The Next Best Thing after Italy

After my visit to Ground Zero, I made my way toward Mulberry Street, the heart of the Downtown Little Italy. (The Bronx also has its own version of Little Italy; apparently there is a heated debate as to which one is better.) On the way, I passed by some cool-looking buildings. I didn't go into Trinity Church because I didn't realize how historic it was. Whoops. I did, however, stop briefly inside St. Andrew's Church, which is a beautiful little church located right next to the United States Courthouse (now called the Thurgood Marshall U.S. Courthouse, according to Wikipedia) and Foley Square. I also did not realize the importance of any of these places; I was simply attracted to the church because it looked cool. And the rain was picking up. And because I felt pleased with myself for being able to translate the Latin on the frieze.

Beati qui ambulant in lege Domini - always true, but even more appropriate given its location practically on top of a huge courthouse.

Afterwards, I continued my walk to Mulberry Street. Nowadays, Little Italy is being gradually crowded out by Chinatown, which surrounds the old Italian neighborhood. (Sidenote: I want to spend some time in Chinatown at some point, but my mission this week was Italian, so I mostly ignored the Chinese cultural opportunities yesterday. My process did not allow for forays into Asian territory...) This week, however, the Italians are hogging the attention: Next Saturday is the Feast of San Gennaro, the patron saint of Naples, and Little Italy is now in the midst of its annual 10-day celebration of the feast.

Each year, in Naples, the saint's blood turns from solid to liquid on his feast day. Also, prayers to San Gennaro are said to have averted destruction from the nearby Mount Vesuvius in the past.

Mulberry Street was a giant fair. Along the street was stall after stall of vendors, and all of the street's restaurants had set up extra seating in forward tents. Despite the rain, it was crowded with tourists (and locals) who had come for the great food and festal atmosphere.

A festive-looking Mulberry Street with a surly-looking Empire State Building partially covered by clouds in the background

I love all things Italian. I especially love the food. Luckily, I had planned to have a late/large lunch that day because of the timing of traveling to and from Manhattan as well as going to Mass. The only problem was choosing where to eat; what in the world could I base my decision on? Since I knew nothing about the area other than the fact that the festival was happening (clearly, this was one of many instances in which I was not prepared for the day), I had no background knowledge or experience to guide me to the best restaurant. I started glancing at the posted menus as I ambled past the restaurants' tents, and then I hit solid gold: one restaurant was advertising a festival special of $13 for a two-course lunch, and my favorite Italian pasta was listed as one of the choices for a first course.

Penne all'arrabbiata: so simple, but sooo good

Without even knowing the name of the restaurant, I asked to be seated, and I was given a table inside the actual restaurant (not the outdoor tent). I was disappointed at first since I would not be able to people-watch, as I had planned, but it turned out to be a nice break from the crowds. I had excellent bread, penne all'arrabbiata, eggplant parmigiana, a glass of Chianti, and an after-dinner cappuccino. (Sidenote: I took home my extra bread and used it to make French toast this morning. It was delicious.) The indoors location allowed me to relax, enjoy my meal at length, and do a bit of writing.

The cinnamon on the cappuccino was an unexpectedly tasty addition.

With a few hours to spare before Mass began, I wandered through the festival some more, taking my time to browse the shops and simply enjoy the sights, smells, and sounds. At one point, a small band marched past playing "That's Amore."

I especially liked their hats.

I loved the feeling of being surrounded by Italian pride, but it was not simply that. It was Italian-American pride. The descendants of the Italian immigrants who made New York their home beginning in the late 1800s are clearly proud of their heritage, as can be seen in the excellent restaurants, cafes, and shops that still line the Little Italy area. However, I would be willing to bet that most are just as proud of their American heritage and would be unwilling to leave the city. (It's probably a fair assumption, given that most are several generations removed from the original immigrants, at this point.) Case in point:

I haven't counted, but it seems the American and Italian flags are nearly proportional. At any rate, it looks like Christmas.

The vendors were colorful both to the eye and to the ear. Many beckoned the festival-goers to buy their treats: "Get yer sausages!" "We got pina coladas! Free refills!" "Try the cannolis!"

How's this for colorful?

Of course, all of the food looked good, but I was more than full after my abundant lunch. I did consent to a small sample of cannoli, though. How could I not? The last time I had cannoli was in Catania -- in Sicily -- the night I found out I was accepted at Einstein, and it was delicious.

Clearly this shop knows what it's doing when it comes to cannoli.

The last thing that I did before leaving Little Italy -- and Manhattan as a whole -- was go to Mass at the church that claims San Gennaro as its patron. The Most Precious Blood Church was beautiful inside, full of paintings commissioned in memory of neighborhood families with extremely Italian names.

Church of the Most Precious Blood, referring both to Christ and Saint Januarius (as we call him in Anglicized language)

Mass was surprisingly short, only 30 minutes, adding on to my week of really short Masses. I guess that's what you get when there's no homily or music. It ended with a procession to the front to kiss the relic of San Gennaro, which I hadn't known about beforehand. I was moved by the reverance expressed by the crowd who had gathered there to celebrate Mass and the beginning of the saint's feast.

As I walked to the subway, I picked up a whopping pound and a half of nougat, the ubiquitous white treat being sold throughout the streets of the festival. Later that night, my friends and I labored to hack through its surprisingly hard core so that we could enjoy tasty morsels of nuts and sugar that had the taste of marshmallows. This was the perfect supplement to the popcorn that we ate while watching (and making fun of) a ridiculous B movie about genetically engineered killer sheep. It couldn't have been a better day.

A pound and a half of nougat -- that's amore!