Inside Little Italy's 11-Day Block Party!

Sacred blood! Fried rainbow cookies!! The Sausage Queen!!!

Hello everyone,

Welcome to Issue #179 of CAFÉ ANNE!

So I am looking for help with a little project. Do you remember a while back I had fun visiting the city’s best and worst laundromats? I’d like to do more “worst of” stories (starting with pizza!), but for reasons that are too boring to detail here, it’s often impossible to sort the Google and Yelp ratings to determine the worst the city has to offer.

What I’m looking for is someone tech savvy who can help me use the Yelp and/or Google Places API to sort the data. We could even go big and create a special CAFÉ ANNE app that allows any New Yorker to find the worst of everything! This is a volunteer job but you will get amazing perks such as free lifetime subscription to this already free newsletter. Please email me: annekadet@yahoo.com.

Meanwhile, the folks at the David Prize asked me to help spread the word: it’s now open for 2026 submissions. This is for sure the city’s coolest award competition. Every year, five locals with fresh ideas for transforming NYC each get $200,000 to spend however they please. I’ve profiled several David Prize recipients and finalists over the years including Greg Purcell, the barber giving free haircuts and Father Mike, the World’s Most Miserable Priest. You can apply here. And leave your project ideas in the comments!

Finally, huge Autumn-in-New-York shoutouts to new paid subscribers Tamara W., Heidi A., Roberta G., and Mary R. That’s enough $$$ to buy a leaf-blower for my non-existent backyard!

I am very excited for this week’s issue, of course. I enjoyed a little odyssey through Little Italy’s “Feast of All Feasts!” where I got to explore the question: is the world about to end? Please enjoy.

Regards!

Anne

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Inside Little Italy’s 11-Day Block Party!

Viva sausage and peppers! [Illustration: Lucy Stafford]

The annual Feast of San Gennaro in Little Italy is one of those events that's so crowded, nobody goes anymore. Better known as the "Italian Festival," the eleven-day, 20-block street fair is often dismissed as a tourist trap baited with overpriced sausage, fairway games and "Mama's Little Meatball" t-shirts. Or as one online sniper recently remarked, "You know, Italian heritage stuff."

Is it really that bad? Last week, I set out to find the authentic in the nation's largest Italian celebration, now in its 99th year. And it didn’t look promising. Starting at the foot of Mulberry Street, I found myself surrounded by stands hawking $5 slices, $10 gelatos and $25 bottomless pina coladas—the national drink of Italy.

But further up the crowded block, I spotted something I couldn’t eat—a makeshift shrine dedicated to San Gennaro himself. Michael Verra, tending the booth, gave me the rundown: "San Gennaro is the patron saint of Naples, Italy, okay? He was a Christian spreading Christianity in the year 305, when most of Rome and Italy was a pagan country."

The emperor didn't like San Gennaro's preaching, Mr. Verra continued, "So he decided to take him into the lion's den. The lions tried to sniff around, but didn’t kill him! He came out alive.”

The emperor, now royally annoyed, had the saint beheaded on the street. "And as his blood was seeping out, two Italian women soaked it up and put it in a vial,” said Mr. Verra. “Now, all year long, it's a solid. But on the 19th of September, it liquifies, according to the miracle. If the miracle does not occur, Naples and the world has some form of calamity. Vesuvius erupted when it didn't. And in the year 2020, we had the pandemic."

Michael Verra

"I can only tell you the story," he concluded. "It's up to you, whether you believe or not. To people of faith, no explanation is necessary. At one time, the Feast was more religious. People prayed to the saint. Now it's, ‘Who's that dude? Is he the patron saint of oil and vinegar?’”

Mr. Verra, who is one of the festival organizers, noted that he is 77 and has lived on Mulberry Street his entire life. "My grandparents came here 1875—I live in the same apartment," he said. "My landlord don't like it, but that's his problem!"

Moving on, I passed stands offering $5.95 Burberry scarves, Dubai chocolate cannoli and a T-Mobile booth offering wireless plans. I stopped to chat with Dylan, the young lady manning the "Shoot 'til You Win!" game with stuffed animal prizes.

"I just love these old amusement games!" I told Dylan.

"They're not rigged!" she replied. "Just so you know—I have integrity! If this was rigged I would not be here!"

