At its high-water mark, Manhattan’s Little Italy stretched roughtly from Broadway in the west to the Bowery on the east; and from Canal Street in the south to Houston Street in the north. Moreover, it bordered on Italian sections in what is now northwest Soho all the way through the West Village. Mothers leaned out of tenement windows watching their kids like sentinels from above. The fruttivendoli hawked their melanzane (eggplant) and pommi d’oro (tomato) stacked on sidewalks. And the pungent aroma of provolone and soppresatta wafted in the air. People talked loud and fast. Old men hung around discussing “business.” Kids played in the fire hydrants.
Now some seventy years later, the neighborhood has slowly faded as families left for the suburbs and far beyond. Still, I smell the flour that filled the air as it was delivered to the bakery on the corner. I can taste the frittata my grandmother would make on Sundays. And above all, I can still feel the warmth of walking into that pizza place on a cold December day with my grandfather.
It was with this in mind, many years ago, that we founded a tradition we now call Jimmy’s. Today, our commitment to quality shows in everything we do!