Rose and Joe's Italian Bakery

Like a scene out of the 70s, Rose and Joe's Italian Bakery squats beneath the ancient BMT line, at the Astoria–Ditmars stop, where the N and Q trains screech by at metronomic intervals. Men in undershirts sit in folding chairs under the tracks' shade, smoking cigars and listening to the radio. Inside the small shop, women cover their hair with kerchiefs and wear flapping aprons. Numbers, rather than descriptions, adorn row after row of butter cookies, to facilitate ordering. When you enter, you're already expected to know the difference between pizzelles and savoiardi.

Skipping the Sicilian slices, by all accounts excellent, we went with a nutella sandwich, whose precisely etched lines and curves made it seem factorymade. It tasted that way too. But the cannolo was altogether a different beast: oozy, slightly bitter ricotta, the consistency of well-whipped frosting, had been pushed, prodded, and provoked into a firm shell, which broke into a billion pieces after the first bite. Magnifico! Or, in the parlance of the times, "far out, feelin' groovy, we can dig it and eat another seven or so."