When I was growing up, my dad and I went often to Aiello’s Delicatessen, a tiny neighborhood shop jam-packed with wonderful, and to me, exotic flavors: imported Italian meats; delicious green olives, cracked and oily and marinated in masses of garlic; shelves stacked with dusty packages of bread sticks, jars of roasted peppers, and tiny boxes of Italian torrone. My favorite treat was the freshly made baklava, chunky squares at least
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