Men of Italian Descent Who Enjoy Shoddy Sauce Brands.

Criticize Italians all you want (they’re lazy, infidelitous and incapable of paying their employees on time), but the one thing they’re always good for is food. Except, of course, when they’re merely only “of the descent.” You know, Long Islanders, Staten Islanders–in short, Eastern Seaboard Italians. Their willingness to compromise on the quality of the core of what makes pasta delizioso–sauceis not only a desecration to their heritage, but also to food itself.

Worst than even using Prego or Bertoli is when they don’t bother mixing the sauce together, just pile it on in the center like one massive pile of shite. I don’t know if something in the dilution of their blood from pure Italian to bastard one twelve generations removed is what causes this compromise in the grade of product they choose to use, or if it’s that they, as “men,” simply expect a woman to do the cooking and therefore can’t be required to be left to their own devices. Whatever their reason, you won’t catch me over at an Italian American “man’s” house for dinner anytime soon.

Men Who Aren’t Italian But Rely on So-Called “Italian-ness” as Part of Their Charm.

With Williamsburg being the new Times Square and therefore the epicenter of foreigners in Brooklyn, you’ll see quite a lot of Italians running around in addition to Frenchies and Turks. This being said, there are also a lot of Jersey types who make their way over to this area in order to troll some of the more L.A.-esque clubs. Between this type of what I call “Olive Garden Italian” and the second and third generation types who seem to have lost their true sense of the old country, there’s a lot of “men” round these parts relying on their so-called “Italian-ness” as a source of charisma.

The Giglio Feast statue in Williamsburg, a beacon for false Italians

The Giglio Feast statue in Williamsburg, a beacon for false Italians

While I myself am easily tempted by offerings of “salami,” food can only go so far in terms of cultivating a complete personality. Eventually, you’re going to have to drop the fake accent and admit that you’re not from Italy and find a different shtick. I recommend one involving an Italian car over Italian food. A man with a car is, after all, primo in Brooklyn.