Arthur Avenue: Little Italy in the Bronx

My father recently told me the following story. When my sister and I were young, my parents used to dress us up in fancy clothes and take us out to dinner, oftentimes to fine Italian restaurants around Connecticut. Our favorite was a lovely place in New Haven called Tre Scalini, an upscale favorite of Wooster Street residents in Little Italy. One Sunday night, I brought my little sister to the bathroom, and upon returning, showed my father two twenty dollar bills.

"Where'd you get that?" He asked.
"From the man at the bar over there," I replied, pointing to a man, well-dressed, well-jeweled, and in a finely-pressed suit.
"You can't take money from strangers," my father said, and called over our waiter to figure out how to return the gift. The waiter came by the table and my father inquired about the gentleman.
"Oh, you can't give that money back," the waiter said gravely. "You don't return gifts like that when the come from a guy like him." A wink and a nod.

Needless to say, my father was nervous so that we skipped our tiramisu dessert and left the restaurant without a fuss, but with a polite "thank you" to the signore, who replied with a nod of the head.

Now, thirteen years later, I recently found myself graciously accepting a liter of unfiltered Sicilian olive oil from the shop owner of Teitel Brothers Wholesale and Retail Grocery Company on Arthur Avenue in the Bronx. When I asked how much I owed him, the shopkeeper gave me an eye.

"Whaddya mean?" He asked me. A wink and a nod.


Arthur Avenue is Little Italy in the Bronx. Located near Fordam University between Fordam Road and East 183rd Street, this stretch of neighborhood is as close to an authentic Italian neighborhood as one can get in New York. Forget Little Italy in China Town -- uptown in the Bronx is the real . It is an Italian foodie's paradise; both sides of the street are packed with grocery shops, butchers, delis, bakeries, pastry shops, between which people are constantly running with their wares to meet the demands of a very hungry clientele.

Recently, my dear consigliere urged me to get to Arthur Avenue to do a story for Goûter; he had been there on numerous, storied occasions when he lived here in New York, and he knew that I'd love it. A few weeks later, my parents announced that they'd be coming into the city to go to the New York Botanical Gardens and then having lunch on Arthur Avenue nearby. I invited myself along with them and their friends, hopped the MetroNorth to the Bronx, and navigated my way on foot to Arthur Avenue, a place that somehow felt like home. Everyone was out on the street, enjoying the lazy breeze of the autumn afternoon. And yet, the whole street was in a wonderful commotion of people eating, playing cards, chatting at the salon, eating, toting around groceries, eating, yelling from windows, having discussions on the sly, eating, running through traffic, smoking, and eating. Italian was spoken everywhere by everyone, and hands were flying about expressively from hip to mouth to chin.

My father was hungry, so the first thing to do was find Enzo's, the restaurant where we had been told to eat by one of his colleagues who grew up on Arthur Avenue. Even with the plethora of great eats to chose from (Roberto's, Dominick's, Pasquale's, etc.), we were told that Enzo's was the place to go. It was a delight, indeed. Enzo's is a homey little trattoria where neighborhood regulars dine in big family groups. The restaurant has brick walls with large, medieval tapestries, an impressive rack of wine on display, and beautiful, hammered copper ceiling overhead. The food is traditional Italian -- simple, but delicious. Our hostess felt like an old friend (she knew someone with our same last name on Long Island, a baker...), and she doted on us with friendly curiosity. We ordered a bottle of Tuscan Sangiovese, Castello Banfi Rosso di Montalcino (2005) -- dry, oak-ey, and ruby red. We began the meal with a round of appetizers: salty Clams Oreganata, buttery Polenta with white beans and savory sausage, and fresh Mozzarella di Bufala with big slices of red tomato, crisp basil, and roasted red peppers. By the end of that feast, we were feeling full, but when the pastas came to the table, our appetites expanded, and we loosened our belts. Rigatoni alla Siciliana with hunks of lucious eggplant and mozzarella in a sweet tomato sauce; Cavatelli di Broccoli Rabe with sausage in fresh olive oil with garlic, and Orchiette with peppery sausage, chicken, and portobello mushroom in a spicy, chunky tomato sauce. We passed around plates, picking and tasting, wiping up the sauces with fresh Italian bread with huge pieces of black olive baked inside. All around us, everyone was enjoying the same tradition, clinking glasses of wine in the mid-afternoon and easing digestion with a bit of Sambuca.

