From the late 1970s through the mid 1980s, much of my childhood was spent frequenting the local corner stores. My friends and I would go after school and all throughout the summer. All the neighborhoods—Canton, Highlandtown, and what is now Brewers Hill—were positively full of them.

The corner stores I remember sold groceries, meats, snacks, drinks, milk, sodas, snowballs, candy, and even Pinky Hi-Bounce balls, metal jacks game sets, and wooden paddle balls. As a young child, I ate ice cream kiddie cups with a wooden spoon, and as a teen, I devoured snowballs—but only certain flavors: sky blue (which tasted, well, blue), grape, spearmint, or egg custard topped with marshmallow.

Even though corner stores were prevalent in Southeast Baltimore, there’s surprisingly not a lot of written history about them. So, I decided to go straight to the source and reached out to six families of corner store owners to get a real feel for what life was like for them.

URBAN VILLAGES
Retired Senator Barbara Mikulski essentially grew up in a corner store. Her parents, William and Chris Mikulski, purchased their first shop, Willy’s, as newlyweds in 1935. It was located at 718 S. Eaton St., in what is today Brewers Hill.

“People didn’t have cars, so they lived in urban villages, where everything was within walking distance, and they shopped in the same area,” says Mikulski. “There were little mom-and-pop stores on the corners that met basic needs—a baker’s shop, a grocery store, a shoe repair, etc. Then there was the Avenue [Eastern Avenue] where we would shop for the rest.”

Mikulski’s parents purchased a house near the shop at 715 S. Eaton St., and they rented out the apartment above Willy’s. “You usually rented to a relative or somebody you knew from work or church,” she says.

According to Eric Holcomb, author of The City as Suburb: A History of Northeast Baltimore Since 1660, before the 20th century, there was no “separation of uses” in terms of zoning. “That’s why corner stores could have your house, your store, and even your warehouse in the same building,” says Holcomb.

In Willy’s early days, Mikulski’s father ran the store, and her mom kept the books while taking care of their daughters and household. When the store got busy, “Miss Chris,” as she was known to the neighborhood kids, helped out. I remember her always throwing a candy bar into the paper bag filled with my mom’s purchases.

While they initially sold canned goods and meats, as her father was an accomplished butcher, Mikulski says that her parents were forward-thinking when it came to the business.

“When World War II was over, my mother told my father that women were going to move from canned goods to frozen food. My father had one of the first freezers in the neighborhood in that store,” Mikulski says.

If her parents knew someone was ill, they would send young Barbara to their homes with their orders. They wouldn’t let her accept a tip. “You’re the grocer’s daughter. Be kind and be helpful,” they’d tell her.

Mikulski remembers the basement of their corner store being used as a fallout shelter during WWII for vulnerable populations.

“My father was an air raid warden. He and one of the other guys in their late 20s would patrol the neighborhood. And if there was ever an air-raid siren, my father’s place was one of the designated shelters,” she says. “The elderly or anyone with children would go into the basement and wait until the air raid was over. There were canned goods down there for them if needed. Whether it would’ve ever really worked, who knows?”

Her parents retired and sold the store in the early 1970s. For a while, it was used to sell meats and for catering. Now, it’s a private home that you’d never know was once a corner store.

“People didn’t have cars, so they lived where everything was within walking distance and shopped in the same area. There were mom-and-pop stores on the corners that met basic needs.”

SUPPORTING HER FAMILY
In 1957, Baltimore City firefighter Lee MacKenzie died of a heart issue. Like many men of his generation, he was the sole supporter of his family. Although she received a small amount of money from the Widow and Orphan’s Fund, his widow, Mary Magdalene “Lena” MacKenzie, needed to support her children.

So, MacKenzie bought an already existing store at 3225 Foster Ave. at the corner of Foster Ave. and Bouldin St. in Highlandtown. At the time, she and her children lived nearby at 3217 Foster Ave. and rented out the upstairs apartment above the store. Four years later, when her daughter Elinor married Jim Benzing, MacKenzie sold them that house, and she and her daughter Maria moved into the accommodations directly behind the store, while continuing to rent the upstairs.

Known as MacKenzie’s Confectionery, the store sold only key essentials since there was an A&P grocery store nearby. That included milk, bread, and eggs, plus a soda fountain—where she and Maria would make fountain sodas, milkshakes, hand-dipped ice cream, ice cream floats, and snowballs.

