Our favorite seasonal restaurants have begun closing their doors - Arnold's, closed; Ciraldi's will close this weekend; Days Market & Deli will serve its last lobster roll at the end of October. But why live in the past, why mourn, let's do it like the Irish do it at their funerals - let's celebrate. And we're going to need a place to have that celebration so we've asked our Outer Cape town editors to give us the first places on their lists of Year-Round restaurants we should be frequenting to thank them for keeping the doors open for us in the cold.
Behold!
PROVINCETOWN - The Squealing Pig
Celebrating over 15 years in Provincetown, The Squealing Pig has truly earned its stripes. Do I enjoy the wings? Absolutely. Is the Smoke Seafood Chowder a must? You bet. The kabobs? Fantastic—100%. And the House Salad with blackened shrimp, or the burgers that make you question every other burger you've had. Don’t get me started on the fried chicken—yes, yes, a thousand times yes!
But why do I really keep coming back? It’s not just about the food or even Pete (but don’t tell him), who pours my drink before he bothers to say hello. It’s about the people. I’ve met more fascinating souls at The Squealing Pig than anywhere else on the Outer or Lower Cape. It’s a gathering spot for the ageless, for the good-spirited wanderers who find themselves at the end of the trail.
I’m not out here playing pick-me local, laughing too hard at bad jokes, or inserting myself into conversations where I’m not invited. No, these meetings bloom organically, like plants, flowers, trees. There'll be a sudden downpour after a dry spell, just as there’s a rush of the right people mixing at the bar, and everything flourishes. On any given Tuesday, you may witness this magic unfold.
I won’t name names, but let’s just say one evening, a certain home restoration expert graced us around the tall hardwood, spinning wild tales and sharing incredible photos of wood and iron projects sprawling from the Cape to the North Shore. He bought rounds of beers, cocktails, and shots, still mumbling about the tab as he stumbled down Commercial toward the West End, draped over his wife, his knees bloodied from a daring leap off the curb. I couldn’t help but admire his finesse as he executed a perfect handoff from the hostess of his abandoned credit card, like a replay of some debaucherous relay race.
So sure, get the wings with the jerk rub, don’t forget to ask for Buffalo on the side—it’s a win-win. But take your time finishing your drink, and maybe order another. Something good is likely on the horizon.
TRURO - Montano's
Is it a crime to place Montano’s on this list solely for their clam, bacon, and garlic pizza—the closest imitation of New Haven’s fingerprint pie you'll find outside its birthplace? Wouldn't it be less honorable to pretend that wasn't the case and instead walk around suffering a gut sour with the cowardice of not coming clean? This is a question worth pondering if we’re to elevate one Truro restaurant to the pole position forthis article. And we are addressing a timely and not unimportant topic. So let’s agree to ask. But let’s also adjourn the jury.
As you wait, a white demi-baguette arrives, warm and inviting, just about exactly what you’re expecting while sipping wine and anticipating your first course. The atmosphere envelops you: comfortably middle-class, undeniably Italian. It’s the kind of place where a tasteful two-piece might play standards on cold winter nights, when the tables, fewer in number then, sit less full, the laughter a little more muted. The sheer size of Montano’s looms large in those months when the parking lot isn’t strained to its limits. Without the litter of cars to distract one's eyes, the building scale can almost be considered absurd. As you make your way uphill on Route 6 from the Vineyard, this behemoth arises on your right, a titan of hidden hospitality emerging from its recessed lair. Step inside, and you’re met with an inversely proportional sense of intimacy. Should it truly be larger? How has its vastness escaped? And to where? Weren’t they reconstructing the Widdah in here?
But let’s leave hyperbole - I hold my hat in my hand, and will betempted to eat it following this earnestness. Montano’s boasts an admirable bar and a robust cast of regulars. They've established roots, and when you leave the chill behind you at 4:45 on a November night, the warmth within takes on another hue, one enhanced by the familiarity in the eyes that meet your own. Their voices may not greet you, but there’s an unspoken understanding: you’re not strangers here, and should some incident arise, you’d stand shoulder to shoulder against whatever darkness threatens to intrude.
Montano’s commitment to staying open when the pickins shrink to slim also earns them a loyal cadre of characters both behind the counters through swinging doors. In a town devoid of stoplights (the only town on the Cape to that claim), loyalty counts for something significant. And that’s not hyperbole.
WELLFLEET - PB Boulangerie Bistro & Bakery
It’s past three in the afternoon, and I’m standing outside PB Boulangerie, staring at the red light on the traffic signal. The red punctuates time without meaning to. In moments like this, I wish it were April, maybe November, any time but now. A cooler, quieter season when I could just walk inside and get my baguette and coffee without waiting, without this constant reminder of tourists, this theater of waiting. I pray there’ll be a croissant but half-expect to find nothing left but crumbs. Still, I wait. Green light. The line shifts, but only just enough for me to step into the shade—fifteen minutes in, or maybe it’s been twenty. Does it matter?
Everything at PB is good. More than good. Everyone knows that. We wait, as if the goodness is enough to justify this strange communal ritual of standing here. It’s like Los Angeles traffic: it always takes forty-five minutes to get anywhere. There’s a pattern to it, a kind of resigned acceptance you develop. And maybe that’s why we all come late, knowing full well the shelves will be half-empty. What does it say about us? The food’s worth it, we tell ourselves. But beyond that, what does it say?
The air out here has a way of making me ask myself these questions. Wellfleet, with its old ghosts of psychoanalysts and out-of-place philosophers, Clara Thompson in the 40s, Freud just beneath the waves. Even now, the surf at Lecount Hollow feels like it’s trying to tell me something, if I’d only listen hard enough. The legendary nemeses Gil Levin & Rob Guerette, their dueling echoes here too, deposed in some imaginary courtroom as the tide rolls out. It’s all absurd, of course, but on this pile of sand, brush, and needles, that feels oddly comforting.
Finally, a another green light. I move inside just behind a group of four, slipping through the door at the very last second, like I’ve cheated time. Or maybe the light had already returned to red. Now that I’m here, maybe I should sit down, order a real meal, something more substantial than just a peasant loaf. Forty-five minutes of waiting for bread seems nihilistic, almost masochistic. Forty-five minutes is what you wait for a steak, isn’t it? And their steak, of course, is perfect.
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Do you have other favorites in Provincetown, Truro, and Wellfleet you'd like to see on the list? Get in touch with our local editors and pass them along. Would you like to write the post on your suggested favorite place? Don't be shy, tell them that when you email.
provincetown@hyperlocalcapecod.com
truro@hyperlocalcapecod.com
wellfleet@hyperlocalcapecod.com
Coming Soon: our Lower Cape editors enter the chat with the top entries on their lists.
