Shauna Eats Sunnyside

Shauna Eats Staten Island

(Sometimes, ya just gotta branch out.)

B and I rarely eat Italian in Sunnyside. Why?

• Because Dazies is a bit out of our price range for a casual weeknight dinner.
• Because Mario’s has odd hours and doesn’t allow men in wearing tank tops, baseball hats, or flip flops.
• Because pizza places don’t count, even if they’re run by Italians.
• Because both of us are part-Italian and have our own, very personal ideas of what a true Italian feast should be.

However, with the bulk of my extended Italian family rooted on Staten Island, we had the opportunity this past Sunday to make the arduous trek to The Borough of No Return for a feast with the fam…

First stop: Lower Manhattan.

B and I exited our cab (which, for the record, is a far quicker means of transport to South Ferry than the 7-to-1/9 option) and, with a half hour to kill, started off on foot in search of a purveyor of baked goods and passable coffee. After determining that the southern tip of Manhattan is pretty much a SUCK ZONE for eateries and any shred of cultural presence (suck it, Wall Street!), we swallowed our pride and ducked into a nearby Au Bon Pain. (Then promptly hightailed it out of there after mama’s eagle eyes spotted a roach crawling over a garlic bagel in the bin. *shudder*)

B Eats Staten Island Ferry

There was a busy snack counter in the Ferry terminal that didn’t look too sketch (i.e. there were no visible roaches), so we approached cautiously and got in line. As it was already 1pm, we were informed by a cashier who looked like he wanted to shoot himself that there were no more bagels. Without missing a beat, B gestured toward a glowing display case in the rear: “Then I’d like a Jamaican beef patty, please.”

When we found a ledge to crouch on away from the hoards of vulturous tourists standing in a single file line (See above. Who DOES THAT while waiting for the ferry to dock other than dumbass fanny-packed tourists?!) snaking through the terminal, B tore into his beef patty and I nursed a rather tasty cuppa’ joe.

B’s patty was definitely frozen and pre-packaged… though that wasn’t an immediate disqualifier. Innards were a bit too creamy for my liking, and exterior was abnormally yellow and bland, though the crunchy texture was redeeming. We dug the spice of the meat, but the whipped consistency kinda deterred us from finishing it. My coffee was warm (though not warm enough, fuckers) and, to our surprise, didn’t taste like metallic drainage trickle. Overall, in light of our initial Lower Manhattan roachfest run-in, this was not a bad fall-back to kick off our journey with something (gurgling) in our bellies.

Off the Jefferson Ave. stop of the lone SI subway line, we rolled up Hylan Blvd., a main drag of Staten Island’s business district, to Cafe Bella Vita, an Italian joint in a vertical mini-mall of sorts situated above a mattress store and a travel agent. My family’s been coming here for years. Often packed with big parties having early Sunday dinners, the longtime waitstaff, cozy dining area, and hearty Northern Italian menu are instantly endearing to the Island crowd.

We arrived right at 3pm—most of my crazy family was already occupying seats at a U-shaped banquet table set-up. After catching up with some of the clan, a head waiter explained our appetizer and entree options (I suspect, with our 20+ party, that it was some sort of prix fixe arrangement).

Course One: Bread and Booze

After catching up with the clan, B and I took our seats at the far end to nibble on some fresh, still-warm crusty Italian loaf (all hail butter packets!). I dived across the table for a carafe of house red, which B gave into after momentarily considering a bottle of domestic from the bucket o’ beer serving as a centerpiece (keep it classy, Staten Island!)

Course Two: Cold and Hot Appetizers

Since we got two options as our second course, B and I split paths and opted for both. His fresh mozzarella and tomato salad was light, cold, and the cheese was divinely tender. B drizzled some hardcore Italian olive oil over the plate and eagerly took freshly grated pepper from our tableside waiter.

My hot antipasto:

• a stuffed clam (casino? I have no idea.. maybe there were other elements than just the clam, garlic, and singed breading, but if so, I couldn’t readily ID them)
• two steamed mussels
• a flayed shrimp
• two fried mozzarella sticks
• a tuft of baked eggplant parmigiano.

