Written in 2017 for a University of Colorado course.
The mark of a true mom and pop, authentic Italian restaurant is the end of the meal. If the owner of the restaurant comes by to thank you for eating here, makes sure everything was great and offers you a limoncello, insists that you let him give you a drink, you found the real thing. You’ll say no at first to be polite, but he’ll come back with a couple of stemmed shot glasses and a bottle and have a drink with you. This kind of gesture is so personal and so few and far between these days. It’s not very often that you get to have a conversation with the owner of the restaurant and genuinely feel like they care about you. Dining does not have to be expensive or extravagant, on the contrary, I come away more satisfied with a meal if I get some good food and a great environment, not if it is a five star restaurant.
My family and I were first told about Forlini’s from my grandpa, he said we have to go there next time we were in the city. He told us he used to go there all the time when he was one of New York’s finest back in the day. He told us how he used to sit around a table with the other officers, get some food and drink whiskey out of coffee cups so the other people in the restaurant couldn’t see that there were police officers drinking on the job. I remember thinking how ridiculous it was that they drank while carrying loaded weapons, but I suppose it was a different time. I wanted to go because it had a certain degree of significance to my family and my grandpa had talked it up.
The next time we were in New York, my mom, my sister and I were just there for the day, showing our other “sister” Megan around because she had, quite honestly, been deprived of many experiences as a child, New York being one of them. She’s not our real sister, just a best friend that my parents have taken in and call their surrogate daughter and have taken in since high school when my dad openly referred to her as his daughter at a lacrosse banquet. It had been a while since my parents moved away from Long Island so my mom was excited to show someone New York for the first time again. Megan was excited but Emma and I knew we were in for a long-ass day. We had experienced this day before, and knew there was a nauseating amount of walking involved. We went to all the touristy spots, Times Square, the Time and Life building, the Brooklyn Bridge, Central Park. We sat on the grass in the park after getting some dirty water hot dogs and knishes and made Megan face her life long aversion to hot dogs after an unfortunate theme park incident years ago that made her lose her appetite for them. This part of the day was just pure happiness for me, I was surrounded by my favorite people, eating some of my favorite things surrounded by all of these beautiful wildflowers on a perfectly sunny day. One of the best things about New York is the food, I love visiting to see my family, but mostly to get all the food you can’t get once you leave the state. Finally when the day was almost over, we took her for a ride on the subway over to where we would eat dinner. By that time, we were dragging our feet and our mom was yelling at us to keep up, she is never tired, I don’t know how she does it. Megan had been excited to see everything but even she was losing steam. We just wanted to eat, our stomachs were grumbling and screaming the way they only do if you’ve been walking all day but there was too much to see, we couldn’t stop. I needed something to eat or I wasn’t going to make it. We hadn’t eaten anything since the hot dogs and knishes about five hours earlier in Central Park. I could still taste the perfectly fried potato dumpling covered in mustard, my stomach growled.
Just as our feet were about to fall off, we reached Forlini’s, right on the border of Little Italy and Chinatown on Baxter Street. On one side of the street were Italian delicatessens with giant displays of pastries that stretched across the entirety of the front counter, the rest of the store filled with every kind of Italian food you could ever want, don’t go into one of those places hungry. On the other side were little novelty shops that sold tiny jade figurines and cramped stores advertising bubble tea. This street embodied New York perfectly, two completely different cultures smashed together but somehow it all looked normal. The giant red neon cursive letters hung above the awning of the restaurant on the red brick building and looked like the gates of heaven. We had been run into the ground by my mother, we were so hungry and all we wanted to do was sit down but we had finally made it to the promised land.
I had been to Forlini’s once before with my family, and had been dreaming of the food ever since. Penne noodles covered in creamy, vodka sauce and parmesan cheese had been bouncing around my mind for the last year and at last they were about to be mine again. My mom always says that you can’t get good vodka sauce anywhere but New York and she’s never been more right, no one can do it like this place. It can’t be too pink or there’s too much cream, and not too red or it’s too tomatoey. And it definitely should not have meat in it. I’ve grown to appreciate Italian food when it’s good and know how to spot it when it’s bad from growing up in a New York household and nothing makes me cringe more than bad sauce. It’s a damn sin, don’t even talk to me about Olive Garden.
We stepped through the door and into the dimly lit dining room. Old fashioned light fixtures hung on the walls and a simple chandelier hung from the ceiling. Paintings and photographs lined the walls like they do in my aunt and uncle’s house on Long Island. It felt like a house. Big squishy booths lay against the back wall, each with a big table covered in a white tablecloth in front of them. The room was not busy, it is not a well known place, but a well loved place. The owner walked in and greeted another couple at their table and asked them about their children. We were directed to a booth and slid in as fast as we could, we practically snatched the menus out of the waiter’s hands, anxious to get something in our mouths. By this time, my dad had joined us, he tried to guide Megan, who was not well versed in the beautiful language of Italian food. Seeing that we were all so hungry, it didn’t take long to order, and thankfully it didn’t take long for the first round of food to come out. The most beautiful bruschetta you’ve ever seen, perfectly toasted slices of bread drizzled with olive oil, they could barely contain the tiny mountains of tomato and garlic on top. Little cubes of tomato fell off on the way to our mouths but were scooped up as fast as they fell. Food always tastes better when you’re hungry and this food was already so good I could hardly contain my emotions. That lasted about a minute.
My eyes kept looking back to the kitchen door as I was talking with my family. I was happy to be sitting there talking with them, something else that people don’t seem to do anymore. This day was so great already but I honestly just wanted my food. My eyes lit up and my heart quickened as I saw the waiter start towards our table with plates in each hand. He set down a warm plate filled with penne vodka, topped with fresh parmesan. I couldn’t even tell you what anyone else got because I was so wrapped up in my own food. The first bite was sublime, it was perfect in every way. I was in heaven, surrounded by my favorite people eating my favorite thing. We talked and teased each other and just enjoyed each other’s company, my mom said she was so glad we were all here and yelled at us whenever we even looked at our phones. Finally when everyone’s plate was literally spotless, the owner came over to talk to us. He asked us how everything was, brought us some dessert and then came back with some limoncello and a couple glasses. Emma threw one back as my parents looked on, horrified. Of course we made Megan try it since she had never had limoncello before. The owner didn’t seem to be in a rush to leave, he pulled up a chair and stayed a little while. My mom told him about her father, the cop, who used to come here after work and who had told us about this place. He smiled and said he remembered those days. By the time we left we were so full but that’s how it should be after you leave an Italian restaurant. It’s a beautiful thing when you find a place like Forlini’s that has withstood time and is able to transport you back to a simpler time, when all that was important was being with your family, even if it is only for the amount of time that the meal lasts.
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