Reflecting on my experiences, it seems only logical that I, too, pursued the communities, eateries, and even the particular pastries that have upheld the tradition of our Italian roots for four generations. It was so natural that I didn’t even notice I was doing it. Didn’t every student at Oberlin College routinely drive the hour from rural Ohio to downtown Cleveland just to grab a few cannoli from Corbo’s Bakery? Or rise early in their 20s for fresh mozzarella and cavatelli from Caputo’s Fine Foods in Brooklyn? What young adult doesn’t maintain a wine journal filled with meticulously peeled-off labels and a handwritten account of who they enjoyed what with?
However, my children have only encountered snippets of the people and cuisine that have shaped so much of my existence. After my grandmother’s passing, Italy no longer felt like the home base, and the newer generation’s Italian Americanness diminished with assimilation. Red sauce simply became one of many items on our menus. My kids have never danced the chicken dance with 200 relatives at a wedding, can’t articulate sfogliatelle, and haven’t had to consume an Italian feast followed by a Thanksgiving dinner in one go.
So one brisk week last November, I chose to provide them with an intensive experience, inviting them on a somewhat chaotic 700-mile road trip to revisit as many of my life-enriching Little Italies as possible. They sportingly agreed, largely because they didn’t have an option (they’re 12 and 10) and my wife was away on business and couldn’t dissuade me. This would be a red sauce pilgrimage. It would take us to cities I hadn’t seen in years, in some cases even decades. I hoped it would not only feel like a journey back in time but also offer insight into how Italian American cuisine continues to influence this nation—and us.
The schedule was ambitious. Departing from Philadelphia, we traveled north to Worcester and then east to Boston’s North End, spending the night on the floor of my mom’s apartment just outside the city, utilizing her freezer to solidify ice packs for our ever-increasing stockpile of leftovers. Then we took a trip through Providence, Rhode Island, and New Haven, Connecticut, before making our way home. I also took a separate solo excursion to Brooklyn.
Here, I am excited to share the finest of the traditional, modern, and essential eateries, bakeries, dishes, and neighborhoods we explored and enjoyed during those four tomato-stained days. I am pleased to report that the heritage of red sauce thrives. Not merely as a collection of islands, separate from our broader restaurant scene, but joyfully blending with it, and sometimes even reinventing itself along the journey. After the trip, my kids commented that I had introduced them to “hidden spots”—the kind they might have walked past without a second glance but felt instantly at home in once inside. Because if you know where to search, Italian American food is omnipresent, and its future is promising. Red, cheesy, and radiant.