From Enzo's we took to the street to explore the local vendors. My mother and I ran across the street to Biancardi's Meat, which was like an entire meat locker unto itself, crowded with people and pungent with the smell of freshly killed meats. Biancardi's is the home of the delicious sausage from Enzo's, which comes in two varieties: spicy, and mouth-blowingly spicy. At the back of the store, the ceiling is covered in various, long salumi hanging from meat racks, to the right of which is a brooding portrait of the Madonna.

Next we stopped into Addeo Bakers, whose enormous loaves of bread came in various shapes and sizes. Large circular loaves, long loaves, hundreds of breadsticks of different varieties, and so much more.

On the previous block was the celebrated grocer, Teitel Brothers. Established in 1915, the grocery is a tiny little store that is packed floor-to-ceiling with delicious, gourmet Italian foodstuffs. Out in front are paint buckets filled with a variety of dried beans, canned beans and tomatoes piled into high towers, jugs of various olive oils marking the entrance, and a strange display of salted eels splayed out, as if to guard the door from hungry intruders. Inside, the store consists of only one aisle into which everyone -- customers, runners, shopkeepers -- are packed. Everyone screams and shouts their orders because everyone goes to Teitel's with a precise list of what to buy. Perhaps that is why the shopkeeper came running toward me and I was looking over shoulders in an attempt to browse around the store. It was from him that I got the olive oil, and another confirmation that someone of my same last name is a baker in Long Island.

I lost track of my father and his friend, only to lose him further inside of the Arthur Avenue Retail Market, an indoor market of various sellers with a variety of delicious and bizarre wares. In the front of the store is an area inside of which a handful of men are busy at work rolling fresh cigars and chain-smoking the dregs all day long. My father got stuck with a man selling a hodge-podge of kitchen goods in an attempt to buy my mother an electric tomato sauce machine to replace the hand-grinder that he so lovingly attends to during tomato sauce season at home (when she discovered what he was up to, his efforts went for naught). I wandered into the back with Glen and Robin, my parents friends, only to discover more butchers (pig's feet, cow's tongue, lamb's head, kidneys, hearts, livers), a green grocer, and a giant salumi hanging from the rafters. People were eating everywhere, snacking on delicious savories and sweets. Our appetites whet once again, we headed back to the street in search of Stratciatella Gelato (fluffy, creamy vanilla with thin, wispy shards of dark chocolate).

On the street, we saw Alex, our waiter from Enzo's. He told us where to go -- a pastry shop "around the corner, four shops in." Following his instructions, we found ourselves at DeLillo Bakery, the family store once owned by the parents of author Don DeLillo. The smell inside the shop was warm and sweet, and enveloped us like the crunchy crust of a cannoli. We were tempted to stay, but there was no Stratciatella flavor that day.

Back on the street, I found my father focusing the camera on a dapper-looking gentleman in a stylish, pressed gray suit, pink shirt with jeweled cuffs, who was talking to a lesser-looking fellow in drab clothes. I watched as the smaller man caught sight of my father, and the two looked over with faces blank. My father clumsily pointed the camera up toward a street sign, snapped what turned out to be a fantastic picture (but not of them), and then he hurried around the corner, and pulled me out of sight.

Fortunately, we stumbled into Egidio's bakery, where we found our gelato. Yet again there was no straciatella, but the feast inside was exactly what we had been looking for. In fact, it was in Egidio's into which I first stumbled on my lost way to find the New York Botanical Gardens to find my parents, and when I saw the shop owner again, she immediately recognized me as though I were an old friend. Carmela Lucciola oversees Egidio Pastry Shop off Arthur Avenue on 187th street all on her own, and even owns a beautiful restaurant, Dolce Amaro, around the corner back on the Avenue. We chatted for a while over the counter (again with the relative who is a baker on Long Island), and then she sent me with one of her employees to scout out the restaurant -- the only one in town with an outdoor patio.

When I returned to Egidio's, I found my parents and their friends enjoying heaping bowls of glistening gelato, smiling and content. Carmela whisked me around the shop, chatting about business, the neighborhood, speaking in English, then Italian, then English again. Somehow, I was able to understand and keep up with her. Toward the back of the shop's cases stuffed with buttery cookies, I found a tray of chunky biscotti, Quaresimali, or Lenten Almond Biscuits. These hard and crunchy cookies were created especially for the lenten season when good Roman Catholic Italians abstain from tempting sweets. Quaresimali, however, don't count, and pair perfectly with a teensy cup of hot espresso.