Heavy course, to say the least, and it only increased in density thanks to a liberal dressing of marinara. The cheese sticks were tasty, with sweet, stringy dairy product oozing from thin breaded shells. The mussels and shrimp were shellfish done right, and the clam was good, though nothing to write home about. And the top was kinda burnt. My favorite on the plate was the eggplant, which was springy, layered, and held its own as an underappreciated veggie against an assassinatory combo of cheese and sauce.

Course Three: PAAAAAAAASTAAAAAAAAA!!!

Ahh, the pasta course. No Italian meal is complete without it. I boycotted pasta for several years of my life in an attempt to buck my heritage, and awhile back, my family voted the pasta course out of our Italian Thanksgiving get-togethers, as nobody could ever save room for the turkey. But pasta, to me, is comfort. Like an androgynous teal baby blanket, if you will, or wearing colorful, fuzzy socks to bed in the wintertime. And penne a la vodka? Be still my heart. Creamy, rich sauce with a muted vodka tang, snap-dente noodles, and frickin money grated parmigiano. Knowing the main course was right around the corner, we tried not to be total gluttons. But before we knew it, the plates were licked clean.

Course Four: Obligatory Salad

Next came the salad. Caesar salad with crunchy croutons, slightly limp romaine, and a creamy egg-based dressing. Despite fresh scoops of shredded parmigiano reggiano, overall the volume of the cream dressing kinda overpowered any attempt at convincing onesself that what you were eating was in any way healthy. Whatever… we submitted to our artery-clogging environment and kept on chomping.

Course Five: The Main Event

By the time the main courses arrived, B was in full-on nic-fit mode and we had (singlehandedly) polished off our table’s house red. I had a salmon filet (ack! more cream sauce!!), B ate chicken parm. Both came with mounds of likely freezer-kept veggies and a customary mashed potato croquette. My salmon had some squash slivers and a hint of lemon in the sauce. Dense, as far as salmon filets go, but I appreciated the lack of marinara and ate graciously. B’s chicken was heavy on the gut, though pounded thin and crisp around the edges. Lots of ooey cheese. He didn’t know what to make of the croquette, but I was diggin the creamy potato goodness, as per usual. The veggies were fine. Meh, whatever.

There was a dude in a velour track jacket chillin’ near the bar. B maintains that he also had straight-outta-the-Sopranos gold chains around his neck. I maintain that the Sopranos is a cultural stereotype that gives my people a bad name.

Course Six: Birthday Cake and Coffee

By the time we got to course six, everything began to blur together. I was half drunk, B was rambling incessantly about cigarettes, and overly useful waiters were refilling coffee cups as quickly as we could chug them. There was no tapping out on Grandpa’s 80th birthday cake, and once B tasted the almondy ice cream (in throwback paper cups) with nibs of maraschino cherry, it was all over. The cake was delish, of the generously iced and moistly battered kind. The coffee was strong and endless. This course left us no choice, so we gorged.

Course Seven: Italian Pastries and More Coffee

Returning to the lair of my blood relatives on the other side of the island, the eats weren’t over yet. B had to bail on account of the peace building commission, so I rocked it solo to extend my family visit. Grandma broke out this impressive dessert box from Alfonso’s, bursting with cannolis, cream puffs, carrot cakes, and marbled pastries alongside a percolating pot of coffee. At that moment, I was physically unable to stomach any more solids, so I courteously declined the pastries before gulping down two more cups of coffee and batting around my cousin’s toddler for a bit.

Course Eight: Milk and Cookies

Because Grandma couldn’t send me home empty-handed, I scored a bag of Dancing Deer Baking Co. chocolate chip cookies on the way out the door. That evening, B and I reasoned that dinner had taken place early enough for us to indulge in a milk-and-cookies nightcap. The cookies were wide and thin, interspersed with plenty of cocoa chippage and oats for a nice, mealy bite. Unfortunately, they were better eaten solo, as their density was not at all milk-friendly.

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Cafe Bella Vita Ristorante Italiano
1919 Hylan Boulevard
Staten Island, NY 10305
(718) 667-5656

Alfonso’s Pastry Shoppe
1899 Victory Boulevard
Staten Island, NY 10312
(718) 273-8802