Walk into 210 South Meridian Street and you’re immediately hit with that specific smell. It’s a mix of garlic, butter, and something vaguely like a dusty library from the 1920s. You know exactly where you are. The Old Spaghetti Factory Indianapolis Indiana isn't just a place to grab a cheap plate of carbs; it’s a massive, velvet-drenched institution that has somehow survived the rapid-fire gentrification of the Wholesale District. It’s loud. It’s dark. There’s a giant brass bed headboard repurposed as a booth and, for some reason, a literal trolley car sitting in the middle of the dining room.
It shouldn't work. In a world of sleek, minimalist farm-to-table spots, this place feels like a fever dream of Victorian maximalism. But it does work.
The Weird History of 210 South Meridian
Most people don't realize that the building itself is a survivor. Long before the Mizithra cheese started flowing, this was the Schnull & Company warehouse. We're talking late 1800s. Indianapolis was a hub for the grocery trade, and this massive brick structure was the heart of it. If you look closely at the architecture—those heavy beams and the sprawling floor plan—you can still see the industrial bones beneath the stained glass and the fringed lampshades.
The Old Spaghetti Factory moved in during the late 70s. Back then, downtown Indy wasn't exactly the "it" place. It was gritty. It was empty after 5:00 PM. Guss Dussin, the founder of the chain, had this specific vision: find a massive, historic building that nobody wants, fill it with antiques, and sell affordable pasta. It was a gamble that paid off. By the time the RCA Dome was built nearby and the city started its sports-centric rebirth, the Factory was already the go-to spot for families who didn't want to spend a fortune before a game.
What's Actually on the Plate?
Let's be real for a second. If you’re looking for hand-rolled, artisanal pasta made by a guy named Lorenzo who studied in Tuscany, you’re in the wrong zip code. That’s not what this is. You come here for the Three-Course Meal. It's a formula that hasn't changed since the Nixon administration. You get bread with that whipped garlic butter, a salad or soup, your entree, and a scoop of spumoni ice cream.
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The Mizithra Cheese and Browned Butter is the cult favorite. Honestly, it’s just pasta drenched in butter and a very salty, dry Greek sheep's milk cheese. It is incredibly simple. It’s also wildly addictive. Most regulars won't even look at the menu; they just wait for the server to ask and then say "Mizithra" like a secret password.
The kitchen is a machine. On a busy Saturday night when the Pacers are playing or there’s a convention at the Lucas Oil Stadium, they are pumping out hundreds of covers an hour. The quality stays surprisingly consistent for that kind of volume. You might find the meat sauce a bit sweet—it’s very much a mid-century American-Italian profile—but it hits that comfort food itch perfectly.
The Trolley Car and the Vibe Check
You can’t talk about The Old Spaghetti Factory Indianapolis Indiana without mentioning the trolley. It’s the prize. If you’re a kid, or a grown adult who still likes fun things, sitting in the trolley is the goal. It’s actually a refurbished streetcar, often numbered 51, reflecting the era when streetcars actually rumbled through the streets of Indianapolis.
The decor is "shabby chic" before that was a buzzword, but more heavy on the "shabby" and the "antique." It’s dark. Like, "I need my phone flashlight to read the menu" dark. There are chandeliers everywhere. Velvet curtains that look like they belong in a theater. It creates this weirdly private atmosphere even though you’re in a room with 300 other people.
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It’s one of the few places in Indy where you’ll see a guy in a tuxedo (probably headed to a formal at the Indiana Roof Ballroom) sitting next to a family in Colts jerseys who are just trying to keep their toddler from throwing a breadstick. It’s the great equalizer of South Meridian.
Navigating the Chaos
If you show up at 6:30 PM on a Friday without a reservation, you’re going to have a bad time. The lobby gets packed. Like, shoulder-to-shoulder packed. People often complain about the wait times, but that’s the price of entry for a place that has been a staple for forty-plus years.
- Park smart. Don't try to find street parking on Meridian. Just don't. Use the garages on Illinois or the mall parking. It’s worth the five-minute walk to avoid the stress.
- The "Secret" Toppings. You can actually ask for a side of the Mizithra cheese to put on other things. It makes the meat sauce better. Trust me.
- The Bar Area. If the dining room wait is two hours, check the bar. It’s got that same old-school wood-heavy vibe and you can usually get the full menu there.
- Lunch is the Pro Move. If you want the experience without the crowd, the lunch service is surprisingly chill. The lighting is still moody, but you can actually hear yourself think.
Why It Still Matters in 2026
In an era where every new restaurant feels like it was designed specifically for an Instagram feed—white marble, neon signs, "good vibes only"—The Old Spaghetti Factory feels stubbornly authentic to itself. It doesn't care about trends. It doesn't care about small plates or deconstructed desserts. It’s a time capsule.
It’s where high schoolers go before prom because it feels fancy but they can actually afford it. It’s where grandparents take their grandkids because they remember coming here when they were young. That kind of multi-generational staying power is rare in the restaurant business, especially in a downtown core that has seen so much turnover.
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The Old Spaghetti Factory Indianapolis Indiana is a survivor. It survived the decline of downtown, the rise of the suburban mall, and the complete overhaul of the city's culinary scene. It remains because it offers something that’s getting harder to find: a predictable, nostalgic, and genuinely fun dining experience that doesn't take itself too seriously.
Moving Forward With Your Visit
Before you head out to South Meridian, check the local event calendar. If there is a major convention or a game, the area will be swamped. Book your table through their website at least 48 hours in advance for weekend slots. If you're bringing a large group (12+), call them directly; their banquet rooms are actually some of the most unique spaces in the city, often tucked away in corners of the building that feel like a museum. Skip the "standard" spaghetti and go for the Manager’s Favorite—it lets you try two different sauces, which is the only way to settle the debate between the Mizithra and the meat sauce. Take a second to look at the stained glass near the entrance; much of it is genuine salvaged art from the era when the building was first constructed.
Check the current menu prices online before you go, as the "three-course" value still holds up, but like everything else, it’s shifted a bit in recent years. Stick to the classics, grab a scoop of the green, white, and red ice cream, and enjoy the fact that some things in Indianapolis simply don't change.