There's a little town south of Rochester, NY, that you've likely never heard of. The people who live there- the ancient Italians, red-blooded Old World stregas and good old boys, the type of people who actually enjoy tripe- insist it's notable as the hometown of Francis Bellamy. You've likely never heard of him, either, though you may be familiar with the famous pledge that he wrote. But I digress.
The point is, this town is like so many other Eastern towns: small, unremarkable, choked with antique shops and beautiful old buildings that are one stiff breeze away from utter destruction.
But Main Street, Main Street is lovely. Facades in the old federal brick style rise with stately grace from the hill that gives the town its name. Beeches- replacement troops for the elms that withered away decades ago- march down the street as it slopes gently down to the Genesee River. If you ignore the lingering insinuation of Rust Belt malaise, you might imagine yourself shifted to another time or place.
And on Main Street, hanging from one of the brownstone facades, there is a sign that says "Questa Lasagna," announcing an enclave of Italian cooking in an old Italian town. And in the kitchen, French knife in hand, there is usually a young cook cursing at a pile of vegetables or a joint of veal.
Of course, that'd be me.
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