“A Christmas Carol,” but Starring Rhode Island’s Iconic Foods
A chance encounter in Federal Hill's Italian neighborhood conjures the meaning of Christmas.
Federal Hill’s gateway arch. Photo by Jamie Coelho.
Growing up in Rhode Island in a family of Italian heritage, I found Federal Hill figured prominently in pre “Natale” food shopping. Visits to Venda for antipasti meats and cheeses, and to pick up our pre-ordered ravioli, were part of our holiday routine. We lingered, too, over the mouth-watering assortment of Christmas cookies at DelSesto Bakery, owned by my aunt’s brother-in-law, but sadly long closed. Amazingly, however, Caserta’s Pizzeria was never part of our culinary “stations of the cross.” Impossible, you say, but true.
I discovered this omission only this week. Returning for Christmas to Rhode Island from my London home, I had plotted with my niece to surprise my brother who was visiting Newport from California. His returns to the state, even after four decades away, include mandatory “epicurean” pit stops. At the top of his list is New York System – proof his gastrointestinal tract is Teflon. A close second is the Caserta Wimpy Skippy, shorthanded by his daughters as Skimpy, perhaps hoping they were calorie free? So dutiful sister that I am, I found myself at the pizza palace, my car replete with the odor of wienies already bought, to add Wimpies to our reunion repast. Neither offering was the proverbial frankincense or myrrh. Still an encounter with a Caserta’s customer reminded me of the meaning of Christmas.
As I placed my Wimpy order, my newbie status was revealed in my bewilderment at the clerk asking, “Do you want them cooked?” My reply was a bit snappy asking, “how else would I want them?!” A gentleman, waiting for his pizzas, overheard and patiently explained that the option to home cook the Wimpy was part of Caserta’s service. He invited me to sit next to him as we waited, commenting “it must be your first time here.” Yes, despite being born in Rhode Island, I could not believe I had never been to the Federal Hill landmark. I explained my culinary mission, dulled by jet lag having only arrived from London the night before.
His response: “You must be going to NY System then?” I replied, “Please tell me my Chanel No. 5 isn’t smothered by the ‘fragrance’ of the wienies currently, for smell mitigation, in my open windowed car.” He commiserated, noting his wife forbids him entry home until his NY System booty is consumed outside. This admission compelled me to recount an episode in my family lore when, after a fight, my brother took revenge at our middle brother by leaving wienies overnight in the latter’s brand-new Mercedes. Things have been less than sweet-smelling between them since.
Olneyville New York System.
My companion shared he had recently suffered a heart attack. When his children asked how they could help his recovery, he replied with quick and certain authority, “Call your siblings.” He conveyed his belief that “Family is the most important thing in life and never more so than at Christmas.” His tribe were gathering from far and wide to share a feast of Italian delicacies, Rhode Island style. The table for thirty-four was already being laid and food ordered from all the Federal Hill haunts. He couldn’t wait.
I haltingly confessed that my far-flung family did not feel the same compunction to coalesce as in a Currier and Ives lithograph of holiday harmony. Indeed, my California brother jokes that Italian Alzheimer’s is the inability to forget. Long held slights like those smelly hot dogs left our family more Currier and Knives. My eyes moistened at memories of past feasts at my mother’s table. Each bite had held the feeling of “famiglia” even if now the sensory memory of taste was bittersweet. How had this man never let the flame of togetherness flicker? Even as a stranger, I could feel the warmth he exuded just on sharing the importance of family and food, the holiday traditions he kept as a sacred rite.
Lost in that bewildering regret, I didn’t hear my Wimpy order called. I was surprised to find my companion offering me a huge takeaway box. “This is yours,” he said. “I so enjoyed our chat. I have the feeling you are a very good sister. Go share these with your family today. Let this be your Federal Hill feast this year. It needn’t technically be Christmas for you to find togetherness in food memories. I’ll be thinking of you when my family and I gather to eat some Caserta pizzas and Venda ravioli finishing it off with Scialo Bros. biscotti for good measure. Buon Natale.”
I walked away feeling blessed to be a Rhode Islander. These connections we make quickly bonding with strangers over our state’s culinary specialties are gifts. Perhaps the Wise Men could have brought a Wimpy Skippy or NY System after all. Anything that reminds us of the importance of home and familial love is nectar for the Gods.
The outside of Scialo Bros. Bakery.
Mary Narvell is a Rhode Island native now living in the United Kingdom. She is a graduate of the Lincoln School and Wellesley College.
