Kings Of The Hill

The food makes the neighborhood famous, but the friendships keep it tight.

By Jennifer Roberts

Pasta and marinara, wine, crusty bread ... on Saturday evenings, the Hill’s 30-plus restaurants keep the narrow streets lined with cars.

But at 9 o’clock on Sunday mornings, the traffic’s gone, the stores and restaurants closed. Except for the footsteps of last-minute churchgoers, the streets are quiet. A crisp wind whips around the buildings, causing women to hold their skirts in place. The bells toll, sending echoes through the streets and quickening the pace of the latecomers. As the heavy wooden doors close behind the last member, the neighborhood returns to silence.

Inside, light streams through the stained-glass windows, sending a bright yellow glow throughout the church. The service is in English, but many in the congregation converse in Italian. St. Ambrose church, its exterior walls of brick and terra cotta modeled after those of Sant’ Ambrogio Church in Milan, has been an integral part of the Italian community since 1903.

Many who travel to the Hill for a favorite meal at Zia’s or Gian-Tony’s are oblivious to the close-knit community so evident at St. Ambrose each Sunday. The food is known nationwide: Saveur magazine and Mario Batali of the Food Network have both recognized the Hill for its culinary excellence, and Batali considers the Hill one of the country’s top “Little Italy” neighborhoods. But, according to the residents, it’s the relationships that set the neighborhood apart.

With a warm smile, Armando Pasetti, owner of Volpi Italian Salami and Meat Co., greets his customers by name. “I’ve been here since I was 14 years old,” he says. Nephew of the late John Volpi, an immigrant from Milan, Pasetti takes great pride in his family business.

Only a third of the Hill’s 3,000 residents claim Italian ancestry—but that doesn’t stop the rest from loving Italian culture. Brick bungalows and shotgun houses dot the streets; Italian and American flags fly side by side; fire hydrants are painted in the famous red, white and green stripes of Italy; and banners boldly mark the boundaries of the neighborhood.

After church, members stand on the steps of St. Ambrose, discussing their plans for the day—and arranging to meet later at the bocce club.

The Italia-America Bocce Club, one of 11 bocce organizations on the Hill, has more than 450 members. Each Sunday afternoon, Mike Della Corce, Dave Zona and Joe Numi situate themselves at the bar, intently watching football, but between plays they heckle each other about upcoming bocce matches. “We don’t actually know the rules of the game,” Zona confesses. “It’s more about the personality of the game and those playing it.”

Numi listens quietly, apologizing to the women in the room whenever the group cusses at a bad call. Touchdown! Everyone cheers. “Numi’s a celebrity around here,” Zona whispers during a commercial. “Show us your ring,” he tells Numi, who proudly lifts his hand, displaying the souvenir from the year he coached the St. Louis soccer players who competed in the 1950 World Cup.

Numi has spent most of his life on the Hill. He did move around during his younger years but says, “The Hill has always been home in here,” placing a fist over his heart.

“It’s always home.”