Long-standing joint dishing up diner standards & seafood specialties in humble surrounds.
Hours
| Sunday | 8 AM–9:30 PM |
| Monday | 8 AM–9:30 PM |
| Tuesday | 8 AM–9:30 PM |
| Wednesday | 8 AM–9:30 PM |
| Thursday | 8 AM–9:30 PM |
| Friday | 8 AM–9:30 PM |
| Saturday | 8 AM–9:30 PM |
Address and Contact Information
Address: 3482 Nostrand Ave, Brooklyn, NY 11229
Phone: (718) 934-9800
Menu Photos
Order and Reservations
Reservations: orderperrysseafoodrestaurant.com
Order: Order online
Photo Gallery
Related Web Results
Perry’s Seafood Restaurant Menu – Brooklyn, NY … – MenuPages.com
Perrys Restaurant: A Family-Owned Seafood Diner in Brooklyn, NY
Perry’s Restaurant (@perrys_restaurant) – Instagram
Reviews
I had a glass of red wine that was delicious.
The onion rings was the best I had. The fried shrimps were delicious and the broccoli was fresh.
I also had a salad with it and it was so good.
The owner or Manager Irene went around asking how everyone was doing. I mentioned it was my birthday and a bit later, she came over with a huge piece of cake, a candle in it and sang Happy Birthday.
What a wonderful place. I will be returning and telling everyone I know to come here.
I give 5/5 for food and service.
I was walking down Nostrand Avenue, chasing the ghosts of greasy spoons and late-night salvation, when I stumbled across Perry’s Diner. It had that classic New York mirage energy—the parking lot was packed like sardines in rush hour, and two women were arguing in soft tones over the ancient art of parallel parking like it was some lost Babylonian ritual. That alone gave me hope. The good kind. The kind that whispers maybe this place still knows how to fry an egg properly.
Up a short flight of stairs—eight of them, if you’re counting—I entered a long, narrow foyer that definitely held a Space Invaders machine during the Carter years. You could still feel the quarters rattling in the pockets of kids hopped up on Tab and freedom.
Inside, a short older guy greeted me with a wave that said: This is your home now, kid. He didn’t care where I sat, and I liked that. I chose a booth with a window view streaked in rain and what I can only assume was a decade of road grime and old cigarette smoke. The booth had that worn-in, cracked vinyl you can’t fake—pure 1970s Americana. Grease-slicked menus leaned against the ketchup bottle like they were nursing a hangover. I half-expected a tabletop jukebox to crackle back to life and spit out some Elvis Costello.
I skipped the menu. I ordered a burger and fries, which at a real diner is the litmus test. Within minutes, the waiter brought over some complimentary odds and ends—coleslaw, pickles, chickpeas. Nice touch. The pickles had bite, the coleslaw had crunch, but the chickpeas? Funky, and not in a good way.
Then the burger came. And it all went to hell.
Two tomato slices sat there like crime scene evidence—pale, rubbery, and dead on arrival. The onions were fried to death and still somehow oily, like the ghost of a deep fryer was haunting my plate. The patty? It was a prefab hockey puck, perfectly round, utterly flavorless, probably shipped in on a Tuesday. You couldn’t taste the beef because it had already given up. I managed three bites before mercy kicked in.
The fries? They tried. But they stayed in the oil two minutes too long and came out limp, bitter, and broken—like dreams deferred.
Perry’s looks like the kind of place where miracles happen. But sometimes the neon lies. Sometimes, it’s just a museum of what used to be, serving food that reminds you why you left Jersey in the first place.