June Bug Review: A Promise of Renewal in the Familiar

At June Bug, the decor and space write the prologue — sunnily, self-assuredly — while the food delivers the plot — fresh and thoughtful.

Lime green and blush pink accents play against white walls as polka-dotted pillows line the banquette seats. Above them hang nonuniform frames of abstract art while leafy plants cascade from the ceiling with elevated pots in the dwindling sunlight and warm candlelight. The effect is whimsical without tipping into chaos, producing an environment that is bohemian in spirit, extroverted in color, and serenely lit. Even the background music is playfully curated, drifting from cozy jazz to indie pop as the evening unfolds. The atmosphere signals a kitchen interested in crafting pleasure and surprise, introducing what the oven and bar deliver: Familiar motifs that are reimagined with market-fresh local ingredients and unexpected bursts of heat, herbs, and salt.

Drinks start out bold and unabashedly boozy. The Pink Flamingo, a tequila-based cocktail the color of pink lemonade, teases a citrusy bite but settles deeply into a sweetness that is more watermelon-forward. Perhaps a firmer citrus backbone to cut through the syrupy middle would enhance the taste further. A wooden flamingo skewer garnish adds flourish; a hint of sea salt lands now and then upon the tongue. All of it is pleasantly lip-smacking, but altogether a tad inconsistent. The alcohol certainly is upfront, the ice softens the sweetness, and the drink settles into a smoother profile that is easier to glide down the throat. Meanwhile, the Purple Haze is neater: It is heavy on the rum in that first sip, chased down by the cassis in the aftertaste. It’s less memorable than the Pink Flamingo, yet still cleanly constructed and solidly poured. The common thread through both is alcohol generosity — greatly appreciated in this economy.

The kitchen’s best opening move is the Shrimp Toast, which effectively reframes the classic Hong Kong dim sum appetizer of the same name. A basil aioli lands first. It’s silky, vividly herbal, and brightened by just enough lemon to awaken the palate. It’s the kind of sauce that could be shamelessly eaten independently by the spoonful. Right beside the dollop is an excellent focaccia that’s crisped at the edges but pillowy and steamy within — like an even bouncier Detroit-style crumb. The shrimp itself is clean and unfussy, more of a textural and saline counterpoint than a focal point of the dish. The balance between the shrimp and the toast matters more, and June Bug masters that. Unlike the hesitant, half-topped toasts on many other “elevated” menus, the ratio of shrimp to toast here is generous and satisfying: closer to one to one than one to two. In a way, this Shrimp Toast is able to be familiar and elegantly reconstructed to fit the aesthetic and intent of the restaurant.

Wood-fired pizzas continue this theme of care and creative play, starting with the standout cornicione: A crust that is thin yet springy, freckled with air pockets, warmly elastic and almost mochi-like in its stretch and chew. It tears with a gentle pull rather than a crack, which induces unhurried bites and tastes like something in its own right instead of just a platform for toppings. At many pizzerias, the night might find piles of abandoned crusts on the table, but at June Bug, plates are empty — no one is leaving those ends behind. It helps, too, that the restaurant offers “crust dippers.” The hot honey is a top pick due to both taste and trend. The version here, however, veers more toward a peppercorn-like bitterness and numbing edge rather than the clean, capsaicin-driven heat that typically pairs well with honey’s floral sweetness. The result feels slightly off, so a recalibration toward chili warmth would likely restore the sweet-and-hot harmony most diners might expect.

Moving into the specific pizzas, Shuggie’s is the restaurant’s love letter to the well-known margherita pizza, with a twist that reads as both Mediterranean and distinctly June Bug. There’s a thread of spicy basil schug — a Yemeni sauce based in herbs, cilantro, and jalapeño — that brings forth a spark of zesty heat through the tomatoes, cheese, and basil and evokes the warmth of a shakshuka without abandoning its identity as a pizza. The change is small but decisive: A prickle of spice and herb that tickles the nose and turns simplicity into singularity, reminding patrons that refinement can come from restraint just as much as it originates from flamboyance.

The Vermont, by contrast, is an idea perhaps less effectively implemented. Conceptually, it’s appealing, a call to a New England autumn in pizza form. The dish echoes an apple-cheddar grilled cheese with sausage to ground the sweetness. Nevertheless, the execution falls a bit short of expectations. The sausage is well-seasoned — though it could do with greater abundance — but the apple never seizes the spotlight as one might think. As served, the apple appears as more of a supporting figure and leans too softly sweet; a tarter variety, like Granny Smith, would offer the snap and acidity needed to puncture the pizza’s warmth and assert its lead.

Dessert circles back to comfort with a Pear-Almond Cake that arrives with a lush vanilla whip, delightfully reminiscent of melted vanilla ice cream in both its flavor and thickness. There’s a note of lemon zest embedded in the whip that feels extraneous — however, a light lemon grating over the cake slice would do the same work with more precision. The crumb itself is plush, moist, and buttery, yet the whole pear slices scattered throughout interrupt the texture with an unwelcome crunch and faint grain. Smaller, caramelized dices would likely integrate better, and a nudge of spice like cardamom or even a bolder pinch of cinnamon could bestow the dessert with the same kind of standout point found in the other courses.

Taken as a whole, June Bug hits the sweet spot when the menu stays simple, and one smart tweak or flourish does the trick in maintaining the comfort of the food and making it brighter, not over-sophisticated. On the rare occasions where that balance slips, it’s more a matter of fine-tuning rather than rewriting the dishes — maybe adding a livelier acidity, warmer chili kick, and contrast that lasts from first sip to last bite would improve it. In a room that is this alive and vibrant, the dishes keep the promise that the ambience makes: Clean, seasonal cooking that brings the familiar into a heightened and renewed focus.

—Staff writer Audrey Zhang can be reached at audrey.zhang@thecrimson.com.