Watching Nonnas, the new Netflix dramedy inspired by the true story of Enoteca Maria, is like slipping into a pot of spaghetti sauce—warm, slow-cooked, and full of feeling.
Vince Vaughn plays Joe Scaravella, a grief-stricken son who opens a restaurant staffed entirely by grandmothers cooking from memory. The movie is a tender tribute to food, family, and the women who raised us. And at first glance, it’s the kind of story that makes any food lover’s heart swell.
A Real-Life Inspiration with Real Challenges
Founded in 2007 by Joe Scaravella, Enoteca Maria in Staten Island brought this dream to life—recruiting real nonnas from around the neighborhood to cook the dishes of their childhood. At the time, New American cuisine was emerging from local migrant communities, food media was booming, and diners were hungry for stories as much as meals. This soulful concept stood out.
Enoteca Maria earned a MICHELIN Bib Gourmand and plenty of admiration for its warmth and originality. But like any restaurant run by many hands, consistency varied. And when Nonnas hit Netflix, Scaravella was suddenly overwhelmed with attention—a reminder that a good story can be a double-edged spoon.
Burn Marks and Bribes
Nonnas glides by on warmth—until one chaotic scene breaks the spell. A capuzzelle (roasted lamb’s head) catches fire, the oven erupts, and a shady inspector fails the building inspection because of that. It’s made clear: a follow-up inspection won’t be happening anytime soon—unless, of course, something discreetly changes hands.
Then days after the inspector miraculously returns with an approved permit, thanks to a sharp lawyer friend who catches wind of the scheme and threatens to expose it. Sound familiar? In the Philippines, we know how this might go: a kumparemakes a call, and the problem vanishes over coffee, a quiet handshake, or an unspoken favor. It’s one of the film’s rare moments of grit—and it lands with a wink of recognition.
If It Were Set in the Philippines…
As a chef, I couldn’t help but feel torn. Yes, it’s charming and sincere, but it also plays like a fantasy—a comforting one, far removed from the tough, technical grind of real restaurant life.
If this happened in the Philippines, the Lolas wouldn’t work the line daily—they would oversee, correct, and call the shots from a distance. In many carinderias and bulalohans, their influence is everywhere: in the method, in the memory, watching over the guisa. The food still tastes like them, even if someone else does the stirring.
But these places—the ones powered by memory and pakikisama—are slowly disappearing. Chain restaurants, rising costs, and changing lifestyles have chipped away at the places where Lolas once reigned supreme.
When Nostalgia Becomes a Sales Pitch
We all love heirloom recipes. But let’s be honest: “from Lola’s kitchen” is now as much a marketing line as it is a promise. Menus lean hard into legacy—even when the dish was whipped up last quarter.
This is where Nonnas walks a fine line. The film earns its emotion, mostly. But for those of us who’ve seen these stories repackaged and commodified, the sentiment can start to feel too polished. Like a Sunday stew with just a little too much sugar.
A Feel-Good Film Steeped in Family and Flavor
Nonnas is a feel-good film steeped in food, family, and familiar comforts—not a steamy romance, but a tender one that fills you up emotionally. It wraps food, family, and memory into something that lingers warmly—like the smell of garlic in your kitchen long after the meal’s done.
It’s also a great pick for a Mother’s Day movie night. Whether you’re watching with your mom, your Lola, or simply in need of a heartwarming story, Nonnas offers tender moments and nostalgic comfort—best enjoyed with something lovingly homemade.
Final Thoughts
Still, Nonnas hits a nerve in the best way. It reminds us that food is more than flavor—it’s memory, inheritance, and sometimes, healing. It’s worth watching, especially if you’ve ever watched your Lola cook with nothing but instinct and heart.
So yes—watch the movie. Cry a little. Cook something. Maybe even call your Lola.
Just don’t open a restaurant the morning after.
