Many towns have a "Little Italy", of course. But in so many the Italian heritage is giving way to other nationalities. The children of the Italian immigrants go to college, become professionals, move to the 'burbs, and the immigrant neighbourhood turns over to the next set of new Americans. Somehow, miraculously, St. Louis' Hill has remained resolutely, defiantly Italian-American. Eighty percent of the district's small, quaint houses are filled with descendants of Italian immigrants; the place has enough of a mystique to appeal to those who could choose the suburbs. The shops and restaurants are still those of my childhood, and my mother's childhood: Amighetti's, Milo's, Cunetto's, Favazza's, Viviano's, DiGregario's. People who have moved away ... whether to the suburbs, New Jersey or London ... still come here to fill their larders when they're in town.
I grew up with this embarrassment of riches, never suspecting that people in other cities couldn't easily procure fine veal, home made mozzarella, hand cured olives, locally produced salami, fifty varieties of pasta, cannoli and pizza dough within a five-block area. My move to Texas gave me perspective. This place is special. In fact, it might even be better than Italy itself. In example after example, the infusion of American elements into traditional recipes produces products on The Hill that are as good as, if not better than, what I've had in the "old country".
The traditional Ferrara grocery excursion starts at the Missouri Baking Company, where generations of Gambaros, Arpianis and Lardos have miraculously transformed flour into pure decadence. As a small child I was always showered with free cookies when I arrived, the much coo-ed over granddaughter of Dr. Ferrara. (Reinforcing that dangerous link between food and love that every Italian waistline eventually battles.) This place smells amazing. From the moment you enter the door you're hit with sweet aromas of sugar, yeast, fruit, caramel, chocolate.
They're famous for their broad range of traditional Italian cookies but for me, one stands supreme. The cuccidati is a fig stuffed, white-iced delight, clearly what fig newton's try to emulate, but don't even approach. They do their own version of New York's famous black-and-white cookies, actually a fist-sized disk of iced white cake. Coffee cakes beckon with fruit, crumble and icing. Their pizza dough ... home made, delicate and risen to a height I have never achieved at home ... is the base for my mother's famous Sicilian style deep dish, and can also be deep fried and dipped in honey for a sinful breakfast treat. There's only one thing, however, that I can't leave the shop without: cannoli. Literally translated as "tubes", these are tubes of deep-fried pastry, piped full of sweetened ricotta cheese and dusted with powdered sugar. I thought all Italians ate these. It wasn't until I started visiting Italy regularly that I found out they're basically Sicilian peasant food, and rarely show up in restaurants or bakeries north of Naples. All those posh Tuscans bakers and London restaurant owners don't know what they're missing.
Once we've stocked up on everything we need to send our blood sugar levels to dangerous places, we wander up the street to Volpi's. Here, it's not flour but cows and pigs that get transformed for the plate. Volpi's makes pepperoni, prosciutto, coppa and a score of other specialty products that could break the resolve of the staunchest vegetarian. Here the aromas are of sharp spices, rich fat and cured meat. Volpi's has recently gone upscale with a range of wine-based sausages that can now be found in gourmet stores around America (and, a friend reports, in Italy). But the heart of the place is still all about the staff standing behind the big, spinning slicers, shaving piece after piece of translucently thin meats onto glittering white waxed paper, then folding it into a precise little parcel for you to take away.Now it's time to get the rest of the groceries at Viviano's. If the smell of Mo Baking is sweetness, and Volpi's spice ... Viviano's is quite simply the smell of everything good and Italian. Oregano, fresh bread, tomato sau
ce, red wine, cheese ... it's all floating around the air here. This is the smell of my Grandmother's kitchen. Of Italian holidays. Of childhood. Of happiness.At the centre of the store is a deli counter where guys who've been there for decades slice meats and cheese and dish up goodies marinating in colourful vats. Artichoke salads. Mixed olives. Tuna-stuffed peppers. Fresh buffalo mozzarella. In a nearby freezer you can get large bags of toasted ravioli to take home. (That's regular ravioli, breaded and deep fried, to be served dipped with marinara sauce. An artery-blocking treat unique to St. Louis. And mouth-wateringly tasty.) There's an entire row to the left of the store that's nothing but pasta in every shape or size available, and an entire row to the right that's all Italian wine. Appropriate brackets for every nuance of Italian culinary basic you need. There's even a dusty corner stocked with rare kitchen implements like cannoli forms and ravioli rollers. The turn-of-the-century wedding portrait of the original founders stares benignly over the crowds, and just recently has started to decorate jars of Viviano-brand pasta sauce. Absolutely, positively the best I've ever had out of a jar.
After all this hard graft and all these aromas, my stomach is usually rumbling by this point. If I want to stay Italian, I'll pop up the street to Amighetti's: another bakery, this one famous for enormous poor boy sandwiches featuring seemingly every meat produced on the hill, spicy peperoncini and provolone cheese on fresh-baked Italian bread. If I want to while away the afternoon drinking, I'd go to Milo's, a great bar with a leafy bocce court and garden in back. (In my college days you got a free tee-shirt if you "drank the wall" here, consuming one each of Milo's specialty drinks. Yes, a lot of bad habits formed on The Hill.)
But, ironically, it is usually at about this time that my mother and I decide we need O'Connell's. Perhaps it is some vital element in my DNA, reminding my stomach and brain that my Italian blood mixed with the Lees and Sullivans of County Longford a generation before it got to me.
O'Connell's is a PROPER Irish pub. Dark, cozy, unpretentious, filled with regulars. You could
pick it up and drop it in Dublin without any trouble. No leprechauns, shamrocks and fake Irishness here. This is all about a well pulled pint (the house ale is excellent), creamy Guinness and wholesome food served on paper plates. O'Connell's regularly wins awards for the best burgers in town. Their roast beef sandwich is equally famous, piled high with thick slices of a proper roast, exactly to your desired level of done-ness. (But who would destroy such a treat by pushing beyond medium rare?) Add some onion rings and a pint, bring me a bottle of horseradish and another of mayo, and I'm in business. The lunch bill for two? $24.Now that's a satisfying way to end a shopping trip. By the time we returned to the car, the groceries had been stewing together for an hour and it smelled like ... Viviano's. With any luck, hauling all those bags in from the garage will start to build up an appetite for dinner.
