More than two years ago, the humble, beloved Noe Valley Sardinian restaurant La Ciccia was sold to new owners. All over the city, diners had been shedding tears for pandemic losses, but this one hit hard. Surely, Mark Zuckerberg and Priscilla Chan cried. Add to them the cast of “The Matrix Resurrections,” who in 2021 celebrated the film’s opening by renting out the space. (I asked: Keanu Reeves was not in attendance.)
Despite its quiet popularity, La Ciccia was never hip or Michelin-starred. It was located on a proletarian block, right where the J Church rattles its bell before taking a squeaky turn onto 30th Street. But the restaurant was cherished for more than its pungent, garlicky spaghetti with bottarga.
The owners, Lorella Degan and chef Massimiliano Conti, had run the place like it was their home and, in turn, developed an extended family who liked to pretend they were on vacation, drinking bottles of Cannonau in a tiny Sardinian borgo (or maybe that was just me).
Since retiring in 2022, the couple, now in their 50s, have been doing things they couldn’t do when they worked 90 hours a week: They traveled back to Italy; Degan recovered from foot surgery. But something was missing — and it wasn’t cooking. It was people.
“That’s why we decided to do Binu Bonu,” says Conti, lit by the skylight in the simple but pretty sliver of a wine bar they opened in June in West Portal, their own hood. Not that Degan immediately bought in. “She said, ‘You’re crazy,’ ” he laughs. “But the restaurant industry is like a drug: When you don’t have it, you feel relief, but you also miss it.”
Pouring a coppery glass of Roccafiore Rosato, made from Sangiovese, Conti peers through his fashiony, thick-framed Euro glasses. He’s wearing an apron with a faded Death Angel logo on it. (The thrash-metal band from Daly City — fans of La Ciccia — had it made for him.) Meanwhile, Degan, who always seems to be smiling and running, is zipping around, making sure guests have their charcuterie plates, piled high with ribbons of thinly sliced Italian salumi, refills of bread and a chance to order another glass of cold, sparkling Chiarli Lambrusco.
The wine list is all Italian, focusing on wineries that value sustainability. The bar also sells bottles to take home, so it runs in part like a wine shop. Any bottle from the by-the-glass list (there are 20) can be purchased for 50% off; selections from the by-the-bottle list are discounted by 30%. “We have about 100 bottles to choose from,” Conti says, his tongue rolling through the “r” in “one hundred” like butter.
He’s particularly excited about the wines from Marche. There’s “a lot going on” in Friuli. Conti is also hip on Alessandro Viola, a culty producer from Sicily, who makes a Carricante ($51) that’s fermented on skins for a quick 48 hours, making it orange-adjacent.
So yes, Binu Bonu, Sardinian for “good wine,” is definitely a wine bar. There is food, too, but it is straightforward and ready-made: burrata with smoked salmon and pickled onions ($16), octopus salad with Calabrian olive oil ($15), 24-month prosciutto ($20), a cheese plate ($20). Certainly, a much simpler proposition than a restaurant.
Though plenty of industry folks and armchair oenophiles are in attendance, Binu Bonu is ultimately a lonely hearts club, a place for people who miss people — clearly, that includes Conti and Degan. Not surprisingly, Binu Bonu is quickly on its way to becoming a neighborhood spot.
“There’s a gentleman who’s been four times a week, and we only have been open a month,” Conti says. “When you’re feeling not to be alone, you go to a bar, and you can talk to people.”
Before they signed the lease, Degan asked her husband, “What if we get really busy?” She was worried about getting ground down to a nub again. Conti’s answer was pure, homespun Sardinian logic: “I told her, ‘Well then, we’ll just take away a table.’ ”
Binu Bonu
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