From the late 1970s through the mid 1980s, much of my childhood was spent frequenting the local corner stores. My friends and I would go after school and all throughout the summer. All the neighborhoods—Canton, Highlandtown, and what is now Brewers Hill—were positively full of them.

The corner stores I remember sold groceries, meats, snacks, drinks, milk, sodas, snowballs, candy, and even Pinky Hi-Bounce balls, metal jacks game sets, and wooden paddle balls. As a young child, I ate ice cream kiddie cups with a wooden spoon, and as a teen, I devoured snowballs—but only certain flavors: sky blue (which tasted, well, blue), grape, spearmint, or egg custard topped with marshmallow.

Even though corner stores were prevalent in Southeast Baltimore, there’s surprisingly not a lot of written history about them. So, I decided to go straight to the source and reached out to six families of corner store owners to get a real feel for what life was like for them.

URBAN VILLAGES
Retired Senator Barbara Mikulski essentially grew up in a corner store. Her parents, William and Chris Mikulski, purchased their first shop, Willy’s, as newlyweds in 1935. It was located at 718 S. Eaton St., in what is today Brewers Hill.

“People didn’t have cars, so they lived in urban villages, where everything was within walking distance, and they shopped in the same area,” says Mikulski. “There were little mom-and-pop stores on the corners that met basic needs—a baker’s shop, a grocery store, a shoe repair, etc. Then there was the Avenue [Eastern Avenue] where we would shop for the rest.”

Mikulski’s parents purchased a house near the shop at 715 S. Eaton St., and they rented out the apartment above Willy’s. “You usually rented to a relative or somebody you knew from work or church,” she says.

According to Eric Holcomb, author of The City as Suburb: A History of Northeast Baltimore Since 1660, before the 20th century, there was no “separation of uses” in terms of zoning. “That’s why corner stores could have your house, your store, and even your warehouse in the same building,” says Holcomb.

In Willy’s early days, Mikulski’s father ran the store, and her mom kept the books while taking care of their daughters and household. When the store got busy, “Miss Chris,” as she was known to the neighborhood kids, helped out. I remember her always throwing a candy bar into the paper bag filled with my mom’s purchases.

While they initially sold canned goods and meats, as her father was an accomplished butcher, Mikulski says that her parents were forward-thinking when it came to the business.

“When World War II was over, my mother told my father that women were going to move from canned goods to frozen food. My father had one of the first freezers in the neighborhood in that store,” Mikulski says.

If her parents knew someone was ill, they would send young Barbara to their homes with their orders. They wouldn’t let her accept a tip. “You’re the grocer’s daughter. Be kind and be helpful,” they’d tell her.

Mikulski remembers the basement of their corner store being used as a fallout shelter during WWII for vulnerable populations.

“My father was an air raid warden. He and one of the other guys in their late 20s would patrol the neighborhood. And if there was ever an air-raid siren, my father’s place was one of the designated shelters,” she says. “The elderly or anyone with children would go into the basement and wait until the air raid was over. There were canned goods down there for them if needed. Whether it would’ve ever really worked, who knows?”

Her parents retired and sold the store in the early 1970s. For a while, it was used to sell meats and for catering. Now, it’s a private home that you’d never know was once a corner store.

“People didn’t have cars, so they lived where everything was within walking distance and shopped in the same area. There were mom-and-pop stores on the corners that met basic needs.”

SUPPORTING HER FAMILY
In 1957, Baltimore City firefighter Lee MacKenzie died of a heart issue. Like many men of his generation, he was the sole supporter of his family. Although she received a small amount of money from the Widow and Orphan’s Fund, his widow, Mary Magdalene “Lena” MacKenzie, needed to support her children.

So, MacKenzie bought an already existing store at 3225 Foster Ave. at the corner of Foster Ave. and Bouldin St. in Highlandtown. At the time, she and her children lived nearby at 3217 Foster Ave. and rented out the upstairs apartment above the store. Four years later, when her daughter Elinor married Jim Benzing, MacKenzie sold them that house, and she and her daughter Maria moved into the accommodations directly behind the store, while continuing to rent the upstairs.

Known as MacKenzie’s Confectionery, the store sold only key essentials since there was an A&P grocery store nearby. That included milk, bread, and eggs, plus a soda fountain—where she and Maria would make fountain sodas, milkshakes, hand-dipped ice cream, ice cream floats, and snowballs.

“When the egg man dropped off eggs to grandma’s [store], he would drop eggs off at our house too,” recalls Chris Benzing, her grandson. “I thought the egg man came to everyone’s house, because for us that was normal.”

Behind the counter, MacKenzie sold packs of cigarettes, some canned goods, cereal, soap, detergent, toilet paper, and other shelf-stable items. She also sold knickknacks, small toys, and greeting cards on a spinning rack.

Like many corner store owners, she didn’t keep stock in bulk, as vendors would come by weekly and take orders on what she needed. The next week, they’d deliver them. According to Mikulski, this is why many stores were on the corner of blocks or alleys—to make delivery easy.

The MacKenzies lived in the small apartment—living room, galley kitchen, one bedroom—behind the store, through a doorway that was always open. Their bathroom, with its clawfoot tub, was in the basement, which was also used for storage.

“The basement was the scariest. We raced through it. It wasn’t finished, and it just had their bathroom and furnace,” says Leah Benzing, a granddaughter.

“That’s where she also had all the flavors for the snowballs in big containers on a table,” adds Barbara Smith, another granddaughter.

The store front had a doorbell attached, which would ring in the kitchen. That way, if their grandmother and Maria were having lunch when the store was empty, they would know when a customer arrived.

In 1975, MacKenzie sold her store to one of her vendors, and it became Dawn’s Confectionery, named after the owner’s daughter. It’s now a rowhome.

MISS CASS’
In 1961, three months after Theresa Buerhaus Pratt was born, she and her four siblings moved with their parents to a corner store at 3800 Fait Ave. and Eaton St. in what is now Brewers Hill. Her father, George, worked full-time, and her mom, Cass, stayed home with the kids. Officially called Buerhaus Confectionery Store, it was known by the neighborhood as Miss Cass’ or just Cass’.

Although it was less than a block away from Mikulski’s parent’s shop, Miss Cass sold items the nearby store didn’t have, like comic books, newspapers, Tasty Kakes, and cigarettes. There was also a glass case of penny candy, and they sold snowballs out of the garage on the back of the house.

During many summer breaks, Pratt would work at the snowball stand three days a week from 10 a.m. until 10 p.m. Before opening, she’d mix the marshmallow and mix flavors. Upon closing, she would count the money, roll the coins, and wipe everything down with bleach.

“But I got paid $5 a day,” says Pratt proudly.

Behind the store was their living room, kitchen, and the garage. Upstairs were three bedrooms, one for the four girls (who slept in two double beds), the middle room for their brother, and the back one for their parents. While she enjoyed living at the store, Pratt says there was one downside. The store opened directly into their living room, and her mom insisted on keeping one of the French doors open at all times.

“She would never close it, and it would drive us nuts because you’d be sitting there on the couch trying to watch TV or doing your homework, and if someone wasn’t right in the store to wait on them, they’d stick their heads into our living room while saying, ‘Anybody home?’” says Pratt.

In the late 1970s, Miss Cass moved the snowballs inside the store. She began selling Stewart Sandwiches, a popular, pre-packaged, refrigerated brand of pizza, hot dogs, and grilled cheese sandwiches, which customers like me would take out of the fridge and hand to Miss Cass for toasting. Even though they were cooked in the plastic, my friends and I thought they were absolutely delicious.

As time passed, people were driving more to stores, so they weren’t visiting Cass’ as much and business really dropped off. Pratt says her mom even tried to make it into a corner coffee shop, with coffees, teas, and pastries. But it just didn’t work. The store closed in 2014.

“My mom was so sad,” says Pratt. “She really loved all the kids who came to the store.”

STILL IN BUSINESS
Luigi Di Pasquale came to America from Italy when he was 14 years old. He worked for the railroad but didn’t like it and eventually left. In 1914, he opened a corner store at 3700 Claremont St. across from Our Lady of Pompei in Highlandtown. The building was so large, Luigi used the extra rooms as a boarding house for local men.

“We sold everything in the Italian line, from spaghetti on down,” says his son, Leo Di Pasquale, 95.

After Luigi married, he and his wife, Anna, had seven children, all of whom grew up to help at the store for a time.

“Every time mom had a baby, she kicked one of his borders out to make room for all of us—until it was all family,” says Leo with a laugh.

In the early days, besides selling groceries and candy, Leo says they had live chickens, turkeys, pigs, and goats available to be butchered for customers. Joe Di Pasquale, Leo’s nephew, who runs the family business now, says his grandparents also manufactured bleach in the alley.

In 1988, Joe and his brothers and sisters assumed ownership of the business from their dad, Luigi Jr., and moved it to 3700 Gough St., still in Highlandtown. Joe says over the years, suppliers gave them advice on how to keep the store running—stick with specialty items.

While Di Pasquale’s Italian Market still exists, it transitioned from the typical corner store to a deli and a casual eatery offering everything from subs and sandwiches to brick-oven pizzas and pasta dishes. They also grew to four locations.

“We expanded the kitchen and the menu, and we caught the prepared foods wave,” explains Joe.

Forno, which is still at the Gough St. location, is a little restaurant with a speakeasy feel. They kept a lot from the old corner store, so it looks like a museum of days gone by. And although the shop on Claremont St. has been gone for decades, it still sports a painted mural of the original Di Pasquale family and some of their wares.

“Everything in the neighborhood was close then,” says Leo. “And we were all there, working together in the store.”

THREE GENERATIONS OF LOU’S
Kristan Barbarino Wilson isn’t sure when her grandparents, Ida and Louis Barbarino, first opened Lou’s Confectionery corner store at 3401 Hudson St., but she remembers her parents, Joseph and Sharon, buying it from them in the mid-1970s.

Located across the street from what was then Canton #230 school and just a few blocks away from St. Brigid’s School, the store did a hearty business selling snacks, ice cream, soda, and candy to kids as well as canned goods, deli meat, steaks, pork chops, and cigarettes to adults.

Wilson’s grandparents lived on the first floor of the house next door, which the family also owned. Her family lived upstairs of both the shop and the house, as the second floor in each was connected. Wilson and her friends loved going into the store after closing time—truly kids in a candy store.

“We had central air in our house and store and the same phone number for both. When my parents got a phone call, but were in the store, we would yell through the air vent, ‘Pick up the phone!’” Wilson recalls with a laugh. “It was fun!”

NOT-ON-THE-CORNER STORE
In October of 1976, Libby and John Maciolek purchased Walt & Theresa’s, a store in the middle of the block at 3033-35 Hudson St. in Canton and renamed it John and Libby’s Confectionery. (Why many of these corner stores called themselves “confectioneries”—meaning a store that sells candy—no one seems to know, as they sold much more than sweets. Maybe they thought it sounded fancy.)

John and Libby’s carried groceries, canned goods, sodas, ice cream, snacks, and snowballs. In 1980, their daughter Laura Maciolek Stanton became manager, and her mom changed the store’s name again, this time to John and Libby’s Variety. In 1982, they expanded and began selling more groceries, packaged goods, penny candy, and seasonal toys.

During the spring and summer, Stanton remembers their tremendous snowball business that would have people lining down the block—especially for her mom’s homemade egg custard. Stanton, her sister, and their parents lived behind and above both sides of the store.

“My mom treated my friends like her daughters. We used to love having sleepovers because we’d come down after the store closed, and my friends could have all the ice cream, chips, and soda they wanted,” she recalls. “We had pinball machines, so it was almost like we had our own arcade, too.”

Stanton still owns the original penny machine from 1912. Many corner stores had them, and some were called “Bullseye.” Kids would put a penny in the top, and it would move down a pegboard, much like the Plinko game on The Price Is Right. If it landed in the right space at the bottom, you won a five- or ten-cent piece of candy.

As Canton was revitalized, fewer customers frequented their store. They couldn’t make a living anymore and closed in 2004. “When the community found out we were closing, they were devastated,” says Stanton. “There aren’t any stores like ours in Canton anymore. That was a different time.”

This article first appeared in our May 2026 issue. If you connected with it, consider becoming a print subscriber. 

For more than a century, DiPasquale’s Italian Market served as an anchor in its thin slice of Highlandtown. When the beloved business moved about a mile away to Brewers Hill in 2021, the empty building left a noticeable void in the neighborhood.

Now, 3700 Gough Street is once again brimming with life—but you might not know it if you’re not an insider.

Fifteen hundred square feet of the building that once housed the market is now home to Forno, a speakeasy serving pizza, small plates, cocktails, beer, and wine. Save for a chalkboard near the front door, the exterior looks unchanged, and once you enter the building you might think you’re in the wrong place.

