“You gonna make me look good? Okay. Come on, take your picture.”
We’ve all seen it. In Little Italy, on the busiest restaurant street in the city, oysters and negroni bazaars all around it, a singular limoncello-yellow residence stands stubborn like the house from Up, with one distinct difference—the man on the porch.
From his perch, Nick Pecoraro sees much, but speaks little. Sunglasses on, pompadour combed back, sideburns long, he could be a character in a Scorsese movie. But his would likely not be a speaking part. He’s not big on conversation. If you’ve said hello, you may have gotten a nod, or, if you’re lucky, a sideways response in an Italian accent as thick as gelato. On a street of now near-complete commerce, he sticks out as a holdover from a more residential chapter. Beside the arched Little Italy marquee, he sits in his throne-like peacock chair on his narrow patio, watching the neighborhood go by, every day, for hours.
“I don’t like watching television, so this is my television,” he says. “What am I gonna do, sit inside by myself? Look at the walls? I come out here. First, I have my cup of coffee, my donuts, and then when I finish, I sit here with my little dog, Pirlo!
“The people say I’m the godfather of Little Italy, the mayor of Little Italy. I don’t know; I’m just a guy.
“Twenty years ago, I retired. My sons, they took over the company, Pecoraro Painting & Decorating, so… I start sitting out here. I like it, I like Little Italy, but sometimes people ask me a question; I gotta answer them.
“I gonna be 84 in July. I been in this house 59 years. Originally, my mother in law’s parents build this house in 1950. They build one floor; I did the second floor. My wife, she died over 10 years ago. I painted the house yellow. I like the yellow; everybody likes it.
“Okay, vamanos, andiamo—why you’re still here?”