It was nearing 5 o'clock and my parents and their friends had to leave before evening traffic set in (albeit, they were doing the reverse commute). We all reluctantly left Carmela ("Ce vediamo, tanti baci!"), and as I walked down the darkening street, I felt a small sense of loss. There are days when I believe that New York is the greatest city in the world, and other days when I feel trapped by the concrete and the anonymity of the busy sidewalks. Arthur Avenue is neither concrete nor anonymous; it is a place that feels like Europe in America, and welcomes visitors like family. Leaving Arthur Avenue held, for me, the same feeling of anti-climax after holiday meals at home are over, and my loud, boisterous family all goes away (minus the relief of making it past the inevitable arguments and impetuous jokes). But like a good Italian family, there is always an excuse for another reunion, and I've already promised Carmela that I will return for the holidays to eat at Dolce Amaro.

Until then, I'll be dousing my food in the gifted olive oil, whipping of batches of Quaresimali, and trying to figure out who this baker is on Long Island with whom I share the same, multi-syllabic, ends-with-a-vowel, Italian last name.

Arthur Avenue Photo Album



QUARESIMALI
(from italiancookingandliving.com)

Makes about 1 doz cookies

• Sugar: 1 cup
• Flour: 1 1/2 cups
• Bitter cocoa powder: 1/2 cup
• Hazelnut paste: 1 3/4 oz
• 3 egg whites
• 1 orange
• Powdered vanilla or 1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
• Cinnamon
• Baking powder: 1 tablespoon

Beat the egg whites until firm then add the sugar and the nut paste (this can be replaced with 1 3/4 oz of hazelnuts, finely ground in the food mixer).

In a separate bowl, mix the flour with the cocoa, the grated orange rind, a pinch of cinnamon, a little vanilla and the baking powder. Slowly fold this into the egg whites: you should obtain a fairly dense mixture.

On baking paper (or a buttered tray) form , using a syringe or confectioner's bag (space well as these will swell with cooking).

Leave to stand for about one hour, then place in a warm oven (300° F) for about ten minutes.

***


Enzo's
2339 Arthur Ave.
(bet. Crescent Ave. & E. 186th St.)
718.733.4455

Biancardi's Meat
2350 Arthur Avenue
718.733.4058

Addeo Bakers
2372 Hughes Ave
718.367.8316

Arthur Avenue Retail Market
2344 Arthur Avenue
(No phone)

DeLillo Pastry Shop
606 E. 187th St.
(bet. Arthur/Hughes Aves.)
718.367.8198

Egidio Pastry Shop
622 E 187th Street
718.295.6077

Dolce Amaro
2389 Arthur Avenue
347.270.0081

Porcini Ravioli and Sage Butter Sauce

One afternoon, my Nanny Family made a special dinner request: porcini mushroom ravioli from Citarella, the "food mecca" of New York and the Hamptons. I don't shop at Citarella myself; I actually find it rather intimidating. When I go to market, I know how to shop by fingering around the produce to see what's in season, and by snooping around the aisles for things to work together into a meal. But Citarella has a different approach to grocery shopping. The little shop on 75th and Broadway is a food boutique where the incredibly selective array of food dictates what one is actually able to make. The "chef's helpers" and prepared foods are in abundance, however, which to me indicates that Citarella is more of a gourmet shop than a chef's market.

My gripes with the store aside, Citarella is a unique New York food destination. Their selection of meats and fish is diverse and fresh, the specialty foods are from all over the world, and the Citarella-brand goods are in a league unto themselves. Citarella's own ravioli are a fresh example of the store's commitment to quality. These delectable treats come with an array of fillings, from cheese to pumpkin, meats to broccoli rape. The ravioli are moist and savory; they are so fresh that the pasta literally melts onto the tongue. Because the Nanny Family is so keen on mushrooms, they requested the porcini mushroom ravioli. They are made with the perfect ratio of pasta to filling, the richness of which inspired me to craft the following sauce.

The simplicity of this sauce is what always astounds me every time I make it. It is visually unimpressive, but it is incredibly fragrant and packs a flavor that just tantalizes the senses. It is rich, yet light, and makes a perfect meal for an autumn day.


PORCINI RAVIOLI AND SAGE BUTTER SAUCE
Serves 4-6

Citarella-brand porcini mushroom ravioli (or another high-quality brand)

1 package fresh Sage leaves (about 2-3 bunches, must be fresh)
1 doz. Crimini Mushrooms
1 small Shallot, cut crosswise into paper-thin rounds, separated into rings
1 stick Unsalted Butter, at room temperature
1 Tbsp Olive Oil, with plenty on hand for frying sage and mushrooms
Pinch of salt and freshly ground black pepper


In a large stockpot, set aside water to boil to pasta.

Pick whole sage leaves from their stems, wash, and gently pat dry with a paper towel. Set aside.

