The Cult Of Joe Bruno: Bruculino Goes Back To Its Roots, Pasta Nostra, in South Norwalk

Photo: David Bravo

There’s the one about how he threw someone out on the street for demanding butter on their bread. And the other, when he refused to grate parmigiano on a customer’s pasta. These were not just stories. They were tales told over and over again. Unto this very day— long-lasting lore.

Bruno. Joe Bruno. AKA Joe. Bold. Intense. Irreverent. Stubbornly set in his ways, yet with the naive audacity of a young teenager. Joe Bruno cares about one thing only: perfecting his art. A perfectionist in an imperfect world.

Everything else is just show, point of view, shock and awe. “I’m not a chef,” he once said to me, “but I know that I have to recreate a dish exactly as I made for you the first time.” Right? Exacting execution— that’s what we grew to expect and that’s what we were given, night after night after night.

He was 35 when he opened Pasta Nostra. It was never meant to be a restaurant. “I wanted to sell pasta. I made a few dishes to showcase my pasta and the next thing you know it’s a restaurant.” People lined up on Washington Street. Eventually reservations were required weeks in advance, but once inside we “dined.” His dishes, seemingly simple, offered subtle meditative complexities demanding cerebral contemplation. We were hooked. We became regulars, we had standing reservations, some of us had “our table.” And we grew to not only expect this sustained superior dining experience we also took comfort in Joe’s table-side manner— a stand up situational drama. No meal complete without a visit from the man himself; an ad-libbed bit. One night you’d get his George Burns to your Gracie Allen, on another a stream of consciousness “True Confessions,” but always the truth— exactly what Joe was thinking. A pastime that became presumption, a pressure on both sides, but mostly on Joe; an irresistible itch that had to be scratched. A drug.

Joe kicked the pasta habit when he opened Bruculino. At least he thought so. Bruculino was Joe 2.0. He and the boys moved down the street, around the corner. Different feel, different food. The space? High gloss modern; sleek meets the street. Roger Ferris’s architectural forte executed by, you guessed it, Joe and the crew. The menu? Also modern, forward, experimental, but always subtle simplicity, exacting perfection. Deboned chicken stuffed with foie gras, or crabmeat crepes blanketed in roasted red pepper bechamel or perhaps ponder Raviole stuffed with Huazonties. Day in, day out, dish after amazing dish. Still, Pasta Nostra haunted him. Haunted you, me, the crew too. And those little reminders; dishes from long ago on the menu. Chicken Parm for one, or Cheese Ravioli, hiding in plain sight. A dish slipped in— one here, one there; a poignant reminder, telling, a harbinger of things to come? And Joe, we know you’ve got three antique Italian pasta machines in the basement that you’re obsessing over. What’s that all about?

Fast forward to last week, Joe relapsed. Yes, and so did we. Truth is, he never recovered. He gave Bruculino his best Brooklyn street kid shot— a superb performance, five years all told, every meal a knockout. I know, many of us don’t want this fight to be over, but we’re going to go where Joe wants to go and Pasta Nostra is where he’s gone, like the prodigal son, returning home.

Bruculino

I went Saturday night. The crowd— you could feel their excitement and relief. Joe’s too. And the crew. Deja vu dining. We not only dined, we dug in. Not just a homecoming, a reunion, the past meeting the future. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. What a ride.

Sitting there, twirling my pasta, I knew Joe was finally back home. Looking out at the crowd, I could tell they were back home too.