Michelle Gondolfo
Google
Last night, I went to Rizzuto’s Ristorante and Chop House and immediately felt like I had walked onto the set of an old Hollywood gangster movie—but, like, the kind where no one gets whacked and everyone just eats really well.
The host greeted me promptly and made me feel like someone important. I’m not. I mean, my mom tells me I’m special every day, but she doesn’t count (please don’t tell her I said that).
My friend and I were fashionably early for our reservation (by a full hour—we were excited, don’t judge), so we parked ourselves at the bar and ordered some drinks. Let me paint a picture: the bar was full of suave, old-school Italian men—the kind who probably have a meatball recipe older than the U.S. Constitution. Immediately, I knew: we were about to eat GOOD.
As we sat at the bar, waiters floated by with plates of food that smelled like sin and salvation all at once. I was eyeing each table, staring at their dishes like a hungry lioness about to pounce. I was probably making diners uncomfortable, but I didn’t care—I was salivating like a rabid dog with every plate that passed me.
The two bartenders were charming and funny. I could’ve people-watched for hours. The staff’s banter, the sass, the subtle shade—I swear, this place needs a reality show. Imagine if The Sopranos married Vanderpump Rules and had a spicy little Bravo baby. “Rizzuto’s After Dark.” You heard it here first. If it gets picked up, I get a cut!
From here on out, I’m eating at the bar. It felt cozy, personable, and—let’s be real—I’m nosey and live for juicy gossip and good people-watching.
When our table was finally ready, I almost didn’t want to leave the action. But I’m glad I did, because the crab cake appetizer changed my life. I’m not even exaggerating. Most crab cakes taste like breadcrumbs held together by lies. Not here. Rizzuto’s crab cake was pure lump crab meat—golden and crisp on the outside, juicy and tender on the inside. Sent directly from the seafood gods. I can no longer order crab cakes anywhere else. They’ve ruined me in the best way possible.
My friend got the fettuccine Alfredo, which they made table-side in a cheese wheel. Because apparently, Rizzuto’s said, “Let’s make pasta sexy.” It was pasta porn- rich, creamy, and hands-down the best Alfredo I’ve ever tasted. I seriously contemplated whacking my friend on the head just to steal his plate. But as a nurse, I took an oath to do no harm, so I pushed that thought aside. I’ll just have to order it next time (and keep my morals intact).
For my entrée, I went with the Veal Parmesan. Now listen—I’ve had veal before. Usually, it’s as tough as a leather shoe and about as flavorful. But this? It was glorious. Perfectly fried with a delicate, golden crust, and so tender I got concerned. Like… how is this even legal? Are they massaging the calves? Reading them bedtime stories? Is there voodoo involved? I don’t know—and I don’t care. It was divine. I had a full Ratatouille flashback moment at the table.
Now, when it comes to red gravy, I am a tough critic (and yes, it’s gravy, NOT sauce—don’t argue with me). My grandparents were from Sicily, and every Sunday we’d gather at their house in the Irish Channel for spaghetti and meatballs. So I know real gravy. Rizzuto’s version? It was rich, savory, and beautifully balanced—not too sweet, not too bitter. It tasted like love and patience. Just like my grandma’s. She would 100% approve.
We finished with the chocolate chip gelato, which was smoother than a Frank Sinatra love song. Creamy, flavorful, and the perfect end to a perfect meal.
Rizzuto’s isn’t just a restaurant—it’s a culinary dream. I don’t know what kind of kitchen witchcraft is going on back there—black magic? Italian nonnas chained to stoves? Some kind of parmesan-powered spell? Whatever it is, it works.
10/10. Would eat again. Would move in if they let me.