“When the egg man dropped off eggs to grandma’s [store], he would drop eggs off at our house too,” recalls Chris Benzing, her grandson. “I thought the egg man came to everyone’s house, because for us that was normal.”

Behind the counter, MacKenzie sold packs of cigarettes, some canned goods, cereal, soap, detergent, toilet paper, and other shelf-stable items. She also sold knickknacks, small toys, and greeting cards on a spinning rack.

Like many corner store owners, she didn’t keep stock in bulk, as vendors would come by weekly and take orders on what she needed. The next week, they’d deliver them. According to Mikulski, this is why many stores were on the corner of blocks or alleys—to make delivery easy.

The MacKenzies lived in the small apartment—living room, galley kitchen, one bedroom—behind the store, through a doorway that was always open. Their bathroom, with its clawfoot tub, was in the basement, which was also used for storage.

“The basement was the scariest. We raced through it. It wasn’t finished, and it just had their bathroom and furnace,” says Leah Benzing, a granddaughter.

“That’s where she also had all the flavors for the snowballs in big containers on a table,” adds Barbara Smith, another granddaughter.

The store front had a doorbell attached, which would ring in the kitchen. That way, if their grandmother and Maria were having lunch when the store was empty, they would know when a customer arrived.

In 1975, MacKenzie sold her store to one of her vendors, and it became Dawn’s Confectionery, named after the owner’s daughter. It’s now a rowhome.

MISS CASS’
In 1961, three months after Theresa Buerhaus Pratt was born, she and her four siblings moved with their parents to a corner store at 3800 Fait Ave. and Eaton St. in what is now Brewers Hill. Her father, George, worked full-time, and her mom, Cass, stayed home with the kids. Officially called Buerhaus Confectionery Store, it was known by the neighborhood as Miss Cass’ or just Cass’.

Although it was less than a block away from Mikulski’s parent’s shop, Miss Cass sold items the nearby store didn’t have, like comic books, newspapers, Tasty Kakes, and cigarettes. There was also a glass case of penny candy, and they sold snowballs out of the garage on the back of the house.

During many summer breaks, Pratt would work at the snowball stand three days a week from 10 a.m. until 10 p.m. Before opening, she’d mix the marshmallow and mix flavors. Upon closing, she would count the money, roll the coins, and wipe everything down with bleach.

“But I got paid $5 a day,” says Pratt proudly.

Behind the store was their living room, kitchen, and the garage. Upstairs were three bedrooms, one for the four girls (who slept in two double beds), the middle room for their brother, and the back one for their parents. While she enjoyed living at the store, Pratt says there was one downside. The store opened directly into their living room, and her mom insisted on keeping one of the French doors open at all times.

“She would never close it, and it would drive us nuts because you’d be sitting there on the couch trying to watch TV or doing your homework, and if someone wasn’t right in the store to wait on them, they’d stick their heads into our living room while saying, ‘Anybody home?’” says Pratt.

In the late 1970s, Miss Cass moved the snowballs inside the store. She began selling Stewart Sandwiches, a popular, pre-packaged, refrigerated brand of pizza, hot dogs, and grilled cheese sandwiches, which customers like me would take out of the fridge and hand to Miss Cass for toasting. Even though they were cooked in the plastic, my friends and I thought they were absolutely delicious.

As time passed, people were driving more to stores, so they weren’t visiting Cass’ as much and business really dropped off. Pratt says her mom even tried to make it into a corner coffee shop, with coffees, teas, and pastries. But it just didn’t work. The store closed in 2014.

“My mom was so sad,” says Pratt. “She really loved all the kids who came to the store.”

STILL IN BUSINESS
Luigi Di Pasquale came to America from Italy when he was 14 years old. He worked for the railroad but didn’t like it and eventually left. In 1914, he opened a corner store at 3700 Claremont St. across from Our Lady of Pompei in Highlandtown. The building was so large, Luigi used the extra rooms as a boarding house for local men.

“We sold everything in the Italian line, from spaghetti on down,” says his son, Leo Di Pasquale, 95.

After Luigi married, he and his wife, Anna, had seven children, all of whom grew up to help at the store for a time.

“Every time mom had a baby, she kicked one of his borders out to make room for all of us—until it was all family,” says Leo with a laugh.

