11th was a quiet street at the time; no shops to speak of, other than Veniero's, a cheesemaker next to that, and a French pastry shop on the corner of 11th and 1st. Closer to 2nd Ave, there was an Italian social club, which I came to believe was little more than an all-night poker game. What was nice about it being there was that there were always a couple of guys on the stoop, obviously there to keep an eye on things. They always nodded to me, which to me was a sign that I was known, and that I was safe.

At that point in time, the neighborhood was still a mix of primarily Sicilian and Polish immigrants, which I loved because it reminded me of my home town. Within steps of my building, I had access to all the foods of my childhood, and then some. I could go to Vaselka or the Kiev for a plate of potato pierogi, or up one block to John's for spaghetti with garlic, anchovies and olive oil. And while it was still relatively ethnic, the East Village was in the process of change.