The front of the house gives the impression that the business moved out yesterday. There’s no host stand or employee to greet you. Other than a neon sign that says Forno—Italian for “oven”—and refrigerators filled with wine, the place looks abandoned. But behind a red curtain is a charming dining room with a smattering of tables and a few couches.

Forno is owned by the DiPasquale family, which won’t come as a surprise to anyone who’s eaten here. The food, like most everything at the 110 year-old market (now found in the bottom floor of the Porter apartment building as well as two other locations), is fresh, authentic, and outstanding.

Small plates include arancini, meatballs, and porchetta sliders, which are served on a pillowy roll with melted provolone and a spicy tomato jam that takes them to the next level. Fried artichokes atop a cacio pepe sauce were terrific. After finishing them off we kept the plate to dip our pizza crust in the remaining sauce.

We’ll get to the pizza in a moment but first let’s talk pasta. Amalfi Coast gnocchi was a special when we visited in June. The dumplings were soft, and the herbed pesto sauce was so good we kept the plate to dip our pizza crust in the remains. See a pattern here?

Three types of tasconi, basically an Italian pocket sandwich, are available as well. Their pizza dough is cooked in the pizza oven then stuffed with cold fillings—capicola, soppressata, roasted ham, provolone, peppers, and arugula for the OG variety.

But pizzas are the star here. The same imported oven that churned out pies for DiPasquale’s dining room back in the day continues to serve admirably. The crust is a perfect combination of doughy and charred, and the toppings are first-rate. The Margherita and the Scooch—hot soppressata, capicola, roasted peppers, prima donna cheese, peppadews—are among the most popular, but we opted for the Goat, with garlic, mozzarella, arugula, Calabrian hot honey, pistachio dust, and, of course, goat cheese. We’ve never tasted that combination of ingredients, and they made each bite more interesting than the last.

Between the no-fuss fare and a cocktail list heavy on Italian favorites like wine, spritzes and negronis, it’s no wonder that 3700 Gough Street has quickly become a neighborhood gathering spot. Again.

FORNO: 3700 Gough St., Highlandtown, 410-617-0455. HOURS: Thurs. 4 p.m.-10 p.m., Fri.-Sat. 4 p.m.-11 p.m., Sun. 4 p.m.-9 p.m. PRICES: Small plates: $9-16; salads: $9-11; tasconi: $16-17; pizzas: $14-20.

The inside of Motte, the Korean-American restaurant and bar that opened in January next to Monument City Brewing Co. in Highlandtown, looks like the steampunk loft apartment you’ve been dreaming of since you saw Poor Things.

There’s a massive crystal chandelier—thrifted from Second Chance—above the hostess station, a metal boiler-room door the size of a shipping crate installed high on a brick wall, stacks of firewood for the wood stove by the sofa, floor-to-ceiling brickwork, and retro lighting suspended from the high wooden rafters. (The location was formerly The Boiler Room and originally a tree-milling factory.) Which is to say, it would be worth eating and drinking here even if the food and drink were ordinary. That they are not turns Motte into a destination spot.

Husband-and-wife team Gloria Hwang and James Park did not mean to open a 195-seat restaurant when the building suddenly came into their hands last year. The owners of OneDo Coffee Roasters, a marvelous coffeehouse in Canton, were planning to open a cocktail bar. But the location had been a restaurant and featured a huge pizza oven in the kitchen, so they opened Motte, with help from Hwang’s cousin, Seo Jun-ho, who runs two restaurants in Seoul. There is, though, a sizable bar in the restaurant’s center and an excellent and inventive cocktail program fueling Motte’s engines.

The menu is eclectic, insofar as it has Korean dishes made from Hwang’s mother’s recipes, plus pizza to utilize that pizza oven, and burgers and sandwiches to cater to the neighbors and the crowd that often spills over from the brewery next-door. There is bibimbap and Korean fried chicken, smashburgers and pepperoni pizza, a dedicated kids’ menu, and a cocktail list that would lure even the fussiest cocktailians.

The best dishes on the menu are the Korean recipes, particularly the spicy chicken tteokbokki, made with the rice cakes and savory chunks of chicken and spiced and painted by the marvelous gochujang that’s made in-house; and the bowl of bibimbap, here assembled with perfectly cooked warm rice and pockets of sautéed spinach, julienned carrots, lettuce, mushrooms, cucumbers, a terrific rendition of (optional) bulgogi, and topped with the traditional fried egg. The bibimbap comes with a small tray of tiny jars of gochujang, kimchi, and pickled radish, which is both beautiful and comforting. It’s reminiscent of the banchan that precedes traditional Korean meals and underscores the care the kitchen takes with small things.

Other superlative dishes are a pair of appetizers: a dish of lightly fried tofu simply dressed with ginger-soy, radish, and scallions; and a trio of crispy shrimp balls atop spicy mayo sauce. Then there is the fried chicken, a Korean staple, which at Motte comes three ways: as a whole Cornish hen with pickles and fries; in a dish with chunks of fried chicken, sweet-and-sour sauce, and lettuce; and in a sandwich with slaw, more pickles, and hot honey.

For those who prefer Western food with their cocktails, there’s an admirable smashburger, topped with melted cheddar, lettuce, and tomato, which is, however, best accompanied with teriyaki fries—a blissful golden pile laced with teriyaki sauce, Thai chiles, and Korean red chiles, plus a side of roasted garlic-sesame aioli. And the pizza is pretty great too, mostly because you can order it not only with the expected pepperoni or mozzarella,  tomato, and basil, but with bulgogi or shrimp and chile. Another plus is that there is an actual kids’ menu, albeit a simple one with a cheeseburger, chicken tenders, and cheese flatbread (there is also that tofu, which was what my kids devoured in restaurants when they were young).

Then there’s that creative cocktail program, which features drinks with things like kimchi brine, thyme syrup, hibiscus liqueur, and honeydew shrub paired with both booze and non-alcoholic spirits. The Three Kingdoms, a play on an Old-Fashioned, showcases wheated bourbon, soju, barley tea, toasted rice syrup, and Angostura bitters; and the Dalgona Martini is made with vodka, soju, oolong syrup, espresso liqueur, and dalgona coffee foam—dalgona, as fans of Squid Game will know, is an addictive Korean candy made from honeycombed toffee.

Much of Motte is still a work in progress, with specials, like a plate of deftly pleated dumplings whose appearance was heralded via Instagram, and events, like a recent open mic night, that may or may not become permanent. Also, because Hwang’s cousin, who had been doing the cooking, went back to Korea and a return visit was canceled after his visa was denied, Park had to take over the cooking, though he trained not as a chef but as an architect.

“I wasn’t anticipating opening this big restaurant, because I’d never done it before,” says Hwang, sitting on the comfy sofa near the woodstove one afternoon.

In the days before Motte opened, she was at the location so much she sometimes slept on the sofa. Even now, some seven months later, she and her husband spend all their days at the restaurant, a commitment that might mean more nights on that sofa but certainly contributes to the excellence of the restaurant.

“People are supporting us a lot; they’re very community-based,” says Hwang. “Baltimore is an amazing city.”

MOTTE: 2206 Boston St., 410-775-4094. HOURS: Tues.-Thurs., Sun., 5.-10 p.m.; Fri.-Sat. noon-11 p.m. PRICES: Appetizers: $6-18; pizza and sandwiches $15-20; Korean dishes: $20-35; kids’ menu: $10-15. AMBIANCE: Boiler-room chic.

It is surprisingly rare to find a restaurant whose name perfectly describes it, but that is the case with Diner Latino, a cozy little pupusaria on a Highlandtown street corner. The place was open seven days a week, 24 hours a day—as a true diner should be—until earlier this year, when nearby construction forced the owner to temporarily reduce the hours.

The large menu is jammed not with the eggs, short stacks, and meatloaf of classic American diners, but with an equally classic menu of the traditional comfort food of Latin America: pupusas, burritos, tacos, baleadas, and five iterations of “desayuno,” or breakfast. It is a diner, so there is some overlap: a permanent jug of hot coffee, which is served in painted ceramic mugs and is surprisingly strong and good, as well as bakery items under glass on the counter.

Maria Alvarado, who is from Ilobasco, a small city northeast of El Salvador’s capital of San Salvador, came to this country in 1998 and opened Diner Latino in 2015. She opened a second location in Middle River in 2019, with a similar menu of dishes from her native country, as well as Honduras and Mexico. The idea for a diner made sense, Alvarado says, as folks in the neighborhood were hungry in the early morning, too. So there are the desayunos, massive plates of various combinations of eggs, fried plantains, beans, beef and peppers, salsa, crema, avocados, rice, pork chops, and tortillas.

There are more plates, like the Salvadoreño and the Hondureño, with variants of desayuno pegged to their respective countries. There are the baleadas, a Honduran version of a quesadilla, a flour tortilla jammed with fillings. There are excellent tacos, both Mexican and Honduran, on house-made tortillas; tajadas, or plantains that are fried and loaded with toppings; and an assortment of other entrees, like ceviche, whole fried mojarra fish, and soups.

To wash it all down, there are aguas frescas, and, best of all, atole, the hot, sweet, milky masa drink.

But you are here for the pupusas, the national dish of El Salvador, thick griddled corn cakes filled with beans and cheese, pork, chicken, beef, jalapeños, and loroco, a flowering vine native to Central America that tastes vaguely of asparagus and is a traditional pupusa filling. The pupusas are made-to-order and served with curtido, the thick slaw sluiced with a mild salsa that is their traditional accompaniment.

These are deeply addictive things, crisped masa around a hot center of melted cheese and oozy mashed beans and whatever else you choose to embed in them. The curtido supplies a cool antidote, the crunch and acid of the slaw a perfect balance. And Alvarado has gone a step further, with something she calls a pupusa loca, or crazy pupusa: a 10-inch masterwork whose burnished exterior hides all the fillings.

“It’s my favorite,” says Alvarado, whose recipe it is as well. “It’s everything.”

The pupusa loca arrives hot from the griddle, quartered on a plate it nearly overflows, and topped in the center with the bowl of slaw like a paperweight. A warning that it takes some time to create this, so maybe get a coffee refill while you wait. Or just eat breakfast first.

DINER LATINO: 3928 Eastern Ave., 410-276-1481. HOURS: Mon.-Wed., 8 a.m. to 1 a.m.; Thurs.-Sun. 8 a.m.-3 a.m. PRICES: Pupusas: $2.50-9.95; breakfast: $6.95-10.95; tacos, soups, and entrees: $3-19.95

Highlandtown is home to several taquerias serving delicious authentic dishes from Mexico and other Latin American countries.

Mystic Burrito is not one of them.

“This isn’t Mexican food; this is California food from people of Mexican heritage,” says Alex Sushko, who opened the outstanding fast-casual spot across from the Creative Alliance on New Year’s Eve. “My influences are also from the Pacific Rim. It’s an interesting twist.”

It is indeed. Sushko, 57, is a native of the neighborhood, but he lived in California for nearly three decades before returning last year. His menu is inspired not entirely by traditional Mexican food, which he did fall in love with while living there as well, but also by the adaptation of that cuisine that emerged from Latino communities in Northern California’s Bay Area—and around the globe.

While the foundation of the extensive menu might look familiar—burritos, tacos, quesadillas, nachos—the fillings are where Sushko’s creativity emerges. While out west he became enamored with Señor Sisig, a food truck born from a collaboration of a “Mexican dude and a Filipino dude,” as he puts it. (Sushko ran surf shops in Ocean City, Maryland, and Aptos, California, and his manner still resembles that of a man looking forward to catching his next wave.) His version of the traditional Filipino dish involves marinating pork, chicken, or tofu in pepper, laurel, soy sauce, sugar, and pineapple. After grilling it, it’s marinated again with lime, soy sauce, and red chile peppers. The result is a savory and sweet combination that awakens the palate.

Sushko is militant when it comes to sourcing his food. He spent years searching for the right Monterrey Jack cheese before finding it on a farm in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. He won’t buy any fish from a non-sustainable fishery, and the flour tortillas he uses are made in California. They’re bigger than standard ones so he can make his burritos in the mold of the massive ones made famous in San Francisco’s Mission District. They’re also thinner.

“I wanted to get that flat tortilla so when [diners] eat my burrito they’re not getting filled with a bunch of processed flour,” he says. “If you take my tortilla and hold it up to the light, you can see your hand through it.”

Once a tortilla is filled, grasping it for a sustained period is no easy task. As noted, Sushko’s burritos are huge; eating one in a single sitting requires a Herculean effort. But a few bites in you’ll want to try because quality is not sacrificed for quantity—quite the opposite. Carne asada, chicken diablo, carnitas, fish, shrimp, and a handful of vegetarian options—the classics are all here.

