Say When with Max Silvestri: Bamonte's
A man about town writes about town
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Every time I bring my dad to Bamonte’s, a 109-year-old “red sauce” Italian restaurant around the corner from the BQE in Williamsburg, he gets noticeably giddy, and giddy is not an adjective I routinely toss around to describe a man who hobbles around on two broken knees and has lived long enough that he probably ate gravel sandwiches during the Great Depression. Though, to be fair, knowing his family’s relationship with food and cooking, I imagine they would have been the most amazing gravel sandwiches you’ve ever tasted, with fresh roasted peppers and garlic and, oh, wow is that sage? That’s just how he rolls.
Bamonte’s reminds my father of the Italian cooking, and the people, he grew up with in New Jersey and New York. Many things change, but Bamonte’s is not an example of one, and neither is my dad. For example, he doesn’t really understand why men in New York don’t wear linen suits every day anymore, nor why women aren’t wearing hats to church. “Don’t the ladies’ heads get cold when they go to church to light candles? What do you mean the churches have heat?" It recently sunk in for him that most of the Little Italy he knew from his younger days now sells more fireworks and shark penises than cannoli, but he has managed to transfer his nostalgia across the East River.
The last time I took him to Bamonte’s was Father’s Day, back in June, and when I say, “I took…,” I mean my parents picked me up from my apartment in their car and then drove to and paid for dinner. FYI, I am a really great child. Also apparently a great father, as the valet wished me personally an extremely happy Father’s Day. I think I was wearing a very virile shirt. Before we were seated, my parents and I took some time to take in all the photographs hanging in the bar area. I challenge anyone to find a collection of photographs more Italian than Bamonte’s. I think there was an 8-by-10 of Frank Sinatra, Vince Lombardi, Little Steven, and the Pope all playing bocce on the set of The Godfather.
I am not sure that our server that evening ever actually spoke. There are a few rules waiters have to follow at Bamonte's: One: Be old. Like, so old. Your eyes should appear closed, and you should nod at anything the customers say or do, even sneezes, because maybe they were ordering something. If you are unsure what was ordered, just bring clams. Who doesn’t like clams?
Two: Your hair must be completely white or completely black, like a comic-book character's. Use shoe polish if you need to get it blacker. It’s provided downstairs in the waiter’s locker room.
Three: There is no waiter’s locker room. What do you think this is? Bring your own shoe polish.
The spedini alla romano, which is something of a fancy mozzarella stick, is spectacular, as is the homemade pasta and veal, which my dad assures me is milk-fed. Those cows sure get to live the life before they die so quick! But everything at Bamonte's is pretty solid. Besides, one really goes for the atmosphere. Oh, and for the complimentary bottle of Sambuca they put on the table for your espresso. That is real trust. As in, “We trust you to do your best not to drink all that free Sambuca.” But sometimes our best just isn’t good enough.
