“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.