Conversion by canoli


I haven't the heart to tell them — these people who took me in 10 years ago, who have fed me countless generous servings of delicious Italian food and who allowed me to marry one of their own. I haven't the heart to tell them that the best cannolis I've ever eaten are served at the Village Oven in West Stockbridge.

If you were me, you wouldn't tell them either.

I buttoned my lip on Saturday as my wife, son and I made our annual pilgrimage to the Italian section of the Bronx known as Arthur Avenue. It is there that my wife's extended family — the Delbellos of New York — gather annually to eat, greet and stock up on food in preparation for Easter.

I owe my appetite to these people. Years ago, my stomach was a mere serf, bound to a world ruled by the Burger King. They found me, performed CPR on my taste buds, proselytized me with a wedge of pecorino romagna, and paved a future for me lined with prosciutto. Me — Irish and as out of place on Arthur Avenue as a beach ball on a ski lift — I'm one of the family now.

Which is why I haven't the heart to brag of the fine selection of Italian olives at Guido's in Great Barrington.

By the time we got down to Arthur Avenue, nearly 40 members of the clan were taking up 14 tables inside Mario's restaurant.

Even the young ones, the nieces and nephews, can discuss the "airiness factor" of pizza dough with an expertise bordering on the archeological. They can debate the bitterness of broccoli rabe with a sensibility bordering on the botanical. They can speak of the proportions of garlic and oil in a marinara sauce with a wisdom that borders the mystical.

Who am I to tell these people that the best Italian bread I've ever tasted is not the famous sesame loaves of Arthur Avenue, but the ciabatta loaves from Berkshire Mountain Bakery? 

Let me explain. My mother comes from the McCabe clan of County Tyrone. For me, an Italian meal used to consist of spaghetti tarred and feathered with Prego and processed parmigiana. My mother once announced she'd make pizza from scratch; she used Bisquick. I'm not saying my childhood was "Angela's Ashes," but it kinda tasted that way.

I've come a long way. My wife and her family have taught me that good food is simple, fresh, preferably vine-ripened and locally produced. Now, I make lasagna from scratch and hum peasant songs from Naples. I don't understand a lick of Italian, but I'm certain those forlorn singers with the concertinas are not pining for the love of a woman, but rather of the lost ragu of youth.

Such sad strains are not heard on Arthur Avenue, because there's nothing to be sad about. It's the voice of Louie Prima that comes cartwheeling through every open doorway, including (I could swear) Our Lady of Mount Carmel Church. Indeed, how could one be sad when DeLillo's has just placed a tray of fresh-baked sfoglia-telle in the display case? With all this happiness, how can I possibly brag about the fact that where I come from, you can now get sopprasata at Price Chopper that rivals that of Tino's on Arthur Avenue?


But the thing is, it just doesn't taste as good without a few Delbellos at the table.
More than 75 years ago, my wife's great-grandfather, Augusto, a family doctor from Harlem who bartered his services for live chickens, discovered this tiny, Italian crossroads in the Bronx, one of the few places on the continent where you could find authentic Italian foods.
My wife's grandmother, the beautiful Eleanor (Augusto's daughter), 94, the matriarch, still tends her own tomato plants on Long Island. Six years ago, on Arthur Avenue, she tried to force-feed pizza to our newborn, though the kid didn't even have a molar with which to defend himself. It was Arthur Avenue boot camp for the newbie.
"Come on," she said, pleadingly, "it's pizza."
Nana, as she is known, had my wife pledge that our son would grow up knowing his cousins. And she said, "Pass on how special this family is."
He loves his cousins, and now he'll eat a bowl of pecorino Romano with a spoon.
He's become intertwined with the family line, along with Arthur Avenue and all its food, all of which form the double-love knot that holds the world in place.

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