, between social calendars, travel, and mysterious work obligations, no one took the bait.
Plus, I was leaving town at the end of the week and had a deadline for this article (oh, the logistics), so I made the game-time decision to pick up my girls early from day care and bring them along for my dinner visit.
I take my kids out to restaurants a lot. Heck, I reviewed Ristorante Lucano when my daughter was two weeks old. I don’t expect coloring pages and special kids’ menus, but it’s good to know if we’re going to be a spectacle when someone decides she wants to convert an empty booth into her clubhouse for the evening.
And I know we can be a lot. We can be loud. But over the years, I’ve found a handful of tried-and-true places that have blessed us with bathroom changing tables.
Carmella’s was not on our shortlist. If anything, I had flagged it as a lovely place for an adult night out with my husband.
Located right in Pittsford’s Schoen Place, the interior was designed by the same woman who dreamed up the interior of Patron Saint (see our last issue), and I was lusting after it. It’s all luxe blush-hued seating and oh-so-on-trend burl wood tables. And it’s a wine bar, which I kind of have a thing for.
Nothing about this place screamed kid friendly.
In preparation, I did what I always do: research the menu. So when I picked up my toddler from day care, I told her we’d be going to a place with potato chips and waffles. This was for her but also for me to figure out the items I wouldn’t have to fight her on. She seemed into it.
My husband met up with me in the parking lot, and we exchanged glances. “If they’re too much, you should stay, and I’ll bring them home,” he offered.
“It’ll be fine,” I replied, which was also an affirmation to myself.
When we sat down, our server brought us water in a plastic cup with colorful designs on the side. The simple gesture put my mind at ease. These were definitely not the first children to step through the doors.
As my husband and I looked at the wines—more than twenty by the glass, ranging from classic Super Tuscans to a sparkling rosé from South Africa—my toddler yanked something from behind my back. To my chagrin, she was collecting all of the terra-cotta pillows from our banquette and piling them into a nest.
At least we were the only people on this side of the dining room.
I quickly ordered a glass of Txakolina, a tart, slightly effervescent white wine from Spain, and placed an order for olives ($6) and potato chips ($11) before running back to my car to grab the Highlights magazines we keep in the seat pocket.
When I returned, she was happily munching a mountain of crisps with ribbons of pink prosciutto layered in. Tiny vinegary peppers sat on top like cherries on an ice cream sundae.
“You’re just in time,” my husband cheered. Our server placed a stemmed glass on the table, then poured from a clear pitcher, called a porrón, that looked straight out of Dr. Seuss.
Everything was going to be just fine, I told myself. And then a party of four women sat down across from us.
I ordered what was probably too much food and collapsed back in my seat. My oldest was now in the middle of the dining room, dangerously close to the nice people who had just gotten here, examining an arched mirror that had to be at least seven feet tall.
I tried my best to restrain my “mom voice” and, as sweetly as I could muster, coaxed her with chips and olives. She ignored me, spinning in front of the mirror and dancing toward the neighboring table.
“It’s really a shame she’s not more social,” one of the women laughed. I apologized for interrupting her meal, and she shrugged it off. She was a teacher and called my daughter adorable. I felt my anxiety fall away.
Maybe it was the wine or the fact that our other dishes started arriving, but I started to genuinely enjoy myself.
The hummus ($17) arrived in a shallow bowl, garlicky and bright with lemon, crowned with colorful cherry tomatoes, crisp cucumber, and radish slices. It wasn’t fussy. It was just good, which I would later learn is the entire point.
The owner, Joseph Lapi, built this menu backward, starting with the wine. He’d spent decades understanding how drinks and food speak to each other as the wine director at RPM in Chicago. Instead of chasing trends or copying what worked elsewhere, he’d simply built a menu around what people like to drink and what classically pairs well with it. Rather than showy small plates that are designed to impress, Carmella’s menu is comprised of delicious bites you’d want with a glass of wine at 5 p.m. on a Wednesday.
But that doesn’t mean that they’re boring or tired dishes.
The prime beef meatballs ($18) came next. Lapi later told me they are his grandmother’s recipe but with his own addition of ground pork so they stay tender through a long braise in the sauce. They were nothing like the Instagram version of fine dining—just good, baseball-sized meatballs, the kind that make you marvel at how large they are. We cut them up into eight or so pieces, and my kiddos devoured them.
Then came the chive waffle topped with polanco golden ossetra caviar, salmon roe, and crème fraîche ($29). It could have been precious. It also could have been $80. Instead, it was playful, like someone had decided fancy didn’t have to mean fussy.
This was the real departure from what I’d been seeing everywhere else around town. Not caviar service as a ceremony but caviar as an ingredient. Potato chips with good prosciutto. Smoked salmon rillette on an everything-spice tart shell ($17). High-quality, fun stuff at an accessible price point that wasn’t stingy on portion sizes.
My youngest mouthed for another bite of hummus. My husband reached for a stray chunk of meatball. And I understood: This place wasn’t trying to prove anything to anyone.
After the baby fell asleep, I moved her to the car seat and ordered another glass of wine. I listened to the new table beside us ponder the different menu options aloud. “The hummus is delicious,” I offered. “You should definitely get it.” My husband and I finally caught up on how our weeks were going.
We bantered about who’d finish what. I claimed the last of the rillette and snapped a picture of it split open, just to see how the kitchen layered all that flavor (red onion, cucumber, and dill) under the perfectly piped mousse.
And what’s better still is that nobody made me feel like I was committing a crime by bringing my kids. My four-year-old didn’t need instructions on how to eat a caviar waffle. She just ate it.
She understood that good crunchy chips and a tin of Italian olives were worth her attention.
That’s what Carmella’s knows that other places don’t. Dining out is about the people you’re with, not about picking the perfect place, ordering the memorable thing, and “performing” during a meal. When everything’s already been thought through—the wine, the food, the space—you can just be there and relax.
So call up your friends—the picky ones, the ones who are too loud—and invite them out for a drink. There’s abundant parking at Schoen Place, so you don’t have to stress about that.
Go drink bubbles after your boat ride on the canal. Wear sandals. Laugh boisterously. You don’t need permission, and Carmella’s won’t make you apologize for it, either.
Carmella’s Wine Bar
3 Schoen Pl., Pittsford
267-7158
This article originally appeared in the July/August 2026 issue of (585).
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