La Lanterna At The Old Vestry Menu

So you’re wandering around looking for a place to eat, and you stumble upon a building that looks like it once held a funeral for a very small, very serious man. Welcome to La Lanterna at The Old Vestry. It’s a restaurant tucked inside a former 19th-century church vestry, which means the only thing holy here now is the pasta.

Let’s talk about the menu. It’s a glorious, chaotic mix of Italian comfort food and enough pre-dinner snacks to make you forget you came for dinner. The first thing you’ll notice is the Burrata—a cheese so creamy it could solve world peace if you paired it with enough balsamic vinegar.

The Antipasti: Or, "How to Eat Your Body Weight in Cured Meat"

If you order the Antipasto Misto, you’re getting a wooden board that looks like a Renaissance painting made of prosciutto. It arrives with figs, olives, and a dollop of honey that’s so good you’ll consider putting it on your credit card bill.

But here’s the surprising fact: that honey is actually drizzled over a local cheese called ricotta salata, which is like regular ricotta that went to the gym and got salty. You’ll eat it, close your eyes, and whisper "grazie" to a ceiling that probably once heard actual prayers.

The Pasta: A Carb-Loading Festival

Move past the starters, and you hit the main event: the pasta section. The Tagliatelle Bolognese is so rich that your arteries will send you a thank-you note written in olive oil. It’s slow-cooked for hours, which is chef-speak for "we let the meat hang out until it’s too tired to be tough."

La Lanterna at the Old Vestry, 11 St Alkmonds Square in Shrewsbury

The Pappardelle al Cinghiale is a wild boar ragu that tastes like it was hunted by a very fancy, mustachioed Italian uncle. One bite, and you’ll feel compelled to raise a wine glass and declare something about "la dolce vita," even if you’ve never been to Italy.

The Pizza: A Tangible Definition of "Extra"

You might think, "Pizza? In a vestry?" Yes, and it’s absurd. The crust is thin, charred, and bubbly in a way that suggests the chef spent a past life as a volcano god. The Quattro Formaggi is a love letter to dairy that includes gorgonzola, which is basically cheese that decided to get a little moldy and call it luxury.

Fun fact: they cook the pizzas in a wood-fired oven that sits where a priest’s desk used to be. No word on whether the smoke smells like incense, but I’m willing to bet it smells better than most sermons.

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Dessert: The "I’m Too Full But Who Cares" Course

By now, you’re stuffed. But then the waiter brings the Tiramisu, and you suddenly become a human sponge. It’s made with espresso-soaked ladyfingers that might as well be tiny caffeinated clouds. The Panna Cotta wobbles on the plate like a nervous dancer, but one bite and it melts into a creamy, vanilla-scented apology for all the calories you just consumed.

The surprising twist? They serve a Limoncello Sorbet that’s so tart, it will re-awaken your taste buds and make you forget you just ate a whole pig. It’s like a palate cleanser from a very aggressive, lemon-obsessed aunt.

The Verdict: Eat Here, Even If You’re Not Religious

Walking into La Lanterna is like stepping into a cozy, slightly boozy hug from a grandmother who doesn’t care if you curse. The menu is big enough to make you anxious, but every choice is a winner. Go hungry, bring friends, and order the Burrata—because that cheese, my friend, is a miracle that even the original vestry couldn’t dream up.