In the early days, besides selling groceries and candy, Leo says they had live chickens, turkeys, pigs, and goats available to be butchered for customers. Joe Di Pasquale, Leo’s nephew, who runs the family business now, says his grandparents also manufactured bleach in the alley.

In 1988, Joe and his brothers and sisters assumed ownership of the business from their dad, Luigi Jr., and moved it to 3700 Gough St., still in Highlandtown. Joe says over the years, suppliers gave them advice on how to keep the store running—stick with specialty items.

While Di Pasquale’s Italian Market still exists, it transitioned from the typical corner store to a deli and a casual eatery offering everything from subs and sandwiches to brick-oven pizzas and pasta dishes. They also grew to four locations.

“We expanded the kitchen and the menu, and we caught the prepared foods wave,” explains Joe.

Forno, which is still at the Gough St. location, is a little restaurant with a speakeasy feel. They kept a lot from the old corner store, so it looks like a museum of days gone by. And although the shop on Claremont St. has been gone for decades, it still sports a painted mural of the original Di Pasquale family and some of their wares.

“Everything in the neighborhood was close then,” says Leo. “And we were all there, working together in the store.”

THREE GENERATIONS OF LOU’S
Kristan Barbarino Wilson isn’t sure when her grandparents, Ida and Louis Barbarino, first opened Lou’s Confectionery corner store at 3401 Hudson St., but she remembers her parents, Joseph and Sharon, buying it from them in the mid-1970s.

Located across the street from what was then Canton #230 school and just a few blocks away from St. Brigid’s School, the store did a hearty business selling snacks, ice cream, soda, and candy to kids as well as canned goods, deli meat, steaks, pork chops, and cigarettes to adults.

Wilson’s grandparents lived on the first floor of the house next door, which the family also owned. Her family lived upstairs of both the shop and the house, as the second floor in each was connected. Wilson and her friends loved going into the store after closing time—truly kids in a candy store.

“We had central air in our house and store and the same phone number for both. When my parents got a phone call, but were in the store, we would yell through the air vent, ‘Pick up the phone!’” Wilson recalls with a laugh. “It was fun!”

NOT-ON-THE-CORNER STORE
In October of 1976, Libby and John Maciolek purchased Walt & Theresa’s, a store in the middle of the block at 3033-35 Hudson St. in Canton and renamed it John and Libby’s Confectionery. (Why many of these corner stores called themselves “confectioneries”—meaning a store that sells candy—no one seems to know, as they sold much more than sweets. Maybe they thought it sounded fancy.)

John and Libby’s carried groceries, canned goods, sodas, ice cream, snacks, and snowballs. In 1980, their daughter Laura Maciolek Stanton became manager, and her mom changed the store’s name again, this time to John and Libby’s Variety. In 1982, they expanded and began selling more groceries, packaged goods, penny candy, and seasonal toys.

During the spring and summer, Stanton remembers their tremendous snowball business that would have people lining down the block—especially for her mom’s homemade egg custard. Stanton, her sister, and their parents lived behind and above both sides of the store.

“My mom treated my friends like her daughters. We used to love having sleepovers because we’d come down after the store closed, and my friends could have all the ice cream, chips, and soda they wanted,” she recalls. “We had pinball machines, so it was almost like we had our own arcade, too.”

Stanton still owns the original penny machine from 1912. Many corner stores had them, and some were called “Bullseye.” Kids would put a penny in the top, and it would move down a pegboard, much like the Plinko game on The Price Is Right. If it landed in the right space at the bottom, you won a five- or ten-cent piece of candy.

As Canton was revitalized, fewer customers frequented their store. They couldn’t make a living anymore and closed in 2004. “When the community found out we were closing, they were devastated,” says Stanton. “There aren’t any stores like ours in Canton anymore. That was a different time.”

This article first appeared in our May 2026 issue. If you connected with it, consider becoming a print subscriber. 

Some say a great meal starts with the eyes, which would be one explanation for the perpetual line in front of the display case at Di Pasquale’s in Highlandtown. A rainbow of colors bursts through the glass. Red grape tomatoes mixed with white balls of mozzarella and green basil leaves mirror the colors of the Italian flag. Bright purple octopus tentacles mingle with muted potatoes and fennel. Jet-black olives conjure visions of a moonless Tuscan night.

