To get to the Feast of San Gennaro, you’ll want to get on the 6 train downtown to Brooklyn Bridge from Grand Central Terminal. You’ll likely be standing up, gripping the handrail like your life depends on it — or, more likely — your ability to not faceplant. It will feel like there are a million people in the train car, definitely the most that have ever been packed into this subway. You’ll ride eight stops (Google Maps will tell you it’s an 11-minute commute, but it will take 20). Then you’ll emerge on Canal Street and, somehow, there are even more people on this sidewalk than on the train. Quickly, you’ll contemplate if this was the best use of your Saturday. You’re poked and bumped into seemingly a million times, so you’ve come to the conclusion that you should’ve just stayed home. But then your five-minute walk is over, and you’re on the corner of Canal and Mulberry Street, and you’ve forgotten how much you hate crowded spaces because to your left, there is quite literally the most glorious slice of pizza you’ve ever seen and you have to have it. Now.
This was how I spent my Saturday. And you’ll be happy to know that I did, in fact, get that slice of pizza. And it was, in fact, the most glorious slice I’ve ever had. And in between bites, I made sure to thank San Gennaro. After all, he’s the reason I was there.
In 305 A.D., San Gennaro, the Neapolitan Bishop of Benevento, Italy, was martyred at the hands of Roman Emperor Diocletian. Killed for proclaiming his unwavering Christian faith, San Gennaro became the Neapolitan patron saint of protection.
At the turn of the 20th century, Italian immigrants began to settle on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. Families from the different regions of Italy established themselves on or around a single street — the Neapolitans settled on Mulberry Street.
Years later, in 1926, the first Feast of San Gennaro took place. A block party was held on Mulberry Street in honor of the saint, who was believed to have brought the Neapolitan people safety and protection on their journeys. 98 years later, Neapolitans and what seems like all of Manhattan gather together in a celebration of Italian food, drink, culture and faith.
On Saturday, Sept. 21, I found myself on Mulberry Street — after a rather stressful commute — enjoying one of the best slices of pizza I’d ever had. After that heavenly slice, I stopped to chat with some of the other festival-goers.
Zach and Susanna, a married couple from Bergen County, N.J., made the trip to Mulberry Street to enjoy the afternoon. When asked what spurred their hour-long drive in gridlock traffic, Zach responded with an accurate yet frustratingly simple answer: “Because I was hungry.” Susanna added, “We came for the food but also for the t-shirts,” gesturing to hers, which read “Daddy’s Little Meatball,” and then to Zach’s, “Mommy’s Little Meatball.” I insisted they show me where I could get one for myself, and they pointed me in the direction of a small stand to the left where the vendor stood smoking a cigar and laughing with a customer. Before I made my way over to Carmelino — “Lino” for short, I learned later — I asked Zach and Susanna about their history with the festival. “This has been our tradition for the last few years,” Susanna shared, smiling at Zach. “It’s a great place, really,” Zach added. They then told me I couldn’t leave without getting gelato from Figo (which I did, and it was delicious). We said our goodbyes, and I lost them to the sea of people wearing similarly ludicrous t-shirts.
The remainder of the afternoon was spent people-watching from a table at Grotta Azzurra. This restaurant, like many others on Mulberry Street, was both over 100 years old and family-owned. In true Italian fashion, my friends and I shared a “family style” meal of pasta, salad — and yes, more pizza — then made our way back to the uptown 6 train.
Legs aching, stomachs full, but hearts happy, we piled back into the subway. It still took 20 minutes instead of 11 as Google Maps said, and I still became way too acquainted with the smell of the armpits of the stranger next to me, but it was well worth it because that night, I slept better than I had in weeks — in my new ridiculous t-shirt.
