Jake Tantorski
Google
There’s something about walking down a few steps into a restaurant that makes you feel like you’re about to join a secret. Grotto has lived under Bowdoin Street for over two decades, a cozy little den of Italian comfort carved into the basement of a Beacon Hill building. You descend, the air shifts, and you’re met with candlelight flickering off brick walls. It’s charming, yes, but also a little too dark—romance is great, but I like to see what I’m eating. Still, it has that “hidden place you bring someone you actually care about” vibe, and enough space between tables to breathe without killing the intimacy.
We came for Dine Out Boston, which, for Grotto, is just a formalized version of what they’ve been doing for years—three courses of Italian that aim to stick in your memory. Service was solid, unhurried, and confident. They’ve done this dance enough times to make it look easy.
The Caesar Salad should have been an easy win—crisp romaine, Parmesan, croutons—but it leaned heavy on the dressing, which came across fishy enough to distract from the rest. The croutons were good, but overall it was an average start. The Duck Confit, though, was another story entirely. A crispy-skinned leg, tender underneath, riding a wave of blackberry sauce that might have been the single best bite of the night. The arugula brought just enough peppery bite to keep it all grounded.
Then came the main event. The risotto was decadent—mushroom, truffle, and Reggiano melting together into something rich, earthy, and absolutely dialed in. It was the kind of dish that makes you stop mid-conversation, just to focus on what’s happening in your mouth. The short rib gnocchi was no slouch either. Tender meat, gnocchi that felt homemade, and gorgonzola that hit that perfect balance between tangy and indulgent.
Dessert was a split decision. The sorbet was a welcome hit of bright, fruity refreshment after all that richness, but the thin little cookie next to it felt like an afterthought. The tiramisu, though—that was the closer this place deserved. Creamy mascarpone, espresso-soaked ladyfingers, cocoa in just the right amount, all served in an old-fashioned ice cream glass that gave it a little extra charm.
And then, just like that, it’s over. For us, for the night, and soon, for Grotto itself. After 22 years, the lease is up and the doors will close. Places like this don’t come back the same way—they vanish into Boston restaurant lore, leaving behind memories of truffle risotto, blackberry duck, and the feeling of being in on something special.
If you get the chance before they shut the lights off for good, go. It won’t be perfect, but it will be real. And that’s what counts.