The July 2014 Issue of The New Yorker features an original cartoon by renowned illustrator Maira Kalman. The illustration depicts our noodle-cutting machine that’s been cutting our famous noodles since 1916, or as Kalman calls it, our “Rickety, Clackety, Gorgeous Gizmo”. It was such an honor to be featured in such a respected publication!
“On Food Network’s Boy Meets Grill, Bobby Flay drops by Raffetto’s Pasta for homemade meatballs and fresh pastas, in New York, NY.”
“Cheap doesn’t have to mean “mass-produced”: The 103-year-old artisan-pasta shop Raffetto’s (144 W Houston St at MacDougal St, 212-777-1261) sells homemade spirali for $1.50 per pound—cheaper than Gristedes. While you’re there, pick up a pound of thick sweet sausage ($3.25) and a bottle of imported olive oil ($10-$12).”
“What does Mario Batali, Marcus Samuelsson and Lidia Bastianich all have in common? They all buy their fresh pastas from a shop called Raffetto’s, located in Greenwich Village—or as I like to call it, the Chefs’ Top Secret Pasta Headquarters. Since 1906, the Raffetto family has been quietly and steadily cranking out glorious homemade pastas, gnocchi, raviolis and pasta sauces both for wholesale and retail. Their customer base is vast, as they supply most of the city’s finest restaurants and hotels such as The Russian Tea Room, Waldorf Astoria and Il Mulino. Chances are, if you have dined in New York’s high end restaurants, you’ve had Raffeto’s pastas.”
“This store specializing in fresh pasta has been planted at the corner of Houston and MacDougal since 1906, and the machine that rolls and slices your fettuccine, papardelle, and linguine has been around at least that long, its conveyor belt creaking and motor groaning as the blades come down on the dough. In addition to egg-enriched plain pasta, Raffetto’s also makes spinach, squid-ink, and mushroom varieties, among others. The raviolis are even better. Find them in the refrigerator case. My favorite is spinach and ricotta, and the fresh ricotta comes from Joe’s Dairy, right across the street.”
“What do I smell that’s so fantastic?” The woman stood at the front of the store, where she couldn’t see the four pans of lasagna just out of the oven. “It’s making me drool,” she moaned. “I’m on a diet.”
Talk about tragic. Raffetto’s is about bounty, celebration, the glories of gluttony. Since it opened in 1906 in Greenwich Village, Raffetto’s has been about pasta. Deep, golden bolts of it, stamped into ravioli, folded into tortellini, sheared into sheets for lasagna or hand-cut, with guillotine precision, into ethereal angel hair or hearty pappardelle by the same newfangled cutter that Marcello Raffetto bought in 1916.
“A restaurant up the street, Jane, does one of the best dishes ever,” says Sarah Raffetto, the blonde, blue-eyed 23-year-old in line to one day take the reins of her family’s old-time pasta shop, Raffetto’s. “The chef toasts gnocchi in a pan. They get crunchy on the outside but stay soft. Then they’re topped in a truffle-cream sauce. It’s stupid-good.”