Others say it’s through the nose that a true epicurean experience begins, which could also explain that line. The aroma of focaccia bread baking at 600 degrees in the imported pizza oven fills the small dining area and narrow aisles with a scent so alluring it’s impossible to ignore. The rich smell of provolone and 30-month aged prosciutto seems to be ingrained in the walls, present even when the slicer isn’t running.

“You go in and it feels like Italy,” says Felicia Zannino-Baker, a Highlandtown art-gallery owner who has frequented the market and cafe all her life. “It smells like I’m in Italy. It sounds like I’m in Italy. It’s about all the senses.”

Ever since 23-year-old Luigi Di Pasquale opened a small corner store on Claremont Street in 1914, Di Pasquale’s has been a fixture in the neighborhood. But after a one-block move to Gough Street in 1988, its popularity exploded in the years following, and it has become much more.

For some, it’s a foodie destination for Italian classics such as eggplant Parm and pasta Bolognese, homemade pizza, and gourmet sandwiches you can hardly fit your mouth around. For others, it’s a spot where they can pop in to pick up fresh produce, bread, or a bottle of wine for dinner at home. And for still others, it’s a gathering place for locals to gossip, discuss sports and politics, or most of all, reminisce about the good old days.

In other words, it’s become an institution.

“I’m Italian, and coming here gives me a chance to express my ethnic heritage,” says retired Baltimore County Judge Lawrence Daniels (“In here, I’m Lorenzo Daniele,” he says in his best Old-World accent.) “I’m here with a lot of other like-minded people. Good friends, great people, great food. Joey’s the best.”

Joey is 61-year-old Joe Di Pasquale, the third-generation managing partner of the family-owned business. He’s a constant presence behind the counter, taking orders from customers, barking them out to employees, greeting newcomers as if they’re old-timers and old-timers as if they’re kin. He grew up in the business sweeping floors, stocking shelves, and delivering everything from beer nuts to beef jerky and pickled pigs’ feet to bars and houses in the area.

Since taking over the retail operation, he’s spearheaded its transition from neighborhood grocery and convenience store to culinary jewel. Now, he’s leading it through its biggest change yet: Di Pasquale’s is leaving Highlandtown.

Before you drop your cannoli, know that when it moves sometime after Easter, it’s going just 1.2 miles away, to a larger, newer space in Brewers Hill. Still, when the news broke last year, it felt like a seismic shift to those for whom the store is a part of everyday life.

“I can say with all my heart that I will miss them,” says 73-year-old Ida Longo, who’s been a regular since she arrived in Highlandtown from Italy a half-century ago. “I buy fresh bread and pasta and lunch meat. The mortadella is the best. It reminds me of when we were growing up in Italy. It has the same smell. Even if he’s going to move a little farther down the street, we are never going to leave Di Pasquale’s. We start with them and we die with them.”

How’s that for customer loyalty? Sabrina Di Pasquale, née Parravano, knows how Longo feels. She grew up in the neighborhood going to the original location before she fell for Joe and married him 29 years ago. She’s worked side by side with him—and his sisters, his brother, her sister, their children, the list goes on—for 33 years.

“At first, I didn’t think it was a very good idea,” she says of the move. “Not that we wouldn’t do well, but I didn’t want to leave the location. It has such wonderful memories. But I’m excited now. It’s not like the family is leaving Highlandtown. My son just bought a house in the neighborhood, my mom still lives in the neighborhood, my brother and sister still live in the neighborhood. We own property in the neighborhood. We’re still very connected to Highlandtown. We’re only a mile down the street. We’re not going to forget it.”

A painting of a serious-looking, older Luigi Di Pasquale hangs prominently in the Gough Street dining room. It’s almost as if he’s watching over his descendants, ensuring that they’re not screwing up what he started.

Joe never knew his grandfather, who passed away when Joe’s mother, Mary, was carrying him in 1959. But he’s heard the tales of his legendary work ethic and business acumen.

Luigi arrived in Highlandtown from Corropoli in the Abruzzo region of eastern Italy when he was 14. He was sponsored by a family with five children, so eight people lived in the rowhouse on Claremont Street. The bathroom was outside.

