In Search of Cannoli

By Megan Padilla

Photo by Jondon C. Altinay

I remember my first time. I'd repeatedly crossed paths with a young couple while sightseeing along Boston's Freedom Trail. By the fourth unlikely encounter we were unable to part with a "nice to have met you," so after Liberty Hall we dipped into a narrow lane to explore Boston's Italian neighborhood, the North End. Vanilla-scented air lured us through a doorway, across a concave marble threshold. Inside, the mirrored room reflected polished wood paneling and mosaic tiles. There, we indulged at once, licking, nibbling, and finally devouring what was for me a first. I had tasted my first cannolo (in Italian, one chooses a cannolo from a platter of cannoli), the tube-shaped Sicilian confection whose crispy shell-with its amber tone derived from red wine beaten into the batter-xis piped full of sweetened ricotta cheese.

In that moment six years ago, my "sweet wanderings" began. I'll never know if the first cannolo was the best, but by searching for it, I was transported to the Italy of my imagination-a place I had yet to step foot. Since then, my pursuit of local pastries has defined and shaped my travels. Now, the city maps that I share with friends are starred with bakeries rather than boutiques.

Recently I wondered if the spell that had been cast on me while searching for cannoli in Boston could be repeated in New York, where I live. My friend Duncan, visiting from Canada, was the perfect excuse to find out. He is a kindred spirit who delights in serendipity and, even better, he'd never tasted cannoli. I invited him to join me on my quest to find my ideal cannoli-filled-to-order so I could sink my teeth through a crispy deep-fried shell and taste the contrast of the cool, creamy, not-too-sweet ricotta inside. I shunned the pre-assembled pastries, knowing the shells would become soft and I sought the pure and simple so that the flavors could ring through; no chocolate dipped shells, and no chopped pistachios that are sometimes sprinkled on the ends and look like green sugar crystals decorating a St. Patrick's Day cupcake.
   

 
We focused our attention on Lower Manhattan, the repository for the hundreds of thousands of immigrants that flooded New York City especially during the early 20 th century. Luckily, many of the Old World bakeries that catered to the tastes of their neighbors from "back home" are still in business.

John and Annie De Robertis

Duncan chose our first stop, De Robertis Pasticceria & Caffé on First Avenue at 11th Street, described in a book of travel essays that he was reading. Inside we met owners Annie and John De Robertis, fourth-generation siblings of the family that started this East Village bakery in 1904. Annie stacked biscotti on a tray nearly at her eye level and pointed out to me a photo of her grandfather hanging beside the calendar on the wall. Pre-assembled cannoli filled four trays inside the case. Dubious, I sought reassurance from Joseph, the young man waiting on us. "I'm looking for the perfect cannoli," I said. Joseph blinked but said nothing, so I asked directly. "Are yours perfect?" I asked.

"As perfect as you," he said without a trace of sarcasm.

Next stop was Veniero's, across the avenue on East 11th Street, and itself an institution celebrating its 110th anniversary. I wanted Veniero's to be wonderful, but again found pre-filled cannoli. I asked the woman behind the counter if they had been filled that morning.

"I suppose," she replied dismissively. I almost walked out. But in the name of research, I ordered some cannoli anyway. The taste of cinnamon overpowered the soggy shell ("You wouldn't let ice cream sit in a cone for half-an-hour," said Duncan) and the filling was so sweet it tasted like buttercream frosting.

"Let's try Rocco's," I suggested, referring to the bakery on Bleecker Street where I'd read on the Web that I'd find the cannoli of my quest. We walked toward the West Village along 10th Street, with its stately and well-cared for 19th century townhouses, one of which we stopped to admire its intricate carved teak door and window frames. We noticed a dogwood in bloom, its white star-shaped blossoms reminding us of Victoria, B.C., where Duncan and I had once lived and first became friends.

At Sixth Avenue we turned south and passed Citarella market, a haven for gourmands who seek the very best ingredients, on the corner of 9th Street. I glimpsed the beautifully displayed pastries, and though Citarella wasn't ancient or an Italian bakery, I couldn't resist peeking inside.

There, atop the glass pastry case, a sign read, "Cannoli Siciliani. Authentic imported sheep's milk ricotta. Richer. More flavorful." Below were piles of EMPTY cylindrical shells. "You fill the shells as they're ordered?" I asked the girl behind the counter, my excitement rising. She turned to retrieve a pastry bag, then held it ready for action. Duncan and I ordered one large cannolo to share. Smiling, she piped the shell full before our eyes, wrapped it in tissue and packed it in a pastry box. Citarella is a market and not a café, so we had to find someplace to eat it. Across the busy street, we both spotted the pink cascade of roses that tumbled over the wrought-iron fence like a waterfall, and we crossed to have a look. Around the corner we found the gates open to the Jefferson Market Garden.

We circumnavigated the path, anxious to find a quiet corner in which to indulge in our first fresh-filled cannolo. A pond rimmed with slate was filled with koi fish the color of marigolds and beside it we spotted a stone path to a nearly hidden wooden bench.

Duncan took the first bite and the distinct, almost nutty flavor of the cheese had him rolling his eyes with pleasure. I nearly had to wrestle the pastry from his hand. For the first time we tasted the contrasts of the crispy shell and creamy filling. "It even sounds crispy," said Duncan.

Each flavor was a single uncluttered note. The sheep's milk ricotta lent an earthy quality to what can by a cloyingly sweet dessert. I wasn't in love with the powerful flavor of the cheese, but Duncan had declared it his perfect cannolo.

Content to postpone Rocco's, we lingered in that secret garden-two old friends passing a summer day in June.
 

Megan Padilla writes about food and travel for newspapers and magazines. "Sweet Wanderings" combines her wanderlust and her penchant for pastries. This regular feature for PastryScoop.com reports on pastry news, trends, profiles, and sweet spots in the U.S. and abroad. Questions or comments? Contact Megan at travelswithmeg@aol.com.