I have a strange secret. Ever since I saw the movie The Godfather dozens of years ago, I’ve been intrigued with the underworld of Italian culture. Okay…the mafia. Yeah, I know it’s weird. I’m not sure why the attraction, but when my hubby got me hooked on The Sopranos, my imagination began to run wild. What would it be like to live in this lifestyle? At times, I’d watch the series for hours just to escape into a world so different from my own.
I have to admit that I’ve been attracted to Italian men ever since I was a teenager. Tall, dark, handsome and charming of course; nothing resembling the ‘real’ Italian men I encountered in Italy who were far shorter than me and often grumpy. Imagination is great, yet I’d never trade-in my Scandinavian husband.
When Owen and I decided to take a trip to Canal street on our third day in NYC, I knew we’d have an opportunity to slip into the life of an Italian for a few hours as Little Italy was only a few blocks from the “hot knock-offs” that Owen was determined to purchase in Chinatown. After my entrepreneurial son negotiated a sunglass purchase with some shady men selling goods from a garbage bag we were ready to slip into our alter egos. (As if this experience weren’t crazy enough for a mom with her 14 year old son.)
Little Italy is nothing like Rome, Venice or Milan. But it is quaint and a wonderful tourist spot. The four blocks are lined with lovely restaurants. However, as a lover of Italian leather bags, shoes and fashion, I was extremely disappointed when I didn’t stumble upon a row of extraordinary shops. My pocket book and my husband were not let down when arriving home empty handed. I’d have to travel back to 5th Avenue for the good stuff.
Owen declared starvation as I delicately perused each menu and ambiance of various restaurants to pick the perfect place to escape for lunch. It had to be the ultimate Italian experience. I’d been spoiled by authentic Italian food while in Italy. After five minutes of listening to my son’s grumbling I was lured into a small café by a handsome young man that had a beautiful smile. He looked right at my son and said with a thick accent, “You need to bring this lovely lady inside for a wonderful lunch.” Sold. I’m such a sucker. He likely got paid for every naive 40-something he lured into the small café.
The eight table restaurant was lovely and bright with crisp white linen table cloths and a large mahogany bar in the back. I imagined myself sipping wine at the bar all afternoon admiring the handsome Italian men, but the eye candy had to wait for another trip as I was with the 14 year old. Three friendly Italians waited on us explaining the delicacies with their beautiful accents. One young gentleman did nothing but fill my glass with water each time I took a sip. Ah, the good life. For a brief hour, hotel snob slipped into character taking in every moment of this tremendous experience.
On vacation, I promptly ordered a glass of Pinot Grigio. Got to love the NYC life..no need to drive anywhere, which made it completely appropriate for me to drink wine in the early afternoon. Just as we finished our insalata, Owen said, “Hey mom, look at that guy over there.” He was standing in the corner next to the ornate bar. The man was tall, muscular and dressed head to toe in black. He looked straight ahead with arms crossed. We tried not to stare at the man as he stood as still as a statue. “Who do you think he is?” Owen whispered.
“I don’t know sweetie,” I said looking at him out of the corner of my eye. “Maybe the owner."
“Do you think he’ll break our knuckles if we don’t pay the bill?” he asked squeamishly. My bad for watching The Sopranos in front of the kids.
“Don’t worry. I got it covered,” I shot Owen a smile.
Owen forgot all about the dark dressed man when his plate of Penne arrived. It was the most tasty lunch I’d ever eaten…even better than Rome. Impressively, we took our time enjoying the lunch and the ambiance. Both stuffed full of pasta and bread, we had no room for dessert. Not even a second glass vino. It wouldn’t be wise to ride the subway in a drunken state, so I stopped at one glass. After our plates were cleared and beverages finished, the man dressed in all black slowly approached the table. He had something behind his back but I couldn’t make out what it was. He bent over slightly and turned Owen. The eyes of the14 year old bulged with anxiety.
“Young man. You taking care Mama? Paying for lunch, right?” he asked in broken English pulling his left hand out from behind his back. He placed the bill on the table and smiled at Owen. The young man looked straight at the tall man and nodded. “Well son…someday you will pay for Mama’s lunch.” Off went the man in black. I quickly stuck two twenties into the folder as we walked out of the place giggling again.
Our experiences in Little Italy: Were they real or just imagination? We may never know. Walking down the streets of NYC with my teenage son, I longed for that moment to last forever. Someday he will pay for my lunch. And someday I can only hope that he will have a similar experience with a child of his own.
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