I've already written a review for Scafuri Bakery, but I felt like I needed to write another one, just to set the record straight.
Look at my name. It is Suzanne S. The second "S" is for Scafuri. That's right, folks. I'm a Scafuri. (Cue my Papa, pounding on the table, me on his right, him saying, "What is your name?! That's right! It's SCAFURI, and don't ever forget it!)
Scafuri Bakery did close for remodeling, but it is also time for closing. I'm not sure what my Aunt (my Aunt Annette, actually my great-aunt-- my father's aunt) is planning to do. She is well into her 80s, and God bless her, I know she's tired of working every fucking day filling cannolis and counting every penny she gets from each cookie. This place has a history for her, and for me, and my cousins, and for all the people who lived close by. It can never be what it was when I was young, some 30 years ago.
Here is what I remember Scafuri Bakery to be:
I'm 9, and the only one of my cousins at the time with the Scafuri last name. My other cousins are from my Aunt Suzanne and my second cousin, Patrick, so their last name is DiGiovanni and Cesaro. The restaurant, Mategrano's (my Aunt Annette's last name) is prepping for the busy evening ahead, which will, no doubt, be filled with minor Chicago celebrities, rich, fur-draped women and wool suited men, and of course, the regular bar patrons who sit with my Uncle Victor at the bar, smoking cigars and watching TV in the festive glow of white Christmas lights intertwined with plastic grape vines. But the bakery is hopping right now. Customers are lined up outside, waiting for the next pizza or the next tray of fresh, hot Italian bread that my Uncle Pat (my Aunt Annette's husband--he's been up since 4 am) pulls from the gigantic rotating wall oven. This is the same oven where our Easter pig was roasted, complete with apple in it's mouth, and my cousins and I screamed when we saw eyes melt away when Uncle Pat took it out for basting. Neighborhood kids volley for position at the front counter-- one free cookie for each. Which should they try? The sugar dusted wedding cookie or the almond scented mini biscotti, my Papa's favorite breakfast cookie? The best part is that it doesn't matter; they are all good. Everyone wins. To keep us out the way, my Aunt's faithful friend, Nettie, who works at the bakery every day, gives each of us cousins a piece of pizza dough to work in our own pizzas for lunch. But who wants pizza when we can run next door to the restaurant or down to the corner to the liquor store, my Uncle Louis' place. He is my Aunt Annette's youngest brother and his liquor store is always busy, whether it's 10 am or 10 pm. But he shoos us out and has Sam, the gigantic Black policeman, walk us back to the restaurant because the line is too much at the bakery. So he delivers us to my Aunt Doll at the back door of Mategrano's and she yells for her three stray dogs to come in with us. Aunt Doll hands us each a spumoni in a paper cup and tells us to find some work to do, whether its washing dishes, filling salt shakers, or ironing napkins. We all scatter after our ice creams, to find new personal adventures in this restaurant funhouse.
My memories of Scafuri Bakery are so deeply tied with my family. But I know my Aunt Annette is tired. She is the only person left with coherency. The rest of my aunts and uncles have died or suffer from acute Alzheimer's disease. So, if Scafuri Bakery doesn't reopen (I haven't heard yes or no from my father, as my Aunt Annette can't decide), please, everyone, remember it for what it was-- the wonderful cookies inside, the cannoli, the pizza and bread, the smell of marinara sauce wafting in from next door, and my Aunt Annette's smile. read more