Dylan, 30, said she is Sicilian and lives in the Bronx. She’s gone to the feast every year since she was four, but this was her first year working the games. She got the job through her dad, who was frying up sausage and peppers at the stand around the corner. Her little brother was also working nearby. "It's a family affair, you know?” she said of the feast. “It's about my heritage. It’s a place of community. It's a place where you can enjoy food, kibbitz.”

"How much is the sausage at your dad's stand?" I wondered. (You never know the price until it's in your hand.)

"I think it's $14, but you ask for Dominick, he'll hook you up!" she said. "Say, ‘I'm a friend of Dylan!'“

I asked if I could take her photo.

"Sure!" she said. "Let me put Scarface on!"

She donned a Scarface sweatshirt and posed.

Dylan

"Are you named after Bob Dylan?" I asked, snapping a picture.

"No," she said. "I'm named after Dylan McKay from 90210."

I continued up Mulberry Street, passing several empanada stands and a booth hawking UFO burgers. Then something new caught my eye. A concession, Vinny’s Nut House, selling fried rainbow cookies! A sign on the booth read, "We Miss and Love You VINNIE PEANUTS!!!!!”

Fabrizio, one of several fellows manning the stand, told me that Vinny, a “humble, low-key guy,” died in 2020 of Covid. "He was running the booth for 40 years," said Fabrizio. "But before him was his aunt—which is the grandmother of the guy running it now. This stand has been around 70 years."

"We also do the torrone," he said of the nutty nougat candy he was pounding to pieces with a hammer. "And we do the zeppole, the fried Oreo, we even do something new, which is the tri-colored cookies."

"Yeah, I saw the fried rainbow cookies," I said. "Who came up with the idea to fry them?"

"I guess they fell in the oil!" said Fabrizio.

My next stop: a t-shirt stand selling $25 San Gennaro figurines—the only San Gennaro statues available at the festival, according to John, the attendant.

"Across from us is E. Rossi & Company. It's the oldest Italian gift shop in America. They have hundreds of saint statues, but they don't have San Gennaro!" said John. "Ernie, the owner, he's a beautiful man. He's the mayor. If you want to talk to anybody, talk to him. He'll tell you more than I could ever tell you. But he can't get the statue in. We just happen to have a guy in Italy who will ship them to us."

"You've got a guy!" I said.

"We've got a guy!" said John. And he held up a t-shirt appropriate to the moment:

John

"Are the statues made in Naples?" I wondered.

"They were," said John. "But now they're made in China. It says on the box.”

I met up with my friend Allen at the corner of Mulberry and Grand. His family is from Italy, and he travels a lot, so I was curious to get his take on scene.

"It's like every Italian festival," said Allen, looking around. "Buffalo, Toronto, New York. They're all exactly the same, no matter where you go. Funnel cakes and rides. And the combination of this particular cuisine and spinny rides is not good."

We started strolling. "None of this bears any resemblance to anything I've ever seen in Italy," he continued. "It needs to be called the Italian-American festival, not the Italian festival. I mean look at that!" He indicated a sizzling display of sausage and peppers. "I don't know an Italian who would eat anything off that grill."

"So what happened?" I asked.

"They came to America!" said Allen.

"Is there anything here you want to eat?" I wondered.

"Well, I want to eat everything, because I'm an American!" he said.

We passed the rainbow cookie stand.

"That's Fabrizio," I pointed him out to Allen. “We were just chatting.”

"Let's talk to him," said Allen. "See if he's ever been to Italy."

"Of course he has!" I said. "Want to bet?"

We made a $5 wager and approached the stand.

“Hi I'm back!" I said. "My friend and I have a bet. Have you been to Italy?"

"I was born and raised there!" said Fabrizio. "Near Florence, in Tuscany. Arezzo."

Allen was in Arrezo last year, of course so they had lots to discuss. I took their photo:

Allen and Fabrizio!

"I'll tell you a little secret about me," Fabrizio confided before we left. "When I was a little younger, I was a lot bigger—295 pounds. I used to do eating competitions here. I won the pasta eating competition four times."

"They don't do that in Italy," said Allen.

"No," said Fabrizio. "They are a little more civilized."

I returned the next day to chat with Tim, the fast-talking carnie who owns the ring toss and the goldfish toss, along with the shooting gallery where I met Dylan.

Tim!

"How did you get into this business?" I asked.

