There’s an episode from The Sopranos’ first season that I couldn’t shake after dinner at classic Williamsburg Italian restaurant, Bamonte’s: Teenage daughter Meadow comes down to breakfast and an age-old debate about evolving societal standards breaks out, the highschooler urging her parents to get with the times (“It’s the 90s…!”). “Yeah, but that’s where you’re wrong,” her father, Tony says and points to the window. “You see, out there it’s the 1990s, but in this house it’s 1954.”
Cigarette machine by the door, valet parking outside, staff in black bow ties, a menu with $xx.95 pricing, a sign asking gentlemen to remove their hats; outside of Bamonte’s, it’s Williamsburg 2025, where real estate development is an unstoppable juggernaut, luxury is democratized, and gastronomy is as much science as it is art. Inside, however, it’s still 1950-something–when what now reads as quaint was the height of sophistication.
Bamontes is a living piece of cultural preservation that assumes if you’re here, you’re happy to play along. And who wouldn’t be? The room bears a self-aware swagger with white tablecloths, chandeliers that look retrofitted for electricity, velvety drapery in a Barolo palette. The bar hits the brief, too: cordial service, a touch stiff-backed but friendly; a crisp martini, a sturdy Manhattan, beers, wines, etc–nothing precious. And without leaning into stereotype, the servers (seasoned veterans who know the menu by heart) understand that you’re stepping out of your world and into theirs; bidding guests a hearty buona sera! and delivering plates with panache.
If that old-school atmosphere is what you’re after, Bamonte’s doesn’t disappoint. If food is your sole focus, the same cannot be said.
An arancini special (stuffed with mozzarella and prosciutto) tasted mostly of rice. Breaded, baked clams’ dominant note was oil. A pasta Bolognese cried out for seasoning. The server-recommended pork chop had the texture of a pencil eraser. Bite of the night was veal parm: pounded thin and generously cheesed—very eatable, yes—but one-note, the blanket of mozzarella lacking caramelization and any flavor of its own, with no bright herbs or fresh elements or crunchy bits to balance the dish’s richness. Tiramisu closed things out fine, though I wanted a bigger coffee punch. Everything hit the brief but felt rote, whipped out of the kitchen without much concern. Nothing was inedible, but considering the wealth of options for Italian cuisine in Williamsburg alone, not a single dish felt worth the pricetag.
Bamonte’s feels satisfied with its mere existence and, in a way, that makes complete sense: its survival in Williamsburg is remarkable and its charm radiates from down the block. The place holds itself apart, offering no gesture toward modernization and more power to them. But it does feel as if, in this intransigence, something valuable is being ignored if not lost. I’m tempted to put my finger on it and say the culprit here is complacency–to wit: the place was packed at 7pm on a Wednesday, so clearly whatever they’re doing (or not doing) is working a treat business-wise. But people are at Bamonte’s to be at Bamonte’s; that glimpse into Brooklyn’s past is way more delicious than any of the food.