Our Story

I grew up in a kitchen where the soundtrack was clinking glasses, clattering pans, and cousins arguing about who made the better meatballs. My grandma’s eggplant parm could stop traffic, and Sunday wasn’t Sunday unless the table was set for more people than chairs, the dough was taking a nap under a towel, and somebody was sneaking a taste of sauce when they thought no one was looking.

Those Sundays taught me more than just how to cook — they taught me that food is about connection. It’s about pulling up an extra chair for a neighbor, sharing stories over a glass of wine, and making sure no one leaves hungry.

That’s the heart behind everything we do here. Whether it’s a spice blend, a family recipe, or a kitchen tool I swear by, it all comes from the same place — the love of good food, made with care, and shared with the people who matter most.

Every Italian has a cousin Tommy, an aunt Maria, and more Tonys than seeds in a tomato. It ain’t from a lack of creativity, either. We love our traditions, we honor and respect our elders. They say names tell a story. Well, our names tell more than one story. They tell history.

Look no further than Tony. He ain’t hard to miss. When our ancestors were immigrating to America, back in the day of Ellis Island and boats across the ocean being the means to a new life, most of us didn’t speak English. Go figure, we spoke Italian.

When we got off the docks in New York, it wasn’t exactly easy street. Government officials were about as helpful as a half-eaten meatball. We had to register in our new home, and the wiseguys in charge couldn’t speak our language. Most didn’t care to even try. We had to check in like you do at a hotel, and the front desk lady didn’t have all her ducks lined up. Honestly, they couldn’t even pronounce our last names. Half the time they announced our names at roll call, no one moved forward. We didn’t know what they were saying, but we knew it wasn’t Italian!

By the end, there were plenty of us left over and the officials didn’t bother going back through the paperwork. Instead, they registered us as new citizens. They slapped a sticker on our chest that said, “To New York.” Or rather, TONY.

So then, when we finally got to speak to them when we checked in, about the only thing we’d understand is when they asked, “Hey Tony, where you from?” Italy is a big place, in case you didn’t know. Those of us from a little village in Sicily might say, “Licata.” Those government officials would stamp our forms, nod their heads, and make a statement that would change generations on end. “Your new name is Tony Licata, welcome to America.”

So next time you meet an Italian named Tony, you better remember — it ain’t just a name. It’s our story. Capisci?