When he started the business, he sold chickens and goats that were tied up out front. He also made vats of bleach, which was commonly used for cleaning at the time. Joe’s father, Louis, (Luigi to his Italian friends), and his brothers, Carmen, Leo, Johnny, and Salvatore, were born into the business.

“Everyone had a part, whether you liked it or not,” Joe says. The same can be said of Joe and his five siblings, who grew up two doors down from the store on Claremont Street before the family moved to White Marsh in 1966.

“I remember working side by side with my father,” says Rob Di Pasquale, the youngest of the three boys. “I learned making change the old-fashioned way, [in] a cigar box. Before I could drive, I’d ride shotgun when we made deliveries to local restaurants to help unload the truck. Everything had to be done in a small family-owned business.”

Twenty-year-old Joe caught the family business bug while spending a summer in Italy. When he returned, he felt “more Italian than my parents” and helped convince his father that the business needed more space to grow. So, somewhat reluctantly, his dad moved it from the 3700 block of Claremont Street to the 3700 block of Gough Street. The new location, formerly a hardware store, offered more than five times the space.

Success was not instantaneous. The model they’d transported from the old location—selling household goods along with food—kept sales stagnant. Joe credits the financial support of his father and the family’s patience with helping the business survive leaner times.

“We built to fill every square inch. It was packed in here,” Joe says. “It was a slow grind at first. I remember when the front person would buzz us in the back when somebody came in. That’s how quiet it was. I got some advice from someone who said you cannot compete with the supermarkets, so get rid of the toilet paper and the dish detergent and focus on specialty foods. That was good advice.”

Was it ever. Joe began to search out vendors who offered top-notch products. He began importing more and more items directly from Italy, like olive oil and tomatoes. When he saw that people were trending away from cooking and instead searching for prepared foods, he began offering sandwiches and pasta salads for takeout or to eat at a lone table he set up.

“What started it all was the Real Italian,” Joe says of the salami, pepper ham, mortadella, capicola, and provolone sub that’s still one of Di Pasquale’s signature items. “We use the proper vegetables. We don’t use the wax tomatoes, we use good tomatoes. We use the red onion rather than just the cheap white onion. It’s one of those sandwiches where you crave it. It’s like a meat salad on bread with the dressing.”

By the mid to late ’90s, Di Pasquale’s popularity was soaring. It included a wholesale business, run by Rob, catering, and the retail operation. Joe decided to open a second store in a converted theater in Pikesville, which proved to be a disastrous decision. Just heating and cooling the space, with its 24-foot-ceilings, cost a fortune.

“It was a tough time,” he says. “I’m still feeling it. I got too big for my britches. It
almost destroyed me financially, and almost family-wise.”

Butting heads is inevitable in a family business, and it has happened more than once through the years to the Di Pasquales. Heated conversations, shouting matches, and the silent treatment have all broken out during disputes. But in the end, everyone knows that they have each other’s backs.

Davide Rossi has been the executive chef for the past seven years. A native of Milan, he says the family makes him feel like he’s one of them.

“Because it is family-owned, you are not a number here,” he says. “We all love each other very much. Joe can crack a joke with you, but he can yell at you if something goes wrong, and after two seconds, it’s like nothing happened.”

In 2008, Di Pasquale’s success reached new heights when Guy Fieri aired a segment from the store on his Food Network show Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives.
“We were popular before locally, but that just brought it to the next ridiculous level,” Joe says. “We became a factory of making lasagna and mozzarella. We had lines out the door.”

In 1998, the business bought Mastellone Deli on Harford Road, and in 2017, Di Pasquale’s opened a second location in Harborview. This time, both outposts became successes. But those moves were minor compared to what’s coming next.

Walk through the aisles of Di Pasquale’s on any random day and you’re likely to see cans of scungilli and Cuoco seasoning on the shelves, collecting dust. The sliced conch from off the shores of Long Island and the seasoning for macaroni with sardines are two of Joe’s beloved worst sellers, products he treasures and refuses to stop carrying, their popularity be damned.

“I don’t care if there are 10 cans sitting there, I want it here for that time when someone wants one,” he says. “I’m going to search out products that are quality but unique.”

There’s no doubt that jars of Di Pasquale’s marinara sauce, containers of its frozen cioppino soup, and packages of its frozen ravioli—all homemade—attract loyal customers, but it’s the ready-to-eat wedges of lasagna, massive arancini balls, and packed subs that keep them coming back.