Remove stem from mushrooms, and clean caps by wiping off dirt from caps with a paper towel and using a small spoon to gently remove the gills and the ring. Slice caps into thin pieces, keeping shape of mushroom cap in each slice. Set aside.

Heat a medium sauté pan on high heat. Add a liberal amount of olive oil to coat bottom of pan. Retain some smaller sage leaves aside, and use the larger leaves to fry. Carefully toss in sage leaves to fry; the oil will spatter as the leaves cook. Turn down heat to medium-high and fry until crispy and green-gold in color. Remove only leaves with a slotted spoon, placing on a clean paper towel to absorb excess oil.

Place pan back on medium-high heat. Use the remaining oil -- which is infused with the sage -- to fry mushrooms. Add more oil if necessary, heat well, and toss in mushroom slices. Fry until golden brown and crispy. Remove only mushrooms with a slotted spoon, placing on a clean paper towel to absorb excess oil.

Turn heat down to medium. Melt butter in pan, and cook for about a minute. Add shallots and remaining fresh sage leaves, and bring to a low boil for another minute. Add tablespoon of olive oil, and cook until fragrant, about three minutes. Season with salt and pepper and set aside.

Once the water in the stockpot is boiling fiercely, add a teaspoon of salt. Gently toss in ravioli, and cook for about 3-6 minutes, until all ravioli float to surface. Drain well. Transfer ravioli to plates. Drizzle butter sauce from the pan over plated ravioli. Top with fried mushrooms and sage leaves; serve immediately.


Buon appetito!

Table for One: In Search of Regulars at New York City's Restaurants

My apologies to everyone who has been patiently been asking for more. I've had this story written and waiting to be edited for a few weeks now, so here it is finally for you to read. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed my experience.

Bello Sguardo, Upper West Side
Amsterdam Avenue, between 79th and 80th Streets

"There's hardly enough light for you to read!" she said, offering me a candle wrapped in crimson paper from her table. "Well, that's not going to help any."

Indeed, there wouldn't be enough light for me to read my book, even so early at 8pm on an August night in New York City. The lack of adequate lighting completely defeated the purpose of my mid-week dinner out by myself. After a day of wandering around Central Park and the Upper West Side, I decided to end my day over a lone dinner to read my new book, enjoy a glass of wine and a caprese salad, and savor the lingering heat of day that evening at summer's end.

There is something about dining alone in New York that makes this very lonely practice rather acceptable. Every restaurant in the city has its regulars, and I'd wager that a large percentage of these regulars dine alone. Perhaps it is the comfort of returning every day to the same restaurant; the staff becomes like family, the customer's preferred table like his own dining table at home. But even amidst kissing couples, lively families, and groups of women on friend dates, a crowded restaurant can be rather comforting to those who dine alone. This is why, on that particular night in August, I decided to forgo scrolling through my cell phone contact list and
request a table for one.

That night at Bello Sguardo, a fine enough Mediterranean restaurant on Amsterdam Avenue, I found a bit of unexpected companionship. I was able to read only about a paragraph of my book (Picture Perfect, by Jodi Picoult) when my fellow diner interrupted to engage me in conversation. I found myself entranced by this woman, who told me an story more compelling than the one I read on paper -- the story of a woman's life, where love, family, creativity, and compromising truth and belief in oneself lead her here, next to me, to share my Table for One.

Stella, as she will be called for the sake of anonymity, is a regular at Bello Sguardo. With her jet black hair cut short in an incredibly elegant and stylish bob, she looked like an Italian Cleopatra on whom the waiters doted with a sort of maternal reverence. After she convinced me to order the Chopped Salad in place of the Caprese ("You'll get one tomato and a slice of cheese with the Caprese. The Chopped Salad is more interesting, or so it seems to me."), I ordered a glass of delightfully smooth and inexpensive Chablis, closed my book, and settled back for a simple meal and unexpected companionship.

Stella, like any good regular, called herself a very picky diner. Her meal, for example, was not on the menu. It was rather an accommodation by the restaurant's staff to suit her taste for that particular evening: mixed green vegetables, two rounds of eggplant parmigiana, and a spoonful of penne pomodoro. There hadn't been enough sauce on the eggplant, and she asked the waiter for more. "But you'll have to go downstairs to get it?" she asked, showing her knowledge of the complete topography of the restaurant. The waiter insisted on getting it for her, and so she agreed to have more sauce. Later she told me that she was hoping for string beans rather than mixed vegetables. She also complained --to me only -- that she should have been given Parmesan cheese. She resolved that just for tonight she wouldn't to be too picky.

