Tag Archives: Peter D’Epiro

When I was a little kid in the Bronx, I naturally imbibed my notions of thrift from my parents and our Italian American milieu. An example occurs to me from the time I conceived a craving for Silly Putty. My mother and I were in the five-and-dime on Third Avenue when, right there on a toy shelf, I spotted a few dozen of the little plastic eggs that had become the latest childhood craze. But it occurred to me, what can you really do with Silly Putty, which was essentially a big wad of gum? Yes, it bounced and could …

Legend says there were no poor people in Prester John’s vast empire, but there were quite a few in our Italian enclave of the South Bronx in the ’50s. In those days, Italian immigrants who didn’t want to stay poor were thrifty with the few dollars left in their pockets after the monthly bills were paid. Humble as their dwellings in Italy might have been, they considered apartment living in America a distasteful expedient, especially since the apartments they could afford were often located in tenements. Almost all our Italian neighbors were saving to buy their own homes and, given …

In memoriam, Virginia Ciavolella D’Epiro (1926-2025) “Guests, like fish, begin to smell after three days,” said Ben Franklin, but one of the qualities I admired most in my parents was their unstinting hospitality toward family members. Some didn’t yet have a place of their own in the U.S. or needed to save money by staying with us awhile, or were just passing through on their way to somewhere else. The most colorful of our many guests arrived periodically not from Italy but Lock Haven, Pennsylvania — the various members of a clan headed by my great-uncle Ernesto, who had emigrated …

Not too many Italian restaurants in this country offer snails in tomato sauce these days, but if they did, they’d probably try to gussy up their appeal — and justify an exorbitant charge — with a menu description something like this: Succulent twin-horned free-range escargots, humanely hand-harvested, smothered to perfection by ebullition in eau de pluie, served en coquille in a talented duet with a golden shower of dulcet ragù to create a symphonic ravage transfigured by gagas of sliced garlic and frissons of cheekily fresh basilicum leaves, the ensemble providing an artisanal dipping sauce nonpareil. Of course, the reality …

By the time I met Giorgio Pandone he was a very old man, but he was still chugging up the staircases to visit his paesani and sell jewelry and insurance. Tall, bald, paunchy and stately in his gray three-piece suit, with a gold watch chain spanning his ample vest, he looked like an Italian Alfred Hitchcock. He had lost a fortune in the crash of ‘29 and worked the rest of his long life to pay back what he owed and make a comfortable home for his daughter and himself after his wife died. Zi’ Giorgio (as my parents and …

My great-uncle Tony (we called him Zi’ Toni) had little use for fripperies of any kind. After losing all his teeth, he never bothered getting dentures, but his hardened gums attacked all foods with impunity, including steak and hot cherry peppers. I remember once he reached down into his big jar of peppers and gave me one to bite into as a joke. After failing to put out the fire in my mouth with a glass of water and chunks of bread, I had to resort to scraping the inside of my cheek with a wet dishrag. Always decked out …

In the shadow of the church where I was baptized, the defunct Our Lady of Pity on East 151 Street in the South Bronx, squatted the residence and professional office of Pasquale DiCarlo, MD, the general practitioner who had delivered me. Since old Dr. DiCarlo didn’t subscribe to newfangled notions, he never insisted on appointments for visits. Besides, many of his patients were Italian immigrants who hadn’t yet acquired a phone. On the shingle outside his office he might well have inscribed the motto, “Walk right in, sit right down.” And sit we did, my mother and I, perched for …

It’s been more than three decades since I last saw Aunt Achilla and Uncle Tony’s second-floor, three-room apartment on Hoffman Street, but its image often surges into my mind. Their building was on the corner of 187th Street, in the heart of the Arthur Avenue (or Belmont) section of the Bronx, a neighborhood often called “The Real Little Italy of New York City.” For the longest time, they didn’t have a phone, so we showed up unannounced, though they more or less expected us on Saturday nights or Sunday afternoons. Besides visiting my mother’s aunt, however, our frequent visits had …

When I was off from school and my mother had to go to John’s Grocery down the block in our South Bronx neighborhood, she often left me with Jenny, who lived two flights beneath us on the fourth floor and became my surrogate Italian grandmother. Childless old Jenny had an unflagging delight in children, and I became the solace of her identical days. She always begged to let me stay even after the shopping was done, so my mother would retreat upstairs, while I spent a few hours preening myself in the mirror of Jenny’s love. Besides teaching me how …

Nothing caused butterflies to blossom in my stomach more luxuriantly than my father’s weekend home-repair sessions. Not only couldn’t I go out to play but I soon heard myself being ordered to fetch him an awl from the tool chest — and I came back with a file. Or he’d tell me to get him a plane, and I brought him a plumb line. Or he asked for a Phillips screwdriver, but all he got was a regular one. Sometimes he’d tell me to hold something straight so that he could hammer it or screw it in somewhere or saw …