The Old World Italian sub has soppressata, dry cured capicola, prosciutto, fontinella, tomato, and an olive spread. The Santino features prosciutto and a hunk of mozzarella made in-house daily. Di Pasquale’s take on American favorites like the cheesesteak are also wildly popular, as is the almost impossibly huge meatball sub, served in a half-loaf of rustic bread baked in the back. “Be prepared,” the menu warns. You never fully are.

The kitchen is headed by Sabrina, her sister, Mariagrazia, and Rossi, along with cook/baker Sadetta Hozic. They all contribute their own ideas and recipes, among them Sabrina’s popular Tuscan chili and the baked ziti she made for her kids when they were young.

It’s the popularity of all these items that has made staying in the current building untenable, Joe says. Lines often snake throughout the store, making social distancing in this age of COVID difficult. (“We’re fortunate,” Joe says of business during the pandemic. “A lot of restaurants, their food doesn’t travel well, but a meatball sub does. We’re down about 30 percent, but we’ve adjusted and we’re keeping everybody employed.”)

He began thinking about moving roughly two years ago.

“The infrastructure is not in this building for this kind of business,” Joe says. “The drainage, the electricity. The roof with all the equipment is like a war zone up there. The parking situation has become challenging.”

When they relocate from 3700 Gough Street to (the coincidentally numbered) 3700 Toone Street, they’ll be moving into a modern, larger space on the ground level of The Porter apartment building that has much more parking and ample room for indoor and outdoor seating. (The space previously housed Ceriello Fine Foods.)

The old building isn’t going anywhere; the Di Pasquales are keeping it for storage and one day may even open a coffee shop or bakery there, Joe says.

“I’m going to keep the ties to here as much as I can,” he says. “I’m going to run a shuttle system for the Italian ladies who walk here. I’m going to try delivery for them. I’m going to keep the [Highlandtown] wine festival and do everything I can.”

Julia Snyder, a Highlandtown native, is perhaps the one lifelong customer who’s not bummed about the move. She lives in The Porter.

“When they get here, I’ll be in my glory,” she says. “I’m on the fourth floor, and I’m getting a dumbwaiter to bring his food up.”

Much of the new space is being designed by the Di Pasquales’ 26-year-old son, Domenico. Although he’s the only one of their four children who works in the business full-time, all of the kids play a role. Marcella, 28, helps with staffing from her home in Southern California. Ivana, 22, is in college, but is instrumental in the apparel shipping business (yes, there are Di Pasquale’s T-shirts and caps), and plans to play a role in expanded shipping of food at the new location. Luigi, 16, helps pick up local produce.

“It’s going to be just like the old store, except more modern,” Domenico says. “There’s going to be high ceilings, a lot of lighting, open space, and it’s going to be more organized than it is right now in terms of ordering and standing in line.”

On a Wednesday in late January, the move still feels like the distant future to Joe, whose focus is squarely on the lunch rush. Cosimo Savino and his 87-year-old father, Bruno, are two of the first customers. Both men were born in Naples and have been coming to Di Pasquale’s since they arrived in America. Bruno, who speaks Italian, often enjoys a morning espresso with Joe.

“They can move anywhere, and I would follow them,” Cosimo says. “There is nobody that can do what they do.”

Later, a couple from Pennsylvania, in the store for the first time, approaches the counter and asks Joe for a sandwich recommendation. “Hot or cold?” he replies in his typical workman-like manner. “Hot.”

After pondering the question for a second, he suggests the Porchetta, a sub with Italian seasoned roast pork, provolone, sautéed onions, olive oil, and grated cheese. After eating it, the newcomers understand what the fuss is about.

Next in line is Adam Ostovitz, who moved to a house around the corner six years ago. He says he comes to Di Pasquale’s “too often.” This Wednesday is his third trip this week.

“It’s a little disappointing that they’re moving, but our loss is another neighborhood’s gain,” he says. “It’s not like they’re going away forever. It’s just a little bit farther. I’m happy to see them growing and serving more people. More power to them. What are you going to do?”

As he shrugs his shoulders, it is clear this is a rhetorical question. For Di Pasquale’s lovers everywhere, there’s only one thing they can do: Keep eating.