But the Pacific Island-style offerings are the varieties that really shine. The Hawaiian steak, filled with rice, onion rings, black beans, cheese, spicy green hot sauce, and sour cream, is among the most popular. The chargrilled preparation of the meat combined with its teriyaki marinade creates a dynamic flavor. For Sushko’s version of mochiko, inspired by a popular Hawaiian dish, he marinates thighs in gochujang and rice flour then coats them in a Japanese mirin glaze, furikake, and sake. Large chunks of juicy chicken mesh nicely with yams, cheese, rice, and pico de gallo. Gochujang sauce provides a creaminess and cole slaw a crunchiness that complement one another well. There’s also a breakfast burrito (available until 2 p.m.) with French fries, thick-cut bacon, and eggs.

Sushko’s attention to detail is evident right down to the tortilla chips, which he makes in-house daily. They’re fried in canola oil, which gives them the right amount of grease and perfect crunch. A $3.75 order is served with red and green salsas, but we recommend splurging on fresh guacamole or spicy pineapple salsa, which take two days to prepare. Sushko likes to say that there’s nothing he hasn’t thought about, down to the higher quality toilet paper in the bathroom. (No single ply here.)

Photographs by local artist Stephen Wakefield adorn the walls of the small dining room. After ordering at the counter, most people we’ve seen take their food to-go. Be prepared to wait—everything here is made to order.

“If they want a burrito in two minutes, they can go to Chipotle,” Sushko says without a hint of ire. His restaurant mirrors his laid-back California vibe—and his food is in a category of its own.

MYSTIC BURRITO: 3133 Eastern Ave., Highlandtown, 667-260-4118. HOURS: Tue.-Thur. 10 a.m.- 8 p.m., Fri.-Sat. 10 a.m.-9 p.m., Sun. 10 a.m.-7 p.m. PRICES: Nothing more than $13.95. AMBIANCE: California cool.

Marble step scrubbing goes a long way back in my family. So, it was no surprise that it was eventually my turn. I know that on my mother’s side, everyone from my great-great-great-grandmother on down all lived in Highlandtown. And they all had marble steps. To not scrub them would have been like walking around with the scarlet letter “S”—for scrubbing—embroidered on their house dresses.

My Polish grandmother, Stella Wojciechowski, was out there every single Saturday morning, scrubbing her steps on Gough Street until you could practically eat off them. Her marble steps looked so good, in fact, that she wouldn’t let us come in the house through the front door. Seriously. We had to go up the little alley next to her home and come in the side door. God forbid we tracked dirt onto those steps.

You would think that Stella, whom I called Busia (pronounced “bushy,” which is what Polish Americans called their grandmothers), would have had the nicest steps that side of Patterson Park. But my grandmother had a nemesis. He was a little neighborhood dog.

Stella liked dogs and even had one herself. But hers didn’t pee on her front steps. “God-dammit! That little bastard pissed on my bottom step again!” she would scream regularly when we were there. I never got why she just couldn’t just keep washing it off. Instead, she actually had my grandfather, John Wojciechowski, remove the bottom step.

Last time I drove through the neighborhood, I could still see the outline in the cement where the step once was. How she thought that made it all look better, I will never know.

Baltimore has been renowned for its white marble steps for more than a century. A 1913 Baltimore Sun story read, “No other city in the country, perhaps the world, has the universal white marble steps as Baltimore has.” It went on to say that the white steps were peculiar not only for their uniformity and their ubiquity, but “because they are always so dazzlingly white.”

At the time, the marble came from the local Beaver Dam quarry and was used to make everything from Baltimore’s iconic marble steps to the George Washington monuments in the city and in Washington, D.C. According to The Baltimore Sun, the marble “was among the purest, whitest marble ever mined in the United States.” The cost then was about $4 per cubic foot.

But the price went up, and by the end of World War II, local builders stopped using the “best” marble and instead used cheaper kinds from Georgia. Some even began using (gasp) bricks to make steps while cutting costs.

When I was nine and ready to make some money—but not old enough to babysit—I did what most girls in my Highlandtown neighborhood (now considered Brewers Hill) did: I scrubbed white marble steps each Saturday morning.

Thinking back today, I can still hear the sounds of step-scrubbing: the scritchy-scratchy whisking sound the scrub brush made on the steps, the swoosh of the rag across the step, and the splash of the rag going into the bucket. If it wasn’t raining or freezing, I was out there. If you washed steps when it was too cold, ice particles would start to form on their surface, which could make the owner of the rowhome potentially slip, fall, and die (at least in my kid’s mind that’s what would happen)—and I knew that just wasn’t good for business.

Despite what Baltimore nostalgia dictates, I did not use Bon Ami. I scrubbed using whatever the person had at home—usually Comet, in the tall, grass-green canister, or Ajax, in the blue canister with red letters.

My husband says that my memory is so good that if Jeopardy! had a Tournament of Champions for everything that no one else remembers, I would be its all-time reigning star. Yet, I can’t remember the first time I scrubbed steps. I’m guessing they would have been my mom’s steps at my childhood home on Foster Avenue. Our home gave me the best lesson in scrubbing: Not only did we have marble steps, but the vestibule was made of tiny black and white marble tiles, and there was even a second marble step that led from the vestibule into the house.

There was also marble on the front of the house, including one long piece that spanned the home under the gigantic front window, one on each side of the small basement window, and another piece that again spanned the house under the basement window. Above all that—classic Baltimore Formstone, of course.

I was expected to scrub all of that marble. When you’re a third grader that’s a lot of work. All for the handsome sum of a dollar bill. (Before you think me a sucker, know that the year was 1977, and back then, you could literally buy penny candy. If I wanted, I could have gone to Cass’s corner store, bought 100 pieces of candy, and been in the process of rotting all the teeth out of my head by nightfall.)

I was an entrepreneur even back then. Scrubbing my mom’s steps wasn’t enough. I soon branched out to scrub more steps, including those of my other grandmother, Theresa Brooks, her next-door neighbor, Miss Bertha, and Emil Goetz, a widower who lived right across the street from us.

Every Saturday, I would come home with $4 burning a hole in my pocket.

My friend Julie did even better. She scrubbed five or six sets of steps every weekend. Occasionally, I’d get some folks who would have me scrub steps for one summer or when their regular scrubber was off or away. But I never hit that pinnacle of six regular sets.

Without a doubt, the most exciting week of the year was when Sacred Heart of Jesus would hold their annual carnival—back then, it was the week after July 4th and ran from Thursday to the following Saturday, for a total of 10 days. That’s when Goetz would give me $2 so I would have more money to spend at the carnival. I felt rich!

Scrubbing steps isn’t rocket science, although over the years, folks have asked what’s the proper way to scrub them. Well, in addition to never using Bon Ami, I also never used a pumice stone. My step-scrubbing arsenal consisted of warm water in a metal bucket, a wooden scrub brush, a rag, and whatever cleanser the client preferred to use.

I’d kneel on the step below the step I was about to scrub. Or, as I got taller, I could kneel two steps below. Dip the rag in the bucket of water and get the top of the step nice and wet. Sprinkle cleanser on it. Plunge the scrub brush into the bucket, and then begin using all the power your little nine-year old arm had to scrub, scrub, scrub…

If someone had marble across the whole house front, you didn’t have to scrub that, per se. I could get away with running the wet—and now completely soapy—rag across it. It’s also how I cleaned the sides of the steps. Again, no scrubbing needed, unless there was dirt on it.

The worst time to scrub steps? In the early spring. You were scrubbing off all the dirt, goop, and salt from the winter. It usually took longer, but I didn’t get paid more.

And where did I put the dirty water when finished? Well, you couldn’t bring that mess into the house, as folks would say. I dumped it into the gutter out front and watched the suds swirl as they ran through the sewer grate. (Remember, it was the 1970s. Environment? What environment?)

When I tell those of a younger generation about scrubbing steps, their eyes glaze over. I might as well have told them I was a charwoman in the Victorian period or a maid emptying the chamber pots of royalty.

Just as I don’t know when I started scrubbing steps, I’m not exactly sure when I stopped either. I know I scrubbed them through age 11. Perhaps I even went to 12. But I’m sure I stopped at 13—because I had become an annoying teen and that just wasn’t cool. Plus, I could babysit.

Although I no longer live in a home with marble steps, to this day, when I see dirty ones, I think my eye twitches—just a little bit.

Looking at Gregory Smith’s resumé, it’s like he was destined for the Creative Alliance. An artist himself, with over 20 years of experience in arts education, community engagement, and nonprofit leadership, the North Carolina native arrived in January from Minneapolis-St. Paul, where he worked at Minnesota Public Radio and the Fitzgerald Theater, to become the third-ever executive director of the beloved Highlandtown arts organization. We talk with Smith about the power of the arts and its potential for effecting change.

Where did your love of art begin?
I really made the connection in first or second grade. Every class had to do a presentation before the school. We rehearsed, got up on stage, said our little lines, and at the end, I’m like okay, we’re done. Then I heard [claps]. I was like, wait a minute, that feels kind of good! The rehearsal process, working with the teacher, the applause—I liked all of it. I was also very fortunate to have teachers who incorporated art into learning. Science, math, history. We were always encouraged to bring creativity into the mix. It allowed me to realize that I was a creative being. And then I remember one Saturday, on PBS, I saw Edward Villella perform a solo. I did not know that men could do that. He ate space in how he danced. It’s important for young people to see what’s possible.

Those are strong intersections between art and education.
It is so important for people to see great art, to participate in the arts, and also be able to talk about it. It goes back to this idea of utilizing the arts as a tool. My career has also been about utilizing the arts as a means of addressing social justice. Because the arts are a safe space to explore challenging conversations. They have always been a mirror to society and asked us to challenge the status quo.

How did you transition into being an educator?
Teaching has always been a part of who I am. My mom was a teacher. My grandmother was a teacher. I love teaching because it helps people realize we’re all creative beings, and helps people make discoveries not only about the medium we’re working with but also about themselves.

What enticed you about the Creative Alliance?
I discovered this quirky left-of-center organization that had a heart and felt a deep sense of responsibility to the community, and that really attracted me. I love that [co-founder] Margaret [Footner] was really intentional about it being a voice for local artists who maybe hadn’t been given an opportunity.

What are you working on now?
My goal is to try to meet people and explore the neighborhoods and see how they all connect. I’m excited to understand: Who are Baltimoreans, and what makes them tick? I also love crab cakes, so I’m on the quest to find the best crab cake in town.

Arguably, no one has more Highlandtown pride than chef Jesse Sandlin. A nearly decade-long resident of the historically blue-collar neighborhood—rife with local businesses, restaurants, and arts institutions—Sandlin jumped at the opportunity to take over the longtime home of The Laughing Pint on the corner of Gough and South Conkling streets after it closed in the fall of 2019. Although the previous watering hole was beloved by locals, Sandlin wanted to reinvent the corner bar so that it would appeal to community residents and visitors alike.

“When this space became available, I felt strongly about creating a place that the neighborhood would feel comfortable in and want to patronize,” Sandlin says. “But I also think there’s something about bringing other people, and hopefully other businesses, to this area so they can see how great it is. If it’s the same 30 people coming here all the time, then the neighborhood is never going to grow.”

That mission has continued to guide Sally O’s, the first spot Sandlin has owned and operated herself. In the year since its debut, diners have flocked from near and far to snag a velvet-upholstered seat in the vibrant space, filled with greenery, neon signage (“This Must Be the Place” hangs above the bar), and wallpaper designed by former MICA students.

Around every corner, you’ll spot knick-knacks—everything from a twirling disco ball to a Notorious B.I.G. prayer candle—that reflect Sandlin’s eclectic style.

“It’s all me,” she says. “With COVID there were so many setbacks. When it came time to actually get the space finished, it was like, ‘I have this vision, but mostly it’s a bunch of [stuff] that I like on the wall.’”

Other details—from the name (after Sandlin’s grandmother, Mildred O’Dethal, whose nick-name was “Sally O”) to the food (experimental takes on classic comfort foods)—are just as personal. The Top Chef alum uses local ingredients from Richfield Farm in Manchester to craft specials based on what’s in season, but you can also count on staples such as the fan-favorite Highlandtown Smashburger—two chuck, brisket, and short rib patties layered with American cheese and classic fixins.

“Eat your feelings,” our server, Peter, suggested on a recent visit. After starting with a smooth gin, honey, and lemon cocktail, we did just that. We snacked on birria-style carnitas tacos and beets tossed in vinaigrette and topped with whipped chèvre, before biting into a fried chicken sandwich elevated by pickled onions and spicy mayo. We also enjoyed Sandlin’s “Crabonara,” inspired by a family-meal dish Sandlin was served while working in California years ago. Her version ingeniously mixes blue crab with the pasta instead of pancetta. It arrived seasoned just so—with specks of thyme, heaps of Parmesan, and clumps of the sweet meat.

