I’ve always had this thing for Italians. And in a way they’ve had their thing for me, too. I went to Italy for a little bit after my dark days of gambling and replenished my soul in Genoa, Milano, and Venice. Then, during culinary school, I had the good fortune of hanging with many friends from the Italian neighborhoods Bensonhurst and Sheepshead Bay in Brooklyn, and Howard Beach, Bayside, and Middle Village in Queens, and even in New Brunswick, N.J.
Imagine this: a semitall Korean kid from LA in his mid to late 20s getting weird looks, then immediate hugs from grandmas and mamas. I’d be thrust into the kitchen with "Oh, you go to culinary school with my girl/boy? Let me show you a thing or two." Then they’d have me cook. This was my icebreaker, ’cause a Korean kid in Howard Beach walking a girl home ain’t that easy, son.
Once I cooked, even in my early days, it was magic. Big fat kisses from grandma as she let me stir the pot of tomatoes. So here you go, my $4 spaghetti. Tastes almost as good as the $24 one.