Guerrero's conception of Italian-American cuisine is probably different from yours and definitely not what your Uncle Sal has in mind, but basically succeeds on its own terms: a distinct hit of sweetness in the spaghetti and meatballs; thin-crusted pizzas that are closer to '80s-style California pizza than they are to any of the new-wave Neapolitan pies; and an oddly gelatinous pan-roasted pork chop that spent more time than it needed to in sous vide. The squid salad is basically an order of calamari marinara dumped over a composed salad of lettuce, blood orange and chickpeas -- not bad, but not what you'd call coherent. Spaghetti aglio e olio, the simplest pasta in the Roman repertory was soupy, which is an odd conception of the dish. Brandade, salt cod, whipped with potatoes, had the loose texture of a picnic tuna salad -- again, fine to eat, but very different from any brandade you've ever tasted.
What we have is this: Guerrero's restaurants have always started slow but greatly improved -- Maximiliano's is probably going to be swell in a few months. And his spumoni is one of the most refreshing new desserts of the year, feathery chocolate, pistachio-almond, and cherry ice creams shot out of a Pacojet, layered, and served in a paper cup halved longitudinally, so that it looks like one of those cutaway photos from Nathan Myhrvold's Modernist Cuisine.