The dish serves as another example of how Sandlin shows off her love for her neighborhood—and her customers, no matter where they come from.

SALLY O’S, 3135 Gough St., 410-624-5631. HOURS: Mon.-Sat. 5-10 p.m., late-night menu until midnight. PRICES: Appetizers: $6-22; entrees: $14-40; desserts: $6-10.

The roots of Little Italy’s Venice Tavern lie not across the ocean in the Old World, but in the basement of an old mansion just 1.8 miles to the east.

The original Venice, opened in 1933 upon the repeal of Prohibition, is a Highlandtown landmark, the ultimate corner pub where locals descend five cement steps from street level to the barroom for a shot and a beer after work.

When fourth-generation family owner Dominic DeSantis opened the Little Italy location in August 2019, he aimed to impart a similar everyone-is-welcome vibe to the spot, while offering a more extensive food, beer, and cocktail menu.

Visit the sequel on a Friday night and nearly every stool is occupied. Groups of friends cluster at the long bar and high-top tables, laughter emanating from seemingly every party. There’s a cocktail list that includes classics like an Old-Fashioned, martini, and Side Car, along with nods to the neighborhood, like the Negroni, a combination of gin, Campari, and sweet vermouth.

A few people sip wine, but pint glasses are the most prominent glassware here. DeSantis is a beer lover who has tipped back mugs all over the world. He also owns Canton’s Hudson Street Stackhouse, one of the city’s preeminent beer bars, and has cultivated nearly as comprehensive a draft list at his second Venice Tavern. It’s ever-changing, but often includes heavyweights like Maine Brewing’s Lunch IPA, an intensely hoppy brew that’s a favorite of beer nerds (including this writer) everywhere. There are local offerings like Monument’s Pagoda Pale Ale along with German and Belgian imports. Of course, Coors Light and Natty Boh are on offer, too.

The surprisingly extensive food menu features standard appetizers like wings and mozzarella sticks, and burgers and sandwiches like a chicken Parm are available at prices far below other (admittedly fancier) restaurants in the neighborhood.

Precious little about the original Venice Tavern has changed since DeSantis’s great-grandparents opened it 88 years ago. The walls of the one-room establishment are adorned with boxing memorabilia, including a poster advertising a 1954 Rocky Marciano fight. (DeSantis’s great uncle Vince, depicted in a drawing that hangs near the pool table, was a boxer.) There’s an ATM in the corner—this Venice Tavern is cash-only. Cards are accepted at the Little Italy locale, but not everything else is. At the bottom of the menu are the house rules, one of which is that “loud” profanity will not be tolerated.

“Ladies and Gents, be Good or Be Gone,” reads the last commandment. Fair enough. We’re fans of the place—and its forefather—so we’ll be on our best behavior, thank you very much.

In July, a colorful shovel, decorated in purple, teal, and gold, hit the dirt at the empty lot across from Highlandtown’s Creative Alliance. It was a long time coming. The beloved arts nonprofit bought the building that used to be on the southwest corner of Eastern Avenue and South East Avenue six years ago, then razed the former bar.

Now, work is finally beginning on what will become the Creativity Center, a new Creative Alliance space that will expand both the organization’s footprint and community impact.

The center, which is slated to open in the fall of 2022, will include a number of new spaces and opportunities for cultural learning. A 1,000-square-foot professional dance studio, professional teaching kitchen, and several new classrooms will give all ages access to expanded resources, in addition to the classes, performances, and exhibitions available across the street in the Patterson Theater building.

“That’s going to be the great thing about the Creativity Center—just the facilities for more cross-disciplinary learning,” says Margaret Footner, founding executive director of Creative Alliance, now in its 27th year. “We work with our neighborhood artists and leaders to develop and produce community events. That’s really been a big part of what we see as the future of the Creativity Center, having more space for those projects and for the community to make some things happen.”

Renderings from project architects Quinn Evans envision an airy, welcoming space full of large windows, with passersby able to see all the action inside from the street. With the Creativity Center on one side of Eastern Avenue and Creative Alliance on the other, the buildings will act as a sort of gateway to the cultural heart of Highlandtown and give both residents and visitors ample opportunities to experience the varied traditions and arts practices that can be found throughout the neighborhood.

“There’s just a ton of vibrancy,” says Footner. “The arts have been an important part of the redevelopment of Southeast Baltimore in terms of evolving as a really multicultural and diverse neighborhood. And that’s been done with intention by all the community groups.”

“OUR MISSION IS ABOUT BRIDGING DIFFERENCES. . . BROADENING COMMUNITY THROUGH THE ARTS.”

While the organization hoped to have the Creativity Center up and running this fall, like most things, its plans were thrown off course by the pandemic. But, as one might expect from a group with “creative” in their name, organizers used the time to plan and develop new ways to reach the community virtually. And lessons learned over the past year will help inform their accessibility moving forward.

“It gave the staff some time to really think more about our own programming,” says Footner. “During the pandemic, we changed to more online programming, and I think there’s going to be carry-over from that in terms of opportunities for online education and experiences. Our mission is about bridging differences, generating community, and broadening community through the arts. That online reach will be really interesting in the future.”

Whether experienced through hands-on learning or streamed performances, the Creativity Center will give visitors the chance to enjoy an expanded range of arts opportunities, such as African dance, embroidery, batik, costume design, puppetry, storytelling, and vocal lessons. The professional kitchen will also make the center the perfect place to host community dinners and bring neighbors together to share their culinary traditions.

“It’s so important, with globalization and the amount of movement and immigration and social change the world is in, that we have organizations like the Creative Alliance that are intentionally working to connect different kinds of people to build understanding,” Footner says. “The arts are a great way to do that.”

During its final days in Highlandtown, after being in the same location for almost a century, G&A Restaurant was packed with customers craving the eatery’s signature Coney Island hot dogs—plump franks smothered with yellow mustard, homemade chili sauce, and chopped onions, piled into soft buns. Longtime diners realized that when the doors closed for good in mid-July, they would have to wait until September for another taste of the popular wieners at G&A’s new home in White Marsh.

There, the nonstop hot-dog banter will once again bellow throughout the dining room: “Six up,” meaning six dogs with all the condiments. “Two up, hold the mustard.” “Four up, no onions.” It’s kitchen speak for how the dogs are prepared.

As he’s done for years, G&A owner Andrew “Andy” Farantos will preside over the rapid-speed exchanges with his servers like an auctioneer taking bids, lining up the rolls, often along his arm, and applying the appropriate toppings in rapid succession to get them to diners quickly. He’s a 55-year-old, third-generation proprietor who started working at G&A when he was a kid, peeling potatoes and sweeping the floors before taking over the family hot-dog business in 1988.

“I’ve eaten thousands of chili dogs there,” says customer and occasional Baltimore contributor Rafael Alvarez, who lives in Greektown and frequented the original G&A for about 30 years, slightly exaggerating. He refuses to call the restaurant’s main dish by its official name. “I hate the Yankees, and I’m not going to say Coney Island,” he insists.

When in operation, G&A on Eastern Avenue was full of characters, and some will be left behind when the restaurant moves to Honeygo Square shopping center on Philadelphia Road in Baltimore County this fall. It wasn’t an easy decision for Farantos and his wife, Alexia, to relocate. It took Andy more than a year to make a commitment and sign the lease, Alexia says.

“There were more customers coming from there,” explains Andy Farantos about the G&A visitors from Perry Hall, Harford County, and beyond who traveled to Highlandtown. “We’re going to do what we’ve been doing for 90-plus years and do it there.”

Alexia Farantos, who is a smiling presence at the restaurant, seating customers, waiting tables, and keeping track of the paperwork, has mixed feelings.

“It’s so sad. Some people don’t have transportation [to get to White Marsh],” she says. “It breaks my heart.”

“WE’RE GOING TO DO WHAT WE’VE BEEN DOING FOR 90-PLUS YEARS AND DO IT THERE.”

White-haired Ken Sears, who has been a G&A staple for 20 years, is one of the diners who will be unable to make the trek. Before the restaurant closed, he sat at one of the booths, leaning on a well-worn, green Formica table where hundreds of elbows have preceded him, preparing to place his usual order: two eggs with home fries and toast. “This is my favorite place in Highlandtown,” he says. “I’m not happy they’re moving. I don’t know any place to replace it.”

After learning that G&A was moving to White Marsh, Alvarez was dismayed. “It’s a sacrilege,” he says. “I’m heartbroken.” But he’s accepted the reality of the relocation and says he will visit, “reluctantly, but I will.”

The upside for the Farantoses is that the new place is close to their Perry Hall home, easing the commute after years of long hours on the job. Alexia also points out that she and her husband didn’t own the 1910 building that housed G&A. “The family has been paying rent since the late ’60s,” she says. “It doesn’t make sense.”

The couple is still deciding on the décor for the White Marsh restaurant, though they are excited they will have outdoor seating. They also plan to bring many of the photos that lined the old restaurant walls, which include a vintage 1930 Ocean City boardwalk scene, another showing long-ago workers from the defunct German restaurant Eichenkranz eating steamed crabs, plus shots of celebs like Henry Winkler as The Fonz and a moody James Dean.

Like many other restaurants, G&A suffered financially during the pandemic, but Andy and Alexia began planning the move two years ago, before COVID-19. For the past year and a half, they had to let staff go until they could get back on their feet. Andy did most of the cooking; Alexia was the only waitress at times.

The couple is now about to embark on a new chapter of an American dream that started in 1927 when two Greek immigrants from Sparta started selling Coney Island dogs for 15 cents in the up-and-coming Southeast Baltimore neighborhood of Highlandtown. (Recently, the Coney dog was $3.) Ancestry.com records indicate Grigorios (who Americanized his name to Gregory) Diacumakos (Andy’s great-uncle) and his cousin Alexios “Alex” Diacumakos arrived in New York and lived in Pennsylvania before settling in Baltimore and opening a hot-dog stand. They used the initials of their first names to christen their venture G&A. A framed photo of the two men, dressed in suits and ties, overlooked the cash register in Highlandtown, almost like guardian angels keeping watch on the family. It will also grace the White Marsh store.

By the 1930 census, about 2,000 people with Greek heritage lived in Baltimore, and about a fourth of them gravitated toward Highlandtown, according to a 1938 Baltimore Sun story. The influx continued. In a 1970 story, The Sun reported that about 18,000 Greeks made Baltimore their home. In the article, the Rev. Peter Chrisafideis, pastor of St. Nicholas Greek Orthodox Church on Ponca Street, said the new immigrants headed to Highlandtown to adjust to American life because of the Greek community there.

Besides the Greeks, the growing community of Highlandtown was a mix of Germans, Poles, Slovaks, Italians, and Finns. Today, you can add African Americans, Latinos, and other nationalities to the mix.

So why hot dogs for the Diacumakos cousins? In the 1900s and 1910s, the Coney dog was spread across the eastern United States by various Greek immigrants who migrated because of their country’s economic woes, according to a 2016 article in Smithsonian Magazine. Authors Katherine Yung and Joe Grimm posited in their 2012 book Coney Detroit: “Many of them passed through New York’s Ellis Island and heard about or visited Coney Island, later borrowing this name for their hot dogs, according to one legend….Why they took a fancy to this food remains a mystery.”

In his blog, Food Passages: Excursions in the World of Food and Culture, Joel Denker surmises that the Greek immigrants chose hot dogs because they were a quick and cheap food and would appeal to a growing urban workforce looking for inexpensive meals. He quotes food historian Bruce Kraig: “People came with no money at all….Say we’re talking about 1900, you could buy a sausage for a penny and the other accoutrements for a penny, and you sell it for a nickel. And that’s the way you move up in the world.”

Baltimore also latched onto the sandwich. The Sun proclaimed in a 1927 blurb: “In these days, evolution is plainest marked by the change from the cold chicken sandwich to the Coney Island hot dog for luncheon,” making
the Diacumakoses early-day trendsetters.

FOR YEARS, G&A WAS OPEN TILL THE WEE HOURS OF THE MORNING TO ACCOMMODATE SHIFT EMPLOYEES AND LATE-NIGHT REVELERS.

In 1933, as Prohibition ended, the cousins applied for a license to “sell beer and other beverages of alcoholic content,” according to a Sun article. In the meantime, Highlandtown was becoming a destination with its very own Easter promenade on Eastern Avenue; an Epstein’s department store, which attracted throngs of thrifty shoppers who could buy items ranging from floral house-coats to odd-size curtains; and numerous taverns to quench the thirst of workers from the nearby steel mills, packing plants, and breweries.

For years, G&A was open till the wee hours of the morning to accommodate shift employees and late-night revelers. The hours are yet to be determined for the White Marsh location.

