Last weekend Gus and I were wandering around Nolita after a late meal when the glow of lights from Little Italy beckoned, so we decided to check it out. (As a side note, I'm embarrassed to admit that I only just now learned that "Nolita" stands for "north of Little Italy"). I hadn't been to the area in four years and knew little about it other than what everyone knows - that Chinatown has driven it to near extinction. While I expected it to be small, I never expected it to be so...hokey.
It literally felt like we stepped out of Manhattan and onto the cobblestone streets of a Disneyland set. Everything held an adorable unauthentic quality, from the perfectly draped lighted tinsel zigzagging back and forth overhead to the red-and-white checkered table-clothed tables lining the sidewalk. Heck, they even had a little food vendor selling
zeppole and cotton candy to a line of apple-cheeked children (I didn't really take note of their cheeks, but I'm taking some poetic license here).
Adding to my sense of bewildered displacement was the crowd. Little Italy may only be about six blocks, but it packs in
38 restaurants - all of them nearly indistinguishable from one another. And all of them utterly packed - at 11 PM - with tourists. Eating heaping plates of linguine with bolognese and meatballs. No one here lives in the city, let alone has any hang-ups about carbs. I suppose the restaurant wait staffs are traditional in the (Italian) sense that they stand on the sidewalk with menus and summon you to eat at their restaurants - but in New York it just feels backwards. Like, why are you making this so easy for me? Shouldn't I be the one begging you for a table?
As for the food, I didn't examine any menus or sample anything, but I'd be willing to bet these establishments are good in a traditional, grandma-like way; you definitely won't see any new rustic trattorias or artisan pizzerias sprouting up in the area, but that's as it should. This is, after all, a historic district, a place of preservation.
Mulberry Street, circa 1900, from Wikimedia Commons
What caught me most off guard was the fact that the area is almost completely closed off from traffic: I thought the streets were blocked for a special festival or occasion, but the district is apparently completely contained on
Mulberry Street between Canal and Prince
, with Grand Street and Mott Street as the only thoroughfares. This was certainly a plus, but it also added to that surreal feeling, like this was only for display.
I realize I may be coming off as cynical - perhaps even a bit snooty - in my description of Little Italy, but it's only because I was somewhat disheartened at what I found. But as I'm writing this, I'm realizing maybe it's not Little Italy that betrayed me, but my own expectations. Growing up, I always thought of Little Italy as a glimpse into the Italian immigrant experience - my window into the flashbacks of Godfather Part II. After having gone to Italy - and after having eaten at so many amazing and authentic Italian restaurants in NYC - the bar was raised. I don't know what specifically I was expecting to find, but probably: bits of Italian phrases getting caught in my ear, good-looking curly haired men riding bicycles with loaves of bread sticking out of their baskets, wrinkly old ladies huddled together wearing babushkas, flurries of pecorino romano raining from the sky...or something equally, laughably, unrealistic.
Mulberry Street today
But what I found was indeed the movie-like scene I envisioned as a kid. Cobblestone streets. A bustling, happy crowd. Waiters with open arms. Huge meatballs. And perhaps I should appreciate it, if only for the 13-year old in me - still melting over the young Vito Corleone.