Tim, who trucks his games to street fairs and fire department festivals all around the NYC area, said he bought the concession in 2016 from a guy named Chuck, who was retiring. Tim was happily employed as sanitation worker, but ex-his wife talked him into the venture. "And then she started cheating on me with some guy that worked for me,” he said. “I caught them and we separated ways. She got the house and I got the business!"

He recently changed the name of the business to T&K Concessions. "That's for Tim and Kelly—my new wife!” he said. “I just got married a month ago."

This led to another story. Back in March, Tim said, he was suddenly paralyzed with a rare nerve condition. Kelly, who he'd been dating for eight months, visited him at the hospital. "She came every day, bathed me from head-to-toe, spoon-fed me," he said. "I was in the hospital for a month. I said, 'When I get out of this hospital, I'm gonna marry you.'"

The business can be risky. Tim paid $12,000 upfront to rent his three spots at the San Gennaro Feast, plus $4,500 to employ six game attendants—typically local kids who grew up attending the festival—and $3,000 for the goldfish, which arrive overnight via Fed-Ex from a fish farm in Missouri. If rains, he's out of luck. But occasionally there’s a big score, and he feels no compunction: “If you're dumb enough to give somebody $400 for a $6 teddy bear, honestly, that's on you,” he said. “You're just stupid!"

“I really enjoy the families, the fun, the atmosphere,” he added. “It's festive every day. How can you beat that?"

"A lot of people say this festival is just a big rip-off, touristy kind of thing," I said. "But I'm getting the sense that behind the scenes, there's a real community here."

"Some of these families go back a hundred years," Tim agreed. He urged me to visit Lucy, of Lucy’s Sausage fame. "She's got ten of her stands now. Some of her sons are running them, or nephews. Wonderful people. You know, it's the whole family.”

Lucy Stata!

Lucy was right where Tim said she'd be—in plastic folding chair parked next to her stand.

"I'm here 51 years, since 1974," she confirmed. "We started with my grandma. She lived here, and this is the original space of my grandmother's. It's 99 years in my family."

"She was a tough, tough Italian woman," said Lucy. "I always helped my grandmother. That was the rule with the Italian people. You have to work! And then once she died, it was her wish for me to carry it on."

While the family now runs sausage stands at street fairs and festivals all over the city, the San Gennaro Feast, where it all started, remains the year’s big event. "It still has the feeling that it always had," she said. "It's still close-knit."

"It hasn't changed at all?” I said.

"Not to me! I don't walk around. I stay in my spot," said Lucy.

As if on cue, a very large and possibly inebriated man started shouting at passersby: "Lucy, she's hot! When you come to the San Gennaro festival, when you come here, you bow! SHE’S THE QUEEN!”

Before I leaving, I paid another visit to Micheal Verra at the shrine. He introduced me to his friend John Fratta, whose great-grandfather founded the feast back in 1924 with five neighbors from Naples.

"It started as a one-day block party honoring the saint," said Mr. Fratta.

John Fratta at the shrine

"What would he say if he saw it now?" I wondered.

"He'd be shocked!" said Mr. Fratta. "Now it's eleven days, we generate over a million people. It's a day we all look forward to."

"Some people say it's gotten too commercial," I said.

"Everything becomes commercial in New York," said Mr. Fratta. "It's part of New York! But for us, it's more like a neighborhood reunion. The people who used to live here always come back. You see see old faces you haven't seen. It's good."

"And Michael was telling me the 19th is the big day," I said.

"That's a huge day for us," Mr. Fratta agreed. "That's the feast day. That's the day we wait to get word from Naples if the blood liquified. And if it doesn't liquify, some sort of calamity happens in the world. World War 2, it didn't liquify."

September 19 was two days away. When I asked Mr. Verra if I could call for an update, he said I had to return for the scoop. "We'll see you on Friday!" he said. "If we don't see you on Friday, no more interviews!"

I did not return on Friday. But I did give Mr. Verra a ring over the weekend. I called Sunday morning and caught him shaving.

“I’ve been wondering what you heard from Naples,” I said.

“It liquified!” Mr. Verra reported. “In the Cathedral of Naples. I’m gonna say it was New York time, 6 pm.”

I felt strangely relieved. “So that’s good news for us!” I said.

“Excellent news, excellent news,” he agreed.

“Since it liquified, is that a guarantee there won’t be any catastrophes for the next twelve months?” I wondered.

“As far as we know,” he said. “Beyond that, I can’t tell you… But we’ve been here 99 years—and we’ll be here next year!”

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