What elevates a restaurant from good to great? A great restaurant gets your attention from the moment you step inside and continues to captivate through to the very last morsel of the meal. Case in point: Gunther & Co., a staggeringly spectacular space set inside the century-old boiler room of the Gunther Brewing Company. Co-owned by Jerry Trice and his fiancée, Nancy Hart, the new Modern American spot (open for lunch, brunch, and dinner) delivers from beginning to end.

Inside the two-level dining room, the ceiling soars and exposed steel beams, old beer bottles, and a vintage conveyor belt recall the building’s brewery beginnings. So, too, does a stunning staircase that leads patrons past mechanical gauges strung like a necklace across a sky-high living wall. The only downside to the sprawling 250-seat spot (which includes a bar, a gorgeous patio, and an ample seating area near the open kitchen) is that the vast space can feel empty even when it’s plenty packed. My advice? Go with a boisterous group of your own to add to the merriment.

Trice, a graduate of the Culinary Institute of America, describes Gunther’s fare as “globally influenced, locally spun,” which is a way of saying that menu items such as the grilled leg of lamb served with Thai eggplant, Israeli couscous, and cucumber-mint raita form a veritable polyglot on your plate. There are plenty of well-executed standard staples, too—such as a burger, and salad options topped with various forms of protein.

Over the course of several visits, we discovered several signature standouts, including a flatbread and green garbanzo hummus. (Apparently, green garbanzos have more nutrition than their beige brethren.) The flatbread resembled pieces of pita bread torn into jagged triangles, crisp and slick with roasted garlic and za’atar (a blend of herbs, sesame seeds, and salt). The accompanying hummus mixed with Greek yogurt and preserved lemon paired beautifully with the bread. Eager to enjoy the last of summer’s bounty, we ordered the heirloom tomato salad tossed with herbed goat cheese and dressed with oil and sherry vinegar. It was simple and satisfying. On another visit, fried green tomatoes with corn squash relish and jalapeño crème fraîche added some Southern sass to a lineup that’s heavy on Asian influences.

As for the entrees, there’s a reason that the Thai seafood hot pot is used in all the promotional pictures of this place. Yes, hot pots are trending, but this one is particularly noteworthy—a steaming clay crock filled with pungent morsels of mussels, clams, shrimp, scallops, and fish floating in lemon grass and coconut milk, and accompanied by a side of sticky rice. “The soul of the chef is in the soup,” said our server as she placed it on the table. We had to agree.

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Duck Confit & Scallion Spring Rolls
The duck confit and scallion spring rolls starter is a great go-to. The spicy and sweet chili dipping sauce highlights the flavors of the filling.

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Equally soul-satisfying was the wood-oven-roasted chicken. Anyone who thinks poultry is pedestrian will be won over. Marinated in brine, vacuum packed for several hours to seal in the moisture, then roasted in the wood oven, the bird was fantastically crisp on the outside and moist on the inside. And the roasted okra, corn, fingerling potatoes, and onion rings that appeared on the plate were worthy costars. Also on order was a grilled hanger steak sitting atop a swoosh of chimichurri sauce and sided by sautéed Swiss chard and a pile of nicely salted house malt fries. It was tasty enough, though not in the same league as the other entrees.

Even if you don’t normally order the sweet stuff, don’t stop at dessert. Pastry chef Aja Cage, formerly of Fleet Street Kitchen and Salt, has a penchant for combining savory and sweet. On our visits, that included a pine-nut tart served with rosemary-ricotta ice cream; a bowl of sweet-corn ice cream; and an almond cake served with pistachio ice cream and garnished with a candied basil leaf plucked straight from Gunther’s garden.

While a minor quibble, there were small errors in service. On our first trip, the culprit was an overly eager busboy who prematurely cleared plates we weren’t ready to relinquish. On another go-round, our otherwise seasoned server forgot the coffee we ordered at the end of the meal. Then again, by the time we dug into the final footnotes, so had we.

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GUNTHER & Co. 3650 Toone St., 443-869-6874.
HOURS Mon.-Thu. 11:30 a.m.-11:30 p.m., Fri. 11:30 a.m.-12:30 a.m., Sat. 11 a.m.-12:30 a.m., Sun. 11 a.m.-10 p.m. CUISINE New American. PRICES Appetizers: $6-15; entrees: $10-32; desserts: $8. ATMOSPHERE Factory chic.