Basille Sal - Staten Italy : nothin’ but the best Italian-American classics, from our block to yours

F ive years ago, when we told our family that we were leaving behind four generations of restaurant business in Staten Island and Brooklyn to open our own shop in Manhattan, Frans mother said to us: Theyre gonna chew you up and spit you out. She told us that we were gonna lose all our money, that we had no idea what we were doing, and that there was a pizzeria on every corner in the city.

But we did it anyway. We borrowed the cash, we built it ourselves, and we stuck to what we knewpizza and beer. After being open for just a few weeks, there was already a line around the corner. People would ask who our publicist was, and all wed say was, Whats a publicist? We were doing what we did best and what we loved to do: feedin people and feedin em well.

Then we started cooking other food besides pizza. Francis would bring in a couple of heads of cauliflower, mix em with some cheese, eggs, and parsley, fry em up into little pancakes on an electric griddle, and put em out on the counter. People were flippin out for them too. Theyd sell out as soon as they came outta the fryer. So we started doing the same thing with Aunt Loulous Escarole Fritters, Grandmas Meatballs, Stuffed Artichokes, and Fried Rice Balls.

This wasnt the food that you see on fancy Italian menus, and it sure wasnt the stuff they eat in Italy. We might have Italian roots, but weve never even been to Italy (except that one time). The only Italian words we know are the bad ones from when our grandfather would yell at us. Were Italian American, and this was the food we grew up eating in our homes in Staten Islandor as we like to call it, Staten Italy.

You know the placethat little island off the boot of Manhattan where you cant swing a cannoli without hittin an Italian. Its that special part of the world where one side of the street is your mothas brothas sister-in-law and your fourteen cousins and the other is your best friend Joey and his fourteen cousins. Its where your mother or grandmother is out hollerin at six p.m. every night for you to come in for suppa. Dinner is always an event, a production. Its never about grabbin something quick because food is a big deal here, nothin but the best. Sitting down to eat all together is like going to churchthe most important thing on that particular day. The house smells like sizzling garlic and oilbecause Grandma always says she can make anything taste good with garlic and oiland on the table are things like Broccoli Rabe and Sausage, Lucky Clams with Parsley and Garlic, Pork Cutlets with Vinegar Peppers, Chicken Rollatini, and Broiled Legs and Thighs with Lemon.

Whether youre Italian or not, this is the kind of food we all grew up eating. Its the ultimate comfort food. Its why people line up around the block to eat at our six restaurants, and its definitely why two cousins from Staten Island could go from peeling garlic in their mothers shop to having a hit show on the Cooking Channel. Its a hot, steaming bowl of Mussels Marinara with Linguine, served up with a side of nostalgia. Okay, so maybe your mother was doling out peanut butter and jelly and chicken la king, but when you went out to eat? Were willing to bet that your favorite meals were the ones you ate at that old-school Italian jointthe one with the heaping plates of pasta smothered with red sauce and topped with fistfuls of grated cheese.

This book is our way of sharing a little slice of Staten Island with the rest of the world. Its the recipes and traditions that have been handed down through four generations of our family, recipes as full of Italian-American flavor and personality as the kitchens in Red Hook and Carroll Gardens and Staten Island where they were originally made. This is definitely not some kind of wannabe-authentic Red Sauce situation written by a couple of guys who are classically trained in some foo-foo cuisine. For us, this is what was on our table growing up, plain and simple, and its what we now serve for a living. Its the fish suppers that were always on Friday; the beans and macaroni that were on the table two, three days a week; the Sunday gravy that was cooked up with neck bones, short ribs, and braciole that was outta this world. Its the huge pots of crab sauce our grandpa Dominick cooked down at the docks, the sandshark that everybody else was throwing back in the water but that we grilled up with a red wine gravy, the gigantic icebox cakes Aunt Loulou always made, and the roast beef our grandma drilled a hole through so she could stuff it full of garlic and parsley. It was the meatballs we ate with Italian bread on Sunday, and then ate again on Wonder Bread for lunch on Monday. And its definitely the cold eggplant. Because no matter what was being cooked or what we were celebratingEaster, Christmas, Lent, your birthday, Tuesdaythat eggplant was always on the friggin table.