According to the 2000 U.S. Census (and New York Magazine), 1,211 residents claiming to be of Italian descent lived in the three census tracts that make up Little Italy. In other words, Italians made up only 8.25 percent of the population in the community in 2000. The neighborhood, particularly on a gorgeous spring day, is thus rather deceptive in its appearance.

The establishments that pack Mulberry Street all boast al fresco seating and pasta for $9.25,  cannolis included. But this chic, picturesque, downtown oasis of good, rich food and easy chatter stands in complete contrast to its beginnings as a neighborhood. In his article “Arrivederci, Little Italy,” Bill Tonelli notes that “Little Italy traces its roots to the end of the 19th century, when it was Mulberry Bend, part of a neighborhood described by Jacob Riis as, ‘The foul core of New York’s slums.’” Of course, I didn’t refresh my memory on any of this until after I’d ventured downtown with my (half-Italian) boyfriend on the 6 train, but I still found the juxtaposition jarring. Tonelli has declared the real Little Italy “over” and upon reflection, I see his point.

The restaurant we ended up choosing for lunch was lovely and had a backyard garden squished in between a few uncomfortably close apartment buildings, which actually added some welcome shade to the dining experience. Trees dotted the small courtyard and the food was so irresistible I forgot I was (kind of) on a diet. If you’ve never had mozzarella carrozza, I don’t know what you’re doing with your life, but you need to try it because there is nothing better than mozzarella cheese wrapped in bread and deep fried — not in oil, but in egg whites — and accompanied by tomato sauce.

However, I didn’t really appreciate the free fried dough covered in powdered sugar that the waiter gave us after our meal. I’m not sure if he is aware that pretty much everyone is going out to the beach in a bathing suit relatively soon. I must note that even though I find the concept of a “bikini body” positively ridiculous, there’s a reason that I only eat fried dough at my favorite state fair in October. Thank goodness for sweaters and jeans. My boyfriend was no help, because when he saw that I wasn’t going to sample the dessert, he proceeded to hold a piece of fried dough in front of my face as we walked for about a block and a half, trying to get me to eat it. He said it would be criminal if I didn’t, which it probably was. Sigh.

Fortunately, when we wandered into a baroque-styled vintage shop, I was immediately able to bolster both our spirits by pointing out the arrival of a glamorous-looking, glittery-leashed cat named Waffles. We didn’t buy anything because all the merchandise was a little dull and probably better suited to the women who actually wore it during its heyday, but I considered it a worthy visit nevertheless.

Little Italy is beautiful now, a quaint little destination for kids like me looking for a little bit of a foreign experience downtown while not straying too far from what they know (this was made especially clear by the Fresh cosmetics store hawking $25 lip scrub by the subway station). Did I enjoy myself? Yes. But it’s a bit sad to me that so much of the genuine (if admittedly foul) grime and ache of this area has seeped out as the years have gone by. At least Waffles is there to lighten the mood.

Helen Holmes is a deputy features editor. Email her at [email protected].