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Will is right on target in directing you to Federal Hill. It's a great old Providence Italian neighborhood that seems to be enjoying a resurgence of late. Don't worry, though, the inevitable condos have not yet ruined the vibe.
I will get to the food presently, but to put you in the correct frame of mind for the neighborhood, a visit to Almonte's dry goods store is just the thing. [Edit: Almonte's closed late last year following the owner's death.] Almonte's is one of a vanishing category of stores that you used to find on the Lower East Side of New York and in every small town in America, the kind of place where you can buy notions, underwear, linens, and school uniforms, and an assortment of now-quaint items like aprons and slippers that grandmothers used to wear. Mr. Almonte, at age 100, is at work every day, a gentleman in coat and tie. He refuses to sit home or to sell out even though his location on the main drag of Federal Hill has been the object of lust for a host of local developers. My daughter instinctively grasped the uniqueness of the place, with its 1920's tiled exterior, patched tin celiling, wooden display cases partitioned in glass, and lace tablecloths tacked to the walls. For me, the place brought on a heavy attack of nostalgia that took days to shake. However, a few tidbits shared by the saleslady assisted my recovery from this reverie. Apparently, the current clientele includes nuns from the nearby convent accustomed to bloomers that reach to the knees (I always wondered what was under those habits), RISD students in search of housedresses as painting smocks, and transvestites looking for hard-to-find sizes in ladies' underthings, along with a certain discretion that is assured by the off-the-beaten-path quality of the place.
Food-related: we were lured in the direction of Almonte's by the presence of a fishmonger parked outside the store entrance. Fisherman Angelo Pirri of Bristol, R.I. brings his truck to Federal Hill every week (Wednesday, I believe.)
Costantino's Venda Ravioli aka Venda's is a terrific spot for just about anything that is worth eating. I have never seen a bigger selection of fresh prepared salads and deli items anywhere-- scratch that-- it seems about as large as what I recall at Zabar's in New York. But my daughter and I had a wonderful lunch of spaghetti with soft-shell lobsters in a very simple tomato coulis in the restaurant set at the back of the deli. There is also a nice espresso bar with good gelato. Be discreet while taking pictures; the owner is sensitive.
Another place not to miss is Scialo's Bakery (the locals say "shy-low's.) Get there early for the crispest, freshest, most delectably custard-stuffed sfogliatelle in the world. The hazelnut biscotti were crisp and yet yielding, and very transportable. The windows were decked out for Easter when we were there, and not a patisserie in Paris could not have done better.
Saveur featured Federal Hill in a piece that is archived on their website, and we visited Joe Marzilli's, profiled as an institution in that article. The place is preserved as in a dream: a pink dining room with murals of Venice, pink naugahyde slipper chairs, and white tablecloths. My daughter described it as "the sort of place that I always imagined I woud go on my first date." I was happy that she got her fantasy dinner decor, if not the date itself (I must remind her that the life of a dedicated foodie offers many consolations). The menu at Joe Marzilli's reads like a book, with many items rarely seen, such as chicken liver sauce on pasta and frog legs. We were all set to order the signature braciole when the waitress directed us elsewhere. Soup, salad and spumoni with maraschino cherry sauce had the 1960 standard-issue quality that brought back that time so perfectly that I expected Dean Martin himself to appear, but the sausage with rapini on orrechiete hit the spot and kept me more-or-less grounded in the present day. It was a good thing, too, because the next day a local woman told us that during the 1960's Mr. Marzilli refused to seat a friend of hers, who was dining alone, something considered not to be entirely respectable in that time and place. Nothing like a dose of the real old days to cure that nostalgia for the good old days. . .
_________________
Man : I can't understand how a poet like you can eat that stuff.
T. S. Eliot: Ah, but you're not a poet.
Last edited by Josephine on Sat Jun 09, 2007 12:53 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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