I was curious to know why this attractive older woman would be dining alone. She was rather statuesque; her dark hair fell closely to her cheeks, as if to frame the features of her beautiful face. She wore the timeless combination of black and white clothing, and her manicured nails were polished a deep purple, just a few shades darker than her lipstick that painted her pouty lips. The only ring she wore was a simple, black band (made of plastic, she later confessed) on the pinky of her right hand.

When the waiter came to take my order, she encouraged me to ask for more feta cheese with my salad. I didn't, for once ordering straight off the menu without asking for changes. When I turned back to her, she looked both amused and disappointed.
"You didn't ask for more cheese..." she smiled.
"Oh, I didn't want to make a fuss. And those people over there look like they have the same salad with a nice bit of cheese on it."
"My children always say I'm too picky," she said, cutting a bite of eggplant with her fork. "I didn't realize I was picky. But I do think that the more I go to a place, like here, the more picky I become."

We talked for a bit about what made her picky: taste in food, taste in clothes, ("I have a pair of leather coolats with silk lining that I bought from Bergdorf Goodman's for $500. And that was in 1986, and I can still wear them... Ten, twenty, twenty-one years later."), and most importantly -- taste in men. She asked me what my past and present boyfriends had to say about my tendencies for pickiness. I laughed, and told her that it was less a question of my boyfriends' commenting on my pickiness, but rather a question of my friends who constantly comment on my pickiness when it comes to picking boyfriends. She chuckled, and then asked me to try to describe my perfect man.

For Stella, her perfect man had been her husband: "When I met him, I ran home and told my mother, 'I met my husband!' I knew right away." She looked nostalgic, and her eyes began to sparkle with dewy tears. "When I first saw him, he was sitting there with his hand on his chin, biting his thumb. His profile was so beautiful, chiseled like a statue."

Stella's husband was the brother of her good college friend, and Stella, after hearing about this brother all throughout college, finally concocted a plan to meet him. Their first meeting was a success, and after a year, they were married. "He made me feel safe and we just knew it was to be. We worked out the questions, and there were no doubts."

She told me about how her husband was a writer who composed beautiful poems to her, two of which she recited to me. Together, they had two children (two boys and a girl). "All I ever wanted were babies," she told me frankly. For her, a career was secondary to having a family. However, once the children came of age, Stella pursued the career of an actress. As a young girl, she did stage shows, but when she was older, she switched to film. "I did all the New York films," she told me humbly. "Serpico, Taxi Driver... I was in all of them. Back then, it was easy to get a part as an extra -- and I could take my babies to the set."

As her story goes, Stella entered the business rather "connected." She was discovered on stage by a fellow who told her to join the Italian-American division of the Screen Actors' Guild. As a bright young thing, she eagerly brought her new friend home to her father. "My father eyed him up and down, gave him a little upward nod. He did the same. It sealed the deal and I was in," she told me, touching my arm. "But when he left, my father screamed: 'What are you doing with a guy like Angelo?? Do you know who he works for?!?' But it didn't matter. Back then for us Italians, everybody worked for somebody."

We spent the whole evening wrapped in conversation about love, careers, food, and family. We touched on subjects that made her cry, we talked about things that inspired me to keep going for what I wanted and needed. At the end of the meal, she moved on to espresso, and asked her waiter if she could smoke. When he casually told her that she could not, she retorted by saying how she saw a friend of his smoking outside a few nights earlier. The waiter clearly couldn't argue with that, but out of politeness, Stella stood up and lit her smoke just on the border of the terrace. Like a star from an old film, she took long drags between thoughts, resting her elbow on the back of her opposite hand. "I think I'm starting to figure you out," she told me. And then she described me in almost perfect detail, and set me on course with a plan.

Once her espresso was finished, it was time for us both to go. We paid our checks (hers considerably less than mine -- another perk of being a regular) and we stood up to walk a bit together up the Avenue. We paused for a few moments at a sidewalk bench, and she lit up another cigarette "for digestion." As the ten o'clock hour neared, Stella turned to me and thanked me for my company, and excused herself to walk home alone into the summer evening.

Stella left me with some important advice, as well as other stories about her life which I guard for the sake of keeping the confidence with which she trusted me by recounting them. Of the many things I came to understand over that dinner with Stella, the most important lesson she seemed to stress was that we do not always have all of the answers. She encouraged us to live life with a little bit of recklessness in order to follow what the heart compels tells us to do. It seems that this philosophy has worked for Stella throughout her storied life. Even though now she dines alone, Stella has lived an entire life of fulfillment, where all of her hopes and needs were fulfilled. It is this life and the memories from it that have remained her trusted company through many a Table for One.