PICCOLA ITALIA

E’ La Piccola Donna (LPD) AKA The Little Woman.

Saturday, we climbed the steps to the big old bus that would carry us to “Da Bronx”, and I greeted the bus driver. The bus company, Wells, and Wells, was new to me. I asked the driver if he ever drove for Fargo and Fargo, as he shook his head “No.’ as I moved down the aisle, I heard him start to laugh! I wonder why?

We were heading to ‘The City’, to do a little historic visiting of Little Italy, both in “Da Bronx” and Manhattan.

As you know, I do these trips for you, my dear readers so that I can enlighten you. As for me, I could care less. For instance, there was the incident at ‘Zero, Otto, Nove’ LPD ordered a pasta dish, a rigatoni; while I ordered the lamb chops. The chops were grilled (3), with thinly sliced potatoes, cherry tomatoes, mushrooms and God knows what else, that so moved me I couldn’t speak! Every time I tried to answer LPD’s question: “”How is it?” I would try to form words, but only tears welled up, lips trembling, I had to look away. The food was outrageously delicious, and I was led out by LPD, as I sobbed, knowing full well, the meal was over!

But my assistant and I continued our unselfish work for our “Dear Readers” and moved on to a bakery. Actually two bakeries. One was for good luck! Bread, bread, and more bread, as I spotted the big round loafs, the hard crusty type, the kind that Grandma would place on her chest, and start to slice. (Fear would run up and down my spine, as I worried what would happen if that knife ever slipped!) With tears streaming down my face, we proceeded to the next bakery. This one smelled of that great Italian sweet smell! This of course led to more tears, as I had to sit and sob for a while, while making hard decisions for cookies, and more bread.

After drying my eyes, we decided to walk around the neighborhood some more. I kept my handkerchief handy, as we looked in windows, read menus, and found the Italian version of “Chotchkies,” where I purchased a few items. A short visit to a quaint coffee shop and a visit to a market ended our stay.

As we climbed back on the bus, our ‘Italian’ guide, Arthur Zuckerman, announced that we would get … (Arthur Zuckerman?), anyway, we went to Mulberry Street in Manhattan, the original “Little Italy”. Deep into Manhattan we rode, fighting traffic and as we did, I was finally able to compose myself.

Reaching the bastion of Italian colonization of America, (Outside of East New York in Brooklyn) we were immediately greeted by maitre’d’s who would tell us he had tables available, this without our asking! This led to more purchasing, more items to entice and more tears.

We visited an Italian church. It was the Most Precious Blood Church. Situated on Mulberry Street, (The back entrance), we entered a back door. Why was it called the Most Precious Blood Church? You ask. Just look at the collection baskets, and the Paisano’s collecting.

Well, that is all for now, I need to dry my eyes again!

Please remember my brother-in-law John, and all those that need our prayers.