"Kid you good a'lookin' but you don't a'know what's cookin'…"

There was supposed to be an umbrella in the car—or at least that was my recollection of the conversation. But as 5 of us pulled into a parking spot just off 187th Ave. in The Bronx in my little red Mazda 3, the hopes of finding that blasted umbrella washed down the sewer drains with the teeming rain. I managed not to start in with relentless ranting, though, because 1. I had actually found a spot without having to circle the blocks over and over, and 2. I knew a lot of really good Italian food was mere steps away from the car. Only problem was, I completely forgot we were heading into the true “Little Italy” known as Arthur Ave. the day before Easter, and were bound to meet with long, impatient lines of people waiting to buy their goodies so they could go home and begin preparing their feasts. They were cold, they were wet and they were as tightly fit into small shops as Anna Nicole Smith in a size-8 dress, but there were nearly no complaints.

We stepped foot inside Casa Della Mozzarella, took a number and fell into line. Despite the cold spring New York rain and the long lines, the faces both in front of and behind us mostly wore smiles, even as they jibed the guys behind the counters that someone should be walking around with complimentary cups of espresso and Sambuca shots for the loyal patrons. If all you know of fresh mozzarella are those pre-packed balls of bland wetness you find in your grocery store you’ve no idea how mind blowing good fresh mozzarella can be. I’m not even going to bother flogging you for only equating Polly-O with mozzarella because I assume my readers are all…well…better than that. But I will tell you without a drop of humor that I waited in line for nearly 35 minutes in order to get a pound of Casa’s fresh mozzarella, and I’d gladly have waited another 35 if they had in fact served me a little espresso. Along the way to the deli counter we picked up some long fusilli (my favorite pasta), which is nearly impossible to find outside of specialty Italian shops. We also got some mixed olives, some pecorino di tartufo (sheep’s milk cheese with black truffles) and a pound of thinly sliced imported prosciutto di Parma that nearly melted in the warmth of my mouth.

What I love most about Arthur Ave is that you can go from store to store, on the hunt for your favorite specialties. Most lazy shoppers nowadays despise that, and would rather have everything under one roof, but I like getting my scallops from the fishmonger, my chops from the butcher, my ravioli from the pasta maker, my bread from the baker and my coppa from the salumeria. I even picked up an interesting bottle of Croatian wine at a small wine shop, which carries Italian specialties like Liquore Strega that you’re as likely to find at your average liquor store as you are to find honesty in Washington DC. Most places, like Teitel Brothers, have been in business for several generations, and hearing “sweetie” and “honey” sound much less sexist when they’re coming from a man behind a counter who’s handing you sample after sample of cheese until you find what you’re after. It’s here that you find the patience and the attention that existed decades ago, before anyone knew what the fuck an “Express Lane” was or would be. If you can’t decide what size shrimp is best for your recipe, no one will walk away from you rolling their eyes; instead they’ll offer up their advice, tell you which one their wife uses, and wait beside you while you make up your mind.

Tourists and novices can keep Mulberry Street for what it’s worth—which unfortunately isn’t much any more. You can find me nearly 200 blocks north of it, listening to the rhythms of idle Italian conversation, smelling the semolina loaves freshly pulled from the ovens, watching the dance of customer and purveyor, tasting the still-warm mozzarella and absorbing the genuine energy that is Arthur Avenue.

Tagged as: Arthur Avenue, Italian Food