Trinacria

Reaching back for childhood memories, I recall occasional trips after Sunday mass at Mom's ancestral parish to a magical Italian grocery store in downtown Baltimore. We'd emerge with a Volvo full of gallon-sized tins of olive oil, cases of canned crushed tomatoes, boxes of cheap wine, and pasta, olives, sardines, pizelle, and fresh mozzerella.

I recently rediscovered Trinacria when I moved to Mount Vernon. On the outside, on the 400 block of Paca Street, it's a little less magical than I remembered, so at first, I was wary. But inside, Trinacria still delights and inspires me. It's a small row-house first floor, stuffed with people and walls lined to the ceiling with authentic Italian imports.

This weekend several darling friends will run the Baltimore Marathon, so I offered to host a pre-race pasta party. I'll be in class during race time, or else I'd be running at least a relay leg myself. During my lunch break, I ran home to meet a washer repair man. He finished his task in minutes, so I spontaneously decided to check out Trinacria, in hopes of avoiding Safeway for my party purchasing. Score! I came away with a bottle of vino di tavola (for me, not the runners!), a half-dozen fresh meatballs, cheese ravioli from Veleggia's, portobello mushroom ravioli hand-made at the store, five cans of Cento crushed tomatoes, garlic, a pound each of dried whole-wheat and white pastas (and all for a price lower than dinner for one at a generic pasta place).

Salute, Trinacria!