It was a tightly knit, caring community. Alvarez recalls a story that his Uncle Albert told him about G&A. It was 1943, and Albert, who was 18 at the time, was waiting for a bus in front of the restaurant around 6:30 in the morning. He was heading to the Fifth Regiment Armory in midtown Baltimore to enlist. When Alex Diacumakos found out where Albert was headed, he invited him inside the restaurant for a hearty plate of eggs, bacon, and toast on the house. Diacumakos’ parting words were: “Come back safe.” And he did.

By 1966, Andy Farantos’ father, James “Little Jimmy” Farantos, and his uncle, James “Big Jimmy” Mexis, were running G&A. Over the years, the menu expanded to include diner dishes such as hot turkey platters, Greek salads, and grilled cheese sandwiches.

When Andy took over in 1988, he added items like crab cakes, shrimp salad, and beef brisket. Another milestone event happened that year: He and Alexia became engaged. They seemed destined to meet and start a life together.

Andy was born in Virginia, but the family soon moved to Greektown before eventually settling in Timonium. Alexia spent her early years living near Greektown. Her father, Jimmy Meligakos, ran Kozy Kitchen, an old-time diner on Ridgely Street not far from where Horseshoe Casino stands. She often helped out on Saturdays, washing dishes in a three-section sink and making “half-and-half drinks” (half iced tea and half lemonade, generally called an Arnold Palmer today) for customers. Her dad would often take her to G&A when she was a little girl while her mom was shopping on “The Avenue,” as Eastern Avenue was called then.

The couple was introduced briefly on the campus of what was then Essex Community College by a friend and went their separate ways. Andy attended the University of Maryland as a business major. Alexia was working at Milano’s restaurant in Pikesville when one of the business’ silent partners visited. Surprised, she blurted out, “That’s the hot-dog man!” It was Jimmy Farantos, Andy’s dad and, though she didn’t know it at the time, her future father-in-law.

When Alexia was transferred to the Milano’s in Timonium, Andy, who had worked at various restaurants in Baltimore and Ocean City over the years, was making the pizza there. He immediately told her, “I’m going to marry you one day.” After a first date on New Year’s Eve, they tied the knot in 1989 at the Greek Orthodox Cathedral of the Annunciation on West Preston Street. “She is a sweetheart,” Andy says of his bride of 32 years.

Andy and Alexia have three children, who are in their 20s. Their eldest daughter, Anna MacCuish, recently opened a brunch spot, Easy Like Sunday, in Charlotte, North Carolina, with her husband, Sean, following in her family’s food footsteps. She also gave birth to her parents’ first grandchild, Kingston Andrew, on Dec. 1, 2020. Another daughter, Demi, is a graphic design artist, and son Dimitri is an R.N.

Alexia didn’t start working regularly at G&A until about 18 years ago. Dimitri was born with a blood disorder, a condition called sickle beta thalassemia, and she needed to spend time with him in the hospital when he was younger. Then one day, she went to G&A to help out, and “I got stuck,” she says with a laugh.

Over the years, the neighborhood has changed, Andy says. Epstein’s folded in 1991, Bethlehem Steel shut down, and Westinghouse and General Motors closed. The list went on. Drugs were also an issue. “The area became rough from about 1992 to 1999,” he says. “I became particular [about] who came in here. Then, Canton revived it.”

Gerry Pecora remembers when customers stood in line to get a seat at one of the 14 counter stools and 17 booths in the narrow, storefront restaurant. She grew up in Highlandtown, and even though she lives in Dundalk now, she returned to G&A every five weeks with her husband, John, whenever they went to the nearby salon Hair Setters.

On their visits, John would order one of the breakfast plates, which are served all day, leaning toward fried eggs with scrapple or an omelet. Gerry would get a Coney dog or burger, splurging on fries occasionally. “It’s the family atmosphere,” she says about the restaurant’s draw. “I have good memories of my childhood when I come back.” She’s sorry the restaurant is relocating but adds, “I think it’s a good thing. We’ll go.”

Andy Farantos recalls the restaurant’s heydays, when bigwigs like Dominic “Mimi” DiPietro, a beloved East Baltimore City councilman who was dubbed the unofficial “mayor of Highlandtown”; Orioles owner Peter Angelos; and H&S Bakery magnate John Paterakis graced G&A’s red-and-chrome counter stools, talking to panhandlers and church ladies alike. It was a welcoming place. “My family is in the hospitality business,” Andy says. “We say it with pride: ‘It’s a great little hole in the wall.’”

One of the highlights in recent years was a visit from Guy Fieri in 2008 to film an episode of Food Network’s Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives. A poster-size photo of Fieri hung prominently on a wall to remind customers of the show. In true fashion, Fieri pulled up to G&A in his flashy 1967 red Camaro convertible on a sunny March day for the taping. Andy laughs at the memory. Fieri had to drive around the block three times in busy traffic because he kept flubbing the Diacumakos name in his introductory spiel as he got out of the car.

Once inside, it was showtime. Andy took Fieri into the small kitchen in the back to put together the beanless chili he layers on the Coney dogs and other menu items, including a Coney omelet with, yes, hot dogs. It’s a daily ritual. Andy mixes ground beef from local Old Line Custom Meat Co., paprika, chili powder, celery salt, and other “secret spices.” Fieri called the thick mix a “crazy meat concoction.” When asked for more particulars about his chili recipe, Andy will only confirm that he makes it with “just love.”

The show brought G&A a lot of local and national attention. Regular customers like Alvarez weren’t surprised but puzzled by the newfound interest. “Now they have cred?” Alvarez asks. “They’ve always had cred.”

Soon, that “cred” will be making its way to the ’burbs.

You’re forgiven if you think Coney Island hot dogs originated at Coney Island, the amusement park in New York.

They didn’t, despite the name. It’s true that Brooklyn’s Coney Island is credited as being the birthplace of the American hot dog on a bun, thought to have been first sold by a pie-wagon vendor named Charles Feltman as early as 1867; then, by Nathan Handwerker, a Polish immigrant who worked for Feltman and opened his own place in 1916.

Nathan’s Famous restaurants live on today, as does Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating Contest, held every July 4. But the Coney Island hot dog—a beef frank layered with onions, mustard, and chili minus the beans on a steamed bun—has a different beginning, one that involved Greek immigrants coming to America at the turn of the last century. At that time, about 343,000 people migrated from the southeastern European islands.

Many Greeks came through Ellis Island in New York and probably heard about Coney Island, borrowing the name for their version of the hot dog, wrote Katherine Yung and Joe Grimm in their 2012 book Coney Detroit. The expanding auto industry in Detroit was a draw for many immigrants to the Midwest. But opening restaurants dedicated to Coney Island dogs was also a financial incentive for the Greek entrepreneurs who dressed their dogs in variations of saltsa kima, a popular Greek ground-beef topping, according to a 2016 Smithsonian Magazine article. Jane and Michael Stern described the chili this way in their book 500 Things to Eat Before It’s Too Late: “The Coney Island’s formidable beef topping with a sweet-hot twang has a marked Greek accent.”

While no one is sure who originally came up with the Coney Island hot dog, the Coney Detroit authors say: “It appears that several Greek immigrants all started selling Coney dogs in the early part of the 20th century, not just in Michigan but also Massachusetts, Florida, Texas, and other states.” And that includes Maryland, where two Greek immigrant cousins opened G&A Restaurant in 1927 in Baltimore to sell their take on Coney Island hot dogs.

Some say a great meal starts with the eyes, which would be one explanation for the perpetual line in front of the display case at Di Pasquale’s in Highlandtown. A rainbow of colors bursts through the glass. Red grape tomatoes mixed with white balls of mozzarella and green basil leaves mirror the colors of the Italian flag. Bright purple octopus tentacles mingle with muted potatoes and fennel. Jet-black olives conjure visions of a moonless Tuscan night.

Others say it’s through the nose that a true epicurean experience begins, which could also explain that line. The aroma of focaccia bread baking at 600 degrees in the imported pizza oven fills the small dining area and narrow aisles with a scent so alluring it’s impossible to ignore. The rich smell of provolone and 30-month aged prosciutto seems to be ingrained in the walls, present even when the slicer isn’t running.

“You go in and it feels like Italy,” says Felicia Zannino-Baker, a Highlandtown art-gallery owner who has frequented the market and cafe all her life. “It smells like I’m in Italy. It sounds like I’m in Italy. It’s about all the senses.”

Ever since 23-year-old Luigi Di Pasquale opened a small corner store on Claremont Street in 1914, Di Pasquale’s has been a fixture in the neighborhood. But after a one-block move to Gough Street in 1988, its popularity exploded in the years following, and it has become much more.

For some, it’s a foodie destination for Italian classics such as eggplant Parm and pasta Bolognese, homemade pizza, and gourmet sandwiches you can hardly fit your mouth around. For others, it’s a spot where they can pop in to pick up fresh produce, bread, or a bottle of wine for dinner at home. And for still others, it’s a gathering place for locals to gossip, discuss sports and politics, or most of all, reminisce about the good old days.

In other words, it’s become an institution.

“I’m Italian, and coming here gives me a chance to express my ethnic heritage,” says retired Baltimore County Judge Lawrence Daniels (“In here, I’m Lorenzo Daniele,” he says in his best Old-World accent.) “I’m here with a lot of other like-minded people. Good friends, great people, great food. Joey’s the best.”

Joey is 61-year-old Joe Di Pasquale, the third-generation managing partner of the family-owned business. He’s a constant presence behind the counter, taking orders from customers, barking them out to employees, greeting newcomers as if they’re old-timers and old-timers as if they’re kin. He grew up in the business sweeping floors, stocking shelves, and delivering everything from beer nuts to beef jerky and pickled pigs’ feet to bars and houses in the area.

Since taking over the retail operation, he’s spearheaded its transition from neighborhood grocery and convenience store to culinary jewel. Now, he’s leading it through its biggest change yet: Di Pasquale’s is leaving Highlandtown.

Before you drop your cannoli, know that when it moves sometime after Easter, it’s going just 1.2 miles away, to a larger, newer space in Brewers Hill. Still, when the news broke last year, it felt like a seismic shift to those for whom the store is a part of everyday life.

“I can say with all my heart that I will miss them,” says 73-year-old Ida Longo, who’s been a regular since she arrived in Highlandtown from Italy a half-century ago. “I buy fresh bread and pasta and lunch meat. The mortadella is the best. It reminds me of when we were growing up in Italy. It has the same smell. Even if he’s going to move a little farther down the street, we are never going to leave Di Pasquale’s. We start with them and we die with them.”

How’s that for customer loyalty? Sabrina Di Pasquale, née Parravano, knows how Longo feels. She grew up in the neighborhood going to the original location before she fell for Joe and married him 29 years ago. She’s worked side by side with him—and his sisters, his brother, her sister, their children, the list goes on—for 33 years.

“At first, I didn’t think it was a very good idea,” she says of the move. “Not that we wouldn’t do well, but I didn’t want to leave the location. It has such wonderful memories. But I’m excited now. It’s not like the family is leaving Highlandtown. My son just bought a house in the neighborhood, my mom still lives in the neighborhood, my brother and sister still live in the neighborhood. We own property in the neighborhood. We’re still very connected to Highlandtown. We’re only a mile down the street. We’re not going to forget it.”

A painting of a serious-looking, older Luigi Di Pasquale hangs prominently in the Gough Street dining room. It’s almost as if he’s watching over his descendants, ensuring that they’re not screwing up what he started.

Joe never knew his grandfather, who passed away when Joe’s mother, Mary, was carrying him in 1959. But he’s heard the tales of his legendary work ethic and business acumen.

Luigi arrived in Highlandtown from Corropoli in the Abruzzo region of eastern Italy when he was 14. He was sponsored by a family with five children, so eight people lived in the rowhouse on Claremont Street. The bathroom was outside.

When he started the business, he sold chickens and goats that were tied up out front. He also made vats of bleach, which was commonly used for cleaning at the time. Joe’s father, Louis, (Luigi to his Italian friends), and his brothers, Carmen, Leo, Johnny, and Salvatore, were born into the business.

“Everyone had a part, whether you liked it or not,” Joe says. The same can be said of Joe and his five siblings, who grew up two doors down from the store on Claremont Street before the family moved to White Marsh in 1966.

“I remember working side by side with my father,” says Rob Di Pasquale, the youngest of the three boys. “I learned making change the old-fashioned way, [in] a cigar box. Before I could drive, I’d ride shotgun when we made deliveries to local restaurants to help unload the truck. Everything had to be done in a small family-owned business.”

Twenty-year-old Joe caught the family business bug while spending a summer in Italy. When he returned, he felt “more Italian than my parents” and helped convince his father that the business needed more space to grow. So, somewhat reluctantly, his dad moved it from the 3700 block of Claremont Street to the 3700 block of Gough Street. The new location, formerly a hardware store, offered more than five times the space.

Success was not instantaneous. The model they’d transported from the old location—selling household goods along with food—kept sales stagnant. Joe credits the financial support of his father and the family’s patience with helping the business survive leaner times.

“We built to fill every square inch. It was packed in here,” Joe says. “It was a slow grind at first. I remember when the front person would buzz us in the back when somebody came in. That’s how quiet it was. I got some advice from someone who said you cannot compete with the supermarkets, so get rid of the toilet paper and the dish detergent and focus on specialty foods. That was good advice.”

Was it ever. Joe began to search out vendors who offered top-notch products. He began importing more and more items directly from Italy, like olive oil and tomatoes. When he saw that people were trending away from cooking and instead searching for prepared foods, he began offering sandwiches and pasta salads for takeout or to eat at a lone table he set up.

“What started it all was the Real Italian,” Joe says of the salami, pepper ham, mortadella, capicola, and provolone sub that’s still one of Di Pasquale’s signature items. “We use the proper vegetables. We don’t use the wax tomatoes, we use good tomatoes. We use the red onion rather than just the cheap white onion. It’s one of those sandwiches where you crave it. It’s like a meat salad on bread with the dressing.”

By the mid to late ’90s, Di Pasquale’s popularity was soaring. It included a wholesale business, run by Rob, catering, and the retail operation. Joe decided to open a second store in a converted theater in Pikesville, which proved to be a disastrous decision. Just heating and cooling the space, with its 24-foot-ceilings, cost a fortune.

“It was a tough time,” he says. “I’m still feeling it. I got too big for my britches. It
almost destroyed me financially, and almost family-wise.”

Butting heads is inevitable in a family business, and it has happened more than once through the years to the Di Pasquales. Heated conversations, shouting matches, and the silent treatment have all broken out during disputes. But in the end, everyone knows that they have each other’s backs.

Davide Rossi has been the executive chef for the past seven years. A native of Milan, he says the family makes him feel like he’s one of them.

“Because it is family-owned, you are not a number here,” he says. “We all love each other very much. Joe can crack a joke with you, but he can yell at you if something goes wrong, and after two seconds, it’s like nothing happened.”

In 2008, Di Pasquale’s success reached new heights when Guy Fieri aired a segment from the store on his Food Network show Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives.
“We were popular before locally, but that just brought it to the next ridiculous level,” Joe says. “We became a factory of making lasagna and mozzarella. We had lines out the door.”

In 1998, the business bought Mastellone Deli on Harford Road, and in 2017, Di Pasquale’s opened a second location in Harborview. This time, both outposts became successes. But those moves were minor compared to what’s coming next.

Walk through the aisles of Di Pasquale’s on any random day and you’re likely to see cans of scungilli and Cuoco seasoning on the shelves, collecting dust. The sliced conch from off the shores of Long Island and the seasoning for macaroni with sardines are two of Joe’s beloved worst sellers, products he treasures and refuses to stop carrying, their popularity be damned.

“I don’t care if there are 10 cans sitting there, I want it here for that time when someone wants one,” he says. “I’m going to search out products that are quality but unique.”

There’s no doubt that jars of Di Pasquale’s marinara sauce, containers of its frozen cioppino soup, and packages of its frozen ravioli—all homemade—attract loyal customers, but it’s the ready-to-eat wedges of lasagna, massive arancini balls, and packed subs that keep them coming back.

The Old World Italian sub has soppressata, dry cured capicola, prosciutto, fontinella, tomato, and an olive spread. The Santino features prosciutto and a hunk of mozzarella made in-house daily. Di Pasquale’s take on American favorites like the cheesesteak are also wildly popular, as is the almost impossibly huge meatball sub, served in a half-loaf of rustic bread baked in the back. “Be prepared,” the menu warns. You never fully are.

The kitchen is headed by Sabrina, her sister, Mariagrazia, and Rossi, along with cook/baker Sadetta Hozic. They all contribute their own ideas and recipes, among them Sabrina’s popular Tuscan chili and the baked ziti she made for her kids when they were young.

It’s the popularity of all these items that has made staying in the current building untenable, Joe says. Lines often snake throughout the store, making social distancing in this age of COVID difficult. (“We’re fortunate,” Joe says of business during the pandemic. “A lot of restaurants, their food doesn’t travel well, but a meatball sub does. We’re down about 30 percent, but we’ve adjusted and we’re keeping everybody employed.”)

He began thinking about moving roughly two years ago.

“The infrastructure is not in this building for this kind of business,” Joe says. “The drainage, the electricity. The roof with all the equipment is like a war zone up there. The parking situation has become challenging.”

When they relocate from 3700 Gough Street to (the coincidentally numbered) 3700 Toone Street, they’ll be moving into a modern, larger space on the ground level of The Porter apartment building that has much more parking and ample room for indoor and outdoor seating. (The space previously housed Ceriello Fine Foods.)

The old building isn’t going anywhere; the Di Pasquales are keeping it for storage and one day may even open a coffee shop or bakery there, Joe says.

“I’m going to keep the ties to here as much as I can,” he says. “I’m going to run a shuttle system for the Italian ladies who walk here. I’m going to try delivery for them. I’m going to keep the [Highlandtown] wine festival and do everything I can.”

Julia Snyder, a Highlandtown native, is perhaps the one lifelong customer who’s not bummed about the move. She lives in The Porter.

“When they get here, I’ll be in my glory,” she says. “I’m on the fourth floor, and I’m getting a dumbwaiter to bring his food up.”

Much of the new space is being designed by the Di Pasquales’ 26-year-old son, Domenico. Although he’s the only one of their four children who works in the business full-time, all of the kids play a role. Marcella, 28, helps with staffing from her home in Southern California. Ivana, 22, is in college, but is instrumental in the apparel shipping business (yes, there are Di Pasquale’s T-shirts and caps), and plans to play a role in expanded shipping of food at the new location. Luigi, 16, helps pick up local produce.

“It’s going to be just like the old store, except more modern,” Domenico says. “There’s going to be high ceilings, a lot of lighting, open space, and it’s going to be more organized than it is right now in terms of ordering and standing in line.”

On a Wednesday in late January, the move still feels like the distant future to Joe, whose focus is squarely on the lunch rush. Cosimo Savino and his 87-year-old father, Bruno, are two of the first customers. Both men were born in Naples and have been coming to Di Pasquale’s since they arrived in America. Bruno, who speaks Italian, often enjoys a morning espresso with Joe.

“They can move anywhere, and I would follow them,” Cosimo says. “There is nobody that can do what they do.”

Later, a couple from Pennsylvania, in the store for the first time, approaches the counter and asks Joe for a sandwich recommendation. “Hot or cold?” he replies in his typical workman-like manner. “Hot.”

After pondering the question for a second, he suggests the Porchetta, a sub with Italian seasoned roast pork, provolone, sautéed onions, olive oil, and grated cheese. After eating it, the newcomers understand what the fuss is about.

Next in line is Adam Ostovitz, who moved to a house around the corner six years ago. He says he comes to Di Pasquale’s “too often.” This Wednesday is his third trip this week.

“It’s a little disappointing that they’re moving, but our loss is another neighborhood’s gain,” he says. “It’s not like they’re going away forever. It’s just a little bit farther. I’m happy to see them growing and serving more people. More power to them. What are you going to do?”

As he shrugs his shoulders, it is clear this is a rhetorical question. For Di Pasquale’s lovers everywhere, there’s only one thing they can do: Keep eating.

On March 16, the Creative Alliance marquee signaled changes afoot for the Baltimore arts community. Instead of its usual lineup of jazz concerts, burlesque acts, comedy nights, and film festivals, the square black letters simply read: “Wash your hands! Support local artists! Fly a kite!”

Like other arts spaces across the city and state, the Highlandtown institution, known for its eclectic, diverse events and exhibits over the last 25 years, had closed its doors due to the arrival of coronavirus. “What used to be this vibrant place was suddenly so quiet,” says communications director Heather Keating.

What’s a venue to do when it can no longer host crowds inside its gallery or theater? Almost immediately, they had their answer: Move outside—and online—but it didn’t come without soul-searching.

“The truth is, it’s been hard,” says performance director Josh Kohn. “We’ve had two decades to figure out how to create these beautiful moments on a stage with great sound and wonderful lights and suddenly that didn’t exist anymore. But we’ve been moved by the way Baltimore has come through with energy, love, and financial support. It encourages us to keep going.”

Aimed at keeping audiences engaged and artists employed, outside-the-box offerings were quickly rolled out, like a Sidewalk Serenades outdoor concert series, followed by weekly drag storytimes on Facebook Live, weekend quarantine dance parties on Zoom, monthly CSA-like art deliveries, and an ongoing neighborhood window gallery.

“What we’ve really learned from this experience is that adaptation is creativity,” says executive director Gina Caruso.

As Maryland slowly reopened in late May, Creative Alliance was in the stage of thinking about what meaningful programming might look like after COVID-19. In the months ahead, they’re investing in streaming technology, weighing options for limited audiences, and still coming up with new ideas every week.

“We’re having a lot of conversations about what it means to reopen as an arts organization,” says Kohn. “How can we fit our creative vision into these new paradigms that are ever-shifting? This new world, as limiting as it has been, is also super freeing.”

As much as Chef Brian Lavin loves Baltimore—and the local food scene that he has been a part of for the past decade—he says it’s time for a change.

“I’m ready for something different,” says the executive chef of Gnocco in Highlandtown, which will serve its final meal this Saturday, May 11. “I’m still relatively young, and I didn’t want to wake up one day and be like, ‘Oh man it would have been great to experience a different city.’ Exploring different food cultures is something I’ve always really loved.”

In fact, the restaurant itself was inspired by Lavin’s study-abroad adventures throughout Spain and Europe with Gnocco’s general manager, Sam White. Now, he and the team have made the bittersweet decision to close the spot as he prepares to move to California to be closer to his sister, who is a pastry chef in Beverly Hills.

“Every time I go and visit her, I see what a thriving food scene it is,” says Lavin, a Howard County native. “And with all of the produce there, it’s kind of like a chef’s dream. I just thought it was a good time get a little change of pace.”

Lavin and White had been contemplating the future of the restaurant since last summer, when their two-year contract with the owners of the building came to an end. They were presented with the choice of either buying the property themselves, or putting it on the market.

It was around that same time that the restaurant technically changed its name to Gnocchetto, after it was getting confused with another spot of the same moniker in New York City. The new name never really caught on with diners—though the translation of “little dumpling” was certainly fitting.

Given the size of the tiny kitchen at Gnocco, they put the building up for sale and looked around for a larger space. Having formerly worked at local spots Salt and Fork & Wrench, Lavin’s skill set included techniques like milling his own flour and making pastas in house, but all of that was tough to execute in a cramped kitchen with only three burners.

“We were really limited in what we could do back there,” he says. “We took our time to talk to a lot of people about spaces that were available, and really figure out what we wanted to do.”

After a number of months, the property is still sitting on the market, so the team has decided that it was the right time for everyone to move forward.

“We have such a tight-knit crew here,” Lavin says, mentioning White and veteran server Gilles Mascarell, who came from Arômes and Salt. “We could have tried to keep it open if one of us were to leave, but we were really a team together.”

Looking back at Gnocco’s three-year run, Lavin mentions memories like the annual Feast of the Seven Fishes dinners and bar collaborations with Highlandtown neighbors Old Line Spirits and Monument City Brewing.

Aside from special events, the restaurant became a neighborhood spot for regulars to indulge in antipasti, comforting pastas, and White’s top-notch wine and cocktails—including one of the best Negronis in town.

For his final night of service this week, Lavin is planning to feature favorites off of the opening menu, including the squid ink gnocchi with tomatoes and spicy breadcrumbs, and grilled octopus with romesco sauce.

“Hopefully, everyone will drink all of the prosecco at the end of the night,” he says with a laugh. “I’m sure there will be some emotions, but we wanted to end on a nice high note.”

There’s no word yet on what will become of the space, but Lavin hopes that it would be appealing to another restaurant given all of the growth in Highlandtown. He feels grateful to have called the neighborhood, and Baltimore, home for the past 10 years.

“We’re proud of our tiny, little corner restaurant,” he says. “I appreciate all of the great opportunities I’ve had here, and all of the relationships I’ve developed with the guests. You have people who come in every week and they’re kind of like family. I’ll miss that.”

Over the years, we’ve found plenty of ways to supplement drinking with fun activities—darts, beer pong, Skee-Ball—but none quite as perilous as drunken axe-throwing.

Indeed, from the first moment you walk into Urban Axes (1 N. Haven St., 240-389-2937), a chain of axe-throwing bars that opened a Highlandtown location in July, you are greeted by glowing iPads and instructed to sign a waiver that includes language like, “I believe that I am physically, emotionally, and mentally able to participate in axe-throwing.” Well, able or not, we scribbled our electronic signature and forked over the $35 per person for two hours of axe-throwing lessons and games for six or more.

The other thing that greets guests at Urban Axes is a giant bar with a fairly extensive local beer selection from Union Craft Brewing, The Brewer’s Art, Flying Dog, Oliver, RAR, and next-door neighbors Monument City. (Most cans are $5, and there’s a nicely priced $3 Natty Boh.) For non-beer lovers, there’s a selection of a few red, white, and bubbly wines, as well as a cider and a canned Moscow Mule. Our bartender, who bore a striking resemblance to Jay of Jay and Silent Bob fame, was friendly enough, but this isn’t exactly the kind of place where you stay and hang by the bar.

There are a couple of wooden picnic tables in the front and, of course, the requisite axe “arenas” throughout, but the space itself feels sparse. Located in an old industrial warehouse, it’s clear that not much effort was put into sprucing it up or adding any Baltimore character. We got the strong sense that any Urban Axes location around the country would feel identical.

But the real fun began when our coach, Kristin, walked us back to our arena, which feels kind of like an open batting cage, and laid out the rules. Stay behind the yellow line if it’s not your turn, the red line while axes are in motion, and always tap axes with your competitor as a sign of sportsmanship before throwing. Your coach stays with you during the entire session, which is super helpful since—believe it or not—none of us had thrown an axe before. We went through a bunch of practice rounds to learn to throw and see if we felt more comfortable throwing with one hand or two (two for me) followed by a round-robin competition and a bracket-style tournament.

Turns out, throwing axes is a lot like riding a two-wheeler: You’re a bit shaky at first, but once you get your bearings, it feels almost natural. Oddly enough, we never felt unsafe, and there were plenty of groups in the space casually sipping beer and making bullseyes. It seems as if anyone can do it. As a wise person wrote on one of the wooden tables: “If you can dodge a ball, you can dodge an axe.”

Our region has many nicknames. One of them is “A City of Firsts,” which generally refers to Baltimore’s historically innovative spirit. And we are happy to see that it’s alive and well today in the first bar inside a city distillery (that uses another nickname as its moniker).

The owners of Old Line Spirits opened their distillery in February 2017, but the bar debuted in Highlandtown this summer. Old Line was able to piggyback onto a bill in District 46 this past legislative session to allow consumption of mixed drinks on the site where those very spirits are being made.

The result is The Ready Room Cocktail Bar (200 S. Janney St.), a nod to the Naval pilot backgrounds of owners Arch Watkins and Mark McLaughlin. The cocktail menu pays tribute to their military service with categories including “port calls,” “midrat drinks,” and “bravo zulus.” (They even have a handy glossary of terms to educate us civilians.)

Industry vet Steve Lamb—who has poured drinks at Rye and Verde—uses Old Line’s whiskeys and rums to full effect. One showstopper is Liberty Risk, which combines three kinds of rum, grapefruit, lime, cinnamon, and grenadine and is served in a tiki glass with a flaming lime and two wheat straws for sharing. Unlike a lot of tiki drinks, this one isn’t too sweet and is nicely balanced. But, as is the case with many tiki drinks, pace yourself.

A tamer cocktail is the Starboard D, a mix of Old Line’s single malt whiskey, aged Caribbean rum, and house-made root beer with slight molasses notes. The mixer doesn’t mask the flavors of the liquors and is delicious on its own. There is also a curated selection of (local!) beer and wine, but you come to The Ready Room for the cocktails.

When it comes to décor, the bar itself is pretty bare bones, though some thoughtful touches like vintage Baltimore signs and upcycled aircraft items add a touch of élan. But it feels how it should—more like a brewery taproom than a full-blown bar. The idea is for patrons to tour Old Line’s production facility in one room and then try the spirits in various cocktails in the next.

On the night we went, a trivia host was getting started and local food truck Dough Boy Fresh was selling pretzels left and right. This whole bar-in-a-distillery thing really works. Here’s hoping other districts in Maryland soon follow suit. Clearly, we’re ready.

Highlandtown locals are used to seeing Sam White behind the bar at Gnocco, where he is usually shaking up Italian cocktails or uncorking worldly bottles of wine at the white marble bar. But regulars shouldn’t be surprised to see him sweating in front of a black steel smoker this summer.

Last month, White and his longtime friend Kevin James launched Scalawags Pit Meat—a side project focusing on barrel-smoked pit beef, turkey, chicken, and other carnivorous classics.

“It’s been fun going from a fine-dining thing to doing something more laid-back and hanging outside,” White says. “Pit beef is such a classic Maryland dish. It’s interesting to learn more about it and how people like their sandwiches—with horseradish or without. Onions or no onions. It’s really personal.”

The duo first started experimenting with smoking meats after James received a barrel smoker as a wedding present a few years ago. Since then, they have been testing recipes in his backyard, mixing different woods, proteins, and marinades.

“The pit barrel isn’t really a smoker and it isn’t really a grill,” James explains. “It’s this weird in-between cooking machine. But it’s pretty easy to use and all of the sudden I found myself firing it up every other weekend and turning out really tasty stuff. It really all started out with us having fun while drinking Natty Boh in the backyard.”

In July, Scalawags hosted its inaugural pop-up at Monument City Brewing in Highlandtown—eventually selling out of pit beef sandwiches, pork loin, turkey breast, and smoked corn with clarified butter. In the future, the duo is looking forward to adding ribs, whole chicken, and smoked bacon BLTs to the menu.

James says that perfecting the smoking technique is all about timing, temperature, and choosing the right wood chips.

“The way the environment is in the barrel itself makes for a really delicious product,” he says. “The juices from the meat actually drip down into the charcoal. When you open up the lid there’s just this mushroom cloud of smoke and deliciousness that really takes the cake.”

The next event for Scalawags—which was named after James’ former gig working on the Urban Pirates ship—will be at Gnocco on Thursday, August 23. James will serve up hearty sandwiches that White will pair with whiskey cocktails from Republic Restoratives Distillery in Washington, D.C.

The team is also looking forward to partnering with Old Line Spirits, another one of Gnocco’s neighbors in Highlandtown, to host a third pop-up and put more of a personal touch on some of the smoked meats.

“The distillers from Old Line reached out and offered to let us use wood chips from their whiskey barrels,” James says. “I was floored because it’s local and it adds a certain kind of flavor that you’re not getting anywhere else. It’s typical Smaltimore.”

In Naval aviation terms, a ready room is a room on an aircraft carrier where pilots conduct missions and swap stories. Arch Watkins and Mark McLaughlin, co-owners of Old Line Spirits and former Navy pilots, are hoping their bar of the same name can pay homage to that idea.

Opening on June 8, Ready Room will be the first full-service bar to operate out of a distillery in Baltimore City. Inspired by Seacrets in Ocean City, which operates as a bar and distillery thanks to a 2015 bill that created a Class 9 distiller’s license, Old Line wanted to create a tavern experience adjacent to its distillery production.

“One of the challenges we’ve had is that, under our old license, you could do a tour, tasting, and bottles to go. We couldn’t do bar service,” McLaughlin explains. “It was almost like a museum. You could have a great time and great experience, but there’s no reason to come back next month.”

The Old Line owners still had to apply for a liquor license in the city, which isn’t the easiest of tasks, and were able to piggyback onto a bill in District 46 submitted by Sen. Bill Ferguson and Del. Luke Clippinger. They are hoping this could inspire similar models throughout the city.

“I imagine that this sets a precedent,” says Steve Lamb, bar manager at the Ready Room, who helped open Rye on Thames Street. “If this bar is successful and respectful to the community, then others like it can follow this same model.”

Lamb and his staff have designed a beverage program loosely based on the Naval theme with a majority of cocktails using Old Line whiskey and rum. The menu will include six cocktails, a section of Port Calls (named after international ports), boilermakers (a shot and a beer), two draft beers, and an approachable wine list. The drafts will rotate, but start out with Monument City and Key Brewing “since they’re in the same zip code,” he says.

One cocktail they are excited about is called the Liberty Risk, a term describing an officer who is more prone to trouble while visiting a port, which is a take on a zombie made with Old Line Navy Strength Rum, rhum Agricola, Jamaican rum, grapefruit juice, lime juice, grenadine, and bitters.

“The Ready Room is a nod to our heritage and where we came from before we got in this business,” McLaughlin says. “But we are trying not to overdue it, so it will just be a subtle nod. The bar is mostly going to be about showcasing our products in delicious cocktails.”

The space will be hosting food pop-ups from places like Snake Hill or a catering company started by Tom Hamrick formerly of Modern Cook Shop and Ben Sawyer from Fork & Wrench. Lamb is also excited to feature rotating bartenders on Wednesday nights from places like R. Bar, Sugarvale, and Rye.

Open Wednesday-Saturday, Ready Room will give the community a chance to better experience the distillery’s products.

“It’s one thing to see Old Line at a shelf at a liquor store. But seeing it presented in cocktails that Steve and his team have put together will be an entirely different experience,” McLaughlin said. “We feel like it will be a really nice addition to the neighborhood.”

Light City
April 6-21. Locations & times vary. Free. 410-752-8632. Since the inaugural event in 2016, this bright and bold arts festival has become a cherished citywide tradition. Now, Light City’s organizers are taking this year’s theme of “More Love! More Lights!” to heart by expanding the festival to include as many people and installations as possible. Head to the Inner Harbor or one of 14 participating neighborhoods to see awe-inspiring illuminations that are sure to elicit ooohs, ahhhs, and about a million Instagrams.

Beer, Bourbon & BBQ Festival
April 6-7. Maryland State Fairgrounds, 2200 York Rd., Timonium. Fri. 6-10 p.m., Sat. 12-6 p.m. $29-99. 410-252-0200. Picture this: two days of unlimited sampling of more than 40 bourbons, 60 beers, and all-you-can-eat barbecue with all the fixins. In between local brews from Flying Dog, Jailbreak, and Heavy Seas, or Maryland-distilled whiskey from Sagamore Spirit, enjoy live rock and bluegrass music, participate in bacon-eating or stein-holding contests, or take in a tasting seminar. If that doesn’t describe your dream weekend, then we can’t help you.

Baltimore Farmers’ Market & Bazaar
April 8-Dec. 23. Underneath the Jones Falls Expressway at Holliday & Saratoga Sts. Sun. 7 a.m.-12 p.m. Free. 410-752-8632. For more than 40 years, locals have dragged themselves out of bed on Sundays to fill their stomachs and totes with the best locally grown and handmade products that Maryland has to offer. From typical farmers’ market fare like fresh produce and flowers to made-to-order eats such as mushroom fritters and falafel, this is an event worth setting an alarm for. Reward yourself for getting up early with a breakfast sandwich from Blacksauce Kitchen.

Motown The Musical
April 13-15. Hippodrome Theatre at the France-Merrick Performing Arts Center, 12 N. Eutaw St. Fri. 8 p.m., Sat. 2 & 8 p.m., Sun. 1 & 6:30 p.m. $49-117. 410-837-7400. For one weekend only, flashback to the groovy glory days of 1960s and ’70s Detroit with this behind-the-scenes look at the iconic record company that launched the star careers of Diana Ross, Stevie Wonder, The Jackson 5, and many more. From Broadway, the story of Motown Records comes alive on the Hippodrome stage in this smash-hit jukebox musical, featuring hit songs such as “ABC” and “Dancing in the Street.”

CityLit Festival
April 14. University of Baltimore, William H. Thumel Sr. Business Center, 11 W. Mount Royal Avenue. 10 a.m.-5 p.m. 410-271-8793. This year marks the 15th anniversary of the CityLit Festival, the signature event from CityLit Project that celebrates reading, writing, and creativity. To tie into this year’s focus on poetry, fiction, and nonfiction, The New Yorker writer Philip Gourevitch will keynote the event with conversations about his book We Wish To Inform You That Tomorrow We Will Be Killed With Our Families: Stories from Rwanda. Make time in between editorial and speaker sessions to participate in guided discussions about motherhood, the #MeToo movement, and local funding for literary artists.

Under Armour Sole of the City 10K
April 14. Charm City Run, 1713 Whetstone Way. 9 a.m. $50-75. 410-645-8266. Spring has officially sprung, so lace up your sneakers, breathe in some fresh air, and get moving during this annual 10K. Start your Saturday early and dash through the streets with more than 4,500 other runners at this race that starts and ends in Locust Point. While the mileage might sound intimidating (10K = 6.2 miles), it’s a prime opportunity to embrace our city, especially with the route’s stellar views of the city skyline and the Inner Harbor.

Peter Max Retrospective
April 20-29. Y:ART Gallery & Fine Gifts, 3402 Gough St. Wed.-Thurs. 12-5 p.m., Fri.-Sat. 10 a.m.-6 p.m. Free. 443-928-2272. Peter Max was practically born to be an artist. He was raised in Germany, China, Tibet, Israel, and France, gaining inspiration from vibrant societies and shifting art movements along the way. As a young art student in Manhattan during the late 1950s, he worked diligently under the American painter Frank Reilly before being swept up in the counter-cultural revolution of the ’60s. The budding artist would go on to create bright, radical posters and psychedelic art—the style he’s mostly recognized for today. The abstract expressionist has been called the United States’ “Painter Laureate,” painted portraits of six presidents, and crafted posters for major events like the Grammys, the Super Bowl, and the Olympics. Despite his global fame, his art remains immediate and accessible. This month, catch his remarkable collection of major works in Highlandtown, carefully curated to include pieces that span his five-decade career. View never-before-seen celebrity portraits, iconic pop art like the above “Cosmic Runner,” and even a special tribute to Charm City.

Charm City Bluegrass Festival
April 27-28. Druid Hill Park, 3100 Swann Dr. 10 a.m.-9:30 p.m. Free-$55. This year’s two-day party is slated to be bigger and better than ever with three stages, 21 bands, plenty of local food, and homegrown brews from Union Craft Brewing. With national acts like The Devil Makes Three and The Travelin’ McCourys and local talent such as Caleb Stine and The Honey Dewdrops, the dynamic lineup promises to be a little slice of Americana heaven for all music lovers.

Women of the World Festival
April 28. Notre Dame of Maryland University, 4701 N. Charles St. 9 a.m. $20. 410-435-0100. The past year was defined by female voices—from speaking out against sexual harassment to becoming a tenacious political force. In April, the Women of the World Festival returns just in timeto explore women’s issues through panels, performances, and activities. Get inspired by keynote speakers Tarana Burke, the #MeToo founder who was named a Time magazine “Person of the Year,” and Roxane Gay, cultural critic and The New York Times best-selling author of Bad Feminist and Hunger.

Legendary artist Peter Max created a cover exclusively for Baltimore magazine’s April 2018 issue. His signature, neon style—which is most famously associated with the counter-culture of the 1960s—was used to depict our very own Inner Harbor, Domino Sugars sign, and Oriole bird.

“I love Baltimore,” Max says. “It’s such a historic and evolving city and I love all of its different neighborhoods with its charming row houses and all of the waterfronts. I really love Baltimore’s harbor and the USS Constellation, and I placed them prominently in the cover along with other unique city landmarks.”

The April issue chronicles the region’s hottest-selling neighborhoods, profiles Orioles slugger Trey Mancini, and provides an oral history of the 1968 Baltimore Riots. The magazine’s events section features spring happenings like Light City, CityLit Festival, the opening of the Baltimore Farmers’ Market & Bazaar, and also details Max’s art show, which is coming to Y:Art Gallery in Highlandtown this April 21-28.

“I haven’t had an art show in Baltimore in years and I’m so excited,” he says. “I created a ‘cosmic’ Baltimore painting for the exhibition that captures the charm and colors of this unique city.”

When Adam Mittadam started posting photos of his five French bulldogs on social media, he never expected them to become stars. But snapshots of the Highlandtown resident’s charming companions—full of scrunched expressions, adorable costumes, and creative poses—have captured the hearts of dog-lovers from Baltimore and beyond, earning their cheekily named Instagram account, @we.farted, more than 52,000 followers to date.

Today, the pack can often be spotted having lunch in Fells or taking a walk through Patterson Park, but their story starts in the mid 2000s, when Mittadam was a fresh-faced college graduate who had always dreamed of owning his own pup. After doing some research, he knew that Frenchies, with their small size, lively temperament, and funny faces, were the ones.

In 2006, he bought his first, Mango, a classy “gentleman,” and before long wanted to help more Frenchies by adopting them. A decade later, he still has Mango, now age 12, as well as Vespa, 7, the “lazy cuddler,” Coconut, 7, “the cheerleading squad captain,” Moped, 5, “the football team captain,” and Chopper, 3, aka “Baby Chops, the Energizer bunny.”

But it’s not always easy being a dog owner of five. Not only do the costs of vet visits and food add up, but some of the pups have health problems. Baby Chops, for example, has an esophageal condition that makes it difficult to swallow food. Before meeting Mittadam, he couldn’t find a steady home.

“It’s a big commitment,” says Mittadam, “but I wasn’t going to be the person who returned him again.”

Mittadam and his Frenchies have received endless support from their growing brood of fans, and the 34 year old has now started sharing training tips and health advice to other dog owners on social media. Mittadam does have a full-time job as an analyst, but he’s not opposed to having his pack become Insta-famous like other leading pooches Jiff Pom the Pomeranian or Doug the Pug.

“We’re accepting sponsors,” jokes Mittadam. “I’d love to get to the point where I can take on my dream job—posting about my five potatoes with little legs all day.

Chopper

Hatchets and beer might seem like a risky combo, but Krista Poll assures that her axe-throwing bar isn’t as dangerous as some might think.

“The most serious injury our guests have had in more than a year of operations is a splinter,” she says. “Safety is our first priority.”

Poll, along with her husband Matt Paton, and friends Stuart Jones and Shaun Hurley, brought the popular Canadian sport stateside last year, when they launched the Urban Axes flagship in Philadelphia. They opened a second location in Austin, Texas in September, and are now preparing to debut a Baltimore iteration in Highlandtown this February.

“We really like the history of Highlandtown, and the juxtaposition of the old industrial buildings with the residential,” Poll says. “We’re looking forward to being a part of the community.”

The 10,235-square-foot space on North Haven Street will be a destination for competitive axe-throwing with six arenas (similar to batting cages with fencing in between throwers) and a total of 24 targets. The mission behind Urban Axes is to bring the typically rural sport into urban areas—something that Poll experienced firsthand while living in Toronto three years ago.

“I had just moved there for work, and I got invited to a friend’s birthday party at a BYOB axe-throwing place,” she recalls. “My immediate reaction was, ‘This is awesome, why don’t we have this in America?’”

While the other two locations are BYOB, the new Highlandtown hangout will be the first with its own liquor license. Though menu details are still in the works, Poll says that the spot will offer an array of wines and local beers. (Here’s hoping a few will come from neighboring Monument City Brewing Company.)

“It’s safe to say that all of the owners are passionate about beer and wine,” says Poll, who just so happens to be a certified sommelier. “People at Urban Axes will not go thirsty.”

In keeping with the emphasis on safety, alcohol will be limited to specific viewing areas that are a secure distance away from the targets.

As far as logistics go, the bar will have walk-in hours, as well as a reservation system for booking large groups. Though she understands that some might be skeptical at first, Poll is eager about encouraging beginners.

“Axe-throwing is a non-exclusive sport—anyone can do it,” she says, mentioning that every session begins with one-on-one coaching. “Almost everyone that comes through our doors has never thrown an axe before. The technique is actually pretty simple. We want to make sure everyone is throwing safely and comfortably before the competition begins.”

The game itself, which most play tournament-style, pits two players against one another to see who can throw the hatchet closest to a bullseye. Not surprisingly, every competitor must be over 21 and sign a waiver before participating.

Aside from bringing a new social concept to the Baltimore community, the co-owners are enthusiastic about their role in making axe-throwing more mainstream. Their hope is to launch seven more U.S. locations by the end of 2018.

“We always joke that the first axe was thrown about 30 seconds after the first axe was created,” she says. “We’ve just taken something that people have been doing for years in more rural areas or while camping and brought it into an urban environment—with a competitive spin. Once people stick their first axe in the target, they’re hooked.”

On a blistering cold New Year’s Eve, the body heat is welcome inside the Creative Alliance. Dancers of all ages sway to the sultry, jazzy sounds of the Bumper Jacksons on stage with local beat-boxer Shodekeh, who layers the music with percussive hums and taps. As the show winds down, patrons peruse the diverse artwork of Amy Sherald in the lobby gallery before heading to an after-party just down the street at Snake Hill, a sausage and beer bar, where a DJ spins until closing time. In other words, 2017 in Highlandtown kicked off at one of the neighborhood’s anchor institutions and ended at a bar that’s less than two years old.  

Bookended by the old and the new, the trailblazer and the trendy, the evening reflects a neighborhood that has long been undergoing a revitalization and is now seeing those changes come to fruition. Thanks to strong community partnerships, and a heavy emphasis on diversity and the arts, Highlandtown is experiencing a renaissance—a case study in how to revitalize a neighborhood while keeping its character.

“Highlandtown would be a great example of how all of Baltimore can revive,” says shop owner Juan Carlos Nuñez. “We’re firing on all cylinders with the businesses, community, houses, art galleries. But this kind of thing doesn’t happen overnight.”

The impetus for Highlandtown’s growth can be traced back decades ago. As so many things do in this blue-collar neighborhood, it stems from U.S. Sen. Barbara Mikulski, a founding member of SECO—or the Southeast Community Organization.

Along with preventing a highway from forming in the middle of Fells Point, SECO is responsible for starting the Southeast Community Development Corporation (CDC), which has had its hand in many Highlandtown success stories since its inception in 1975.

“Community development organizations were created to spur investment in disinvested areas, encourage affordable housing, and try to bring everyone together despite their differences,” says Southeast CDC director Chris Ryer.

During the late ’90s and early 2000s, local organizers in Baltimore took a cue from thriving 36th Street in Hampden and started their own Main Streets programs to encourage new businesses along busy thoroughfares. At the same time, an organization called Healthy Neighborhoods was being developed for undervalued areas of potential in the city.

This happy confluence of groups all began swirling around Southeast Baltimore and, in particular, Hollandtown, as it’s pronounced by local residents. A few years later, an arts collective called the Creative Alliance decided to move from its home in Fells Point to the old Patterson Theater. 

“Even putting the shovel in the ground started a ripple effect of something positive in the neighborhood,” says Creative Alliance co-founder Margaret Footner. “Investors took notice and the rehab kicked in pretty quickly.” 

But as is the case in so many neighborhoods around the country, initial investment does not always lead to long-term growth. So what makes Highlandtown different?

“Walking to work here every day reminded me of Sesame Street.”

“I remember when I first moved here from Queens,” says Southeast CDC’s neighborhood programs director Kari Snyder. “Highlandtown had that same flair. I heard languages from all over the world, people were so friendly and community-oriented. It sounds silly, but walking to work here every day reminded me of Sesame Street.” 

While many people in Baltimore were setting up shop in more popular neighborhoods such as Canton and Fells Point, a subtle groundswell was taking place in Highlandtown.

“When I opened up, all the Latino businesses were basically on Broadway,” says Carlos Cruz, who’s owned sports bar Carlos O’Charlie’s since 2006. “But I saw a little bit of construction here and there and had a great idea that this would be the next big area. I immediately felt welcome in Highlandtown.”

Businesses like Cruz’s remain the backbone of the Eastern Avenue corridor. Maintaining them during the recession and 2015 Uprising was no easy feat and owners leveraged strong partnerships with Highlandtown Main Street and the Baltimore Community Foundation for assistance.

Even a seemingly simple program—like a facade grant that provides a $1-for-$1 match to improve windows, doors, signage, and other exterior work for small businesses—goes a long way.  

“I’ve had many conversations about how perception is so important,” says Highlandtown Main Street manager Amanda Smit-Peters. “We work really hard to make things look nice. But we’re also teaching business owners how to apply for these grants. We never just come in and do it for them because that’s not sustainable.”

Another thing that separates Highlandtown’s community from the pack is that there are many residents “doubling down” and buying places to both live and work, like the owners of Highlandtown Gallery, RoofTop Hot, Y:ART Gallery, Snake Hill, and Michael Owen Art. 

Of course, housing itself also had to recover from the recession. But that eventually started to bounce back, too. 

“Over the last five or six years, investors came back and—house by house, block by block—you started to see that change,” says Mark Parker, pastor of Breath of God Lutheran Church and board member of the Highlandtown Community Association. 

Now, according to Live Baltimore, Highlandtown is the ninth top-selling neighborhood in the city with 30 percent growth in the value of home sales just this past year. Similarly, the building vacancy rate has decreased from 30 to 9 percent in the last 10 years.

“The first half of the decade was more under the radar with housing and businesses. That’s when you saw the opening of mom-and-pop shops like grocery stores, five-and-dimes, and barber shops,” Ryer says. “When you think about it, the neighborhood hadn’t really turned over in 100 years. It was due.”

A vibrant mural on the corner of Bank Street and Highland Avenue—a stone’s throw from Cinco de Mayo grocery store, Little Morocco Cafe, and Hoehn’s Bakery—tells Highlandtown’s history as a melting pot in