In Nome Del Padre, Figlio, e Cannolo Santo

The 97th Feast of San Gennaro and the holiness of Mulberry Street

The Cannoli King seemed to know the secrets of Mulberry Street, having borne witness since 1954. 

As a boy, the Cannoli King (John Delutro, 69) used to have the feast’s “penny job,” the “mice job,” and the “spin-wheel job.” For 50 years, now, he has had the “cannoli job,” which entails making cannolis in signature flavors –– like hazelnut cream or chocolate-dipped shells –– and, in large part, playing the personified mascot of Caffè Palermo.

“I’m the Cannoli King every day,” Delutro said, a lordly title bestowed on him by the New York Daily News and Wall Street Journal for 11 years. 

His nephew –– chocolate chip filling splattered on his apron –– would not share the cannoli recipe. 

“C’mon now,” he said.

Then the 97th Feast of San Gennaro flooded into purview, bells closhing against C’è La Luna Mezzo Mare from a far-away zeppoli stand.

“Hopefully, I live three more years,” the Cannoli King said. 

He made the sign of the cross. 

God willing, he would see the feast turn 100 on his block.

The Feast of San Gennaro ran from September 14 to 24 in Little Italy, Manhattan. Celebrating the legend of Naples’ patron saint, Gennaro, it has evolved more into a weeks-long celebration rather than only a veneration of sainthood. For many, there are no bigger weekends for the Manhattan neighborhood than when an amalgam of food vendors, carnival rides, and music come together and draw crowds from more than just the New York metro area. 

Tyler Krute, of Staten Island, lifted little kids to sit in his fire truck. Charles Torres stuffed mushroom caps and artichoke hearts by Canal Street. Tristan Rosa bumped Maneskin rock songs in front of zeppolis, ring dings, Snickers chocolate bars, which swam in tubs of golden oil. 

“It’s not neighborhood people,” said Tony Pizzo, of Brooklyn, in a lawn chair behind Vinny’s Nut House. “It’s everybody.”

He paused to take a puff of his cigar, a red band running its girth. 

Police officer Gennaro Piarulli has the same first name as the celebrated patron saint of Naples. He had just eaten fettuccini cooked in one of those big banana-colored cheese wheels. Michael Chasin, blonde and with a boy-next-door toothy smile, spent eight days of the feast at those wheels, pinching pepe onto the cacio. Carol Davidi and a friend pulled apart globs of fried calamari, nearly purple from hot sauce. 

And yet, those like attendee Rose Ventimiglia remarked that Little Italy bore “not so much” resemblance to Naples. 

“I just think it’s too Americanized, is all,” Matthew Hotos said, finishing a hot Italian sausage with peppers.

But that was kind of the point. The 2 p.m. procession on Saturday was all marching band and Ray Ban aviators and chains with crosses the size of a beefy hand. 

Working with Italian sausages spraying oil across the grill, Josephine Caso waved to those in the ever-looming line. When she was 16, Caso was Queen of the Feast. She said so in the way women reminisce on being crowned the Prom Queen senior year of high school. Now everyone who passed by Caffe Napoli touched Caso’s elbow, bidding their greetings. 

In Elena Ferrante’s first of the “Neapolitan Novels,” she said of the heart of Naples: “It’s cut down, it’s broken up, and then it’s rebuilt, and the money flows and creates work.” 

The people of the block (like Caso, who’s known Cannoli King as “Baby John” since he was six) lived in that harsh world of teardown and buildup, too. They watched as the festival shrunk into not exactly 11 full blocks. 

“But thank God we are getting on our feet,” Caso said. 

It seems someone is always hustling in New York, but most of all in Little Italy, where the Cannoli King gleefully screamed, “We ready to go here? Brenda, we gotta work!”

Emily DePalo worked with the San Gennaro statue for 25 years, his two fingers up like a peace-sign or a promise of oath. But she had never been to Italy to see his blood liquify each September 19 or the first Saturday of May. 

“Yeah, I’ve been trying to go since I was twenty years old,” DePalo said. “Make it happen.”

In both Naples and Little Italy, the Italians have a farewell saying: “Ci vediamo.” We’ll see each other. 

DePalo, whose father was born in Napoli, handed out little pamphlets about their saint, and did not say “ci vediamo” exactly. But she did say, “And I don’t know if you’re still around, but on Tuesday, it’s feast day. There’s a mass at six o clock, and then they’ll carry him on their shoulders.” That was plenty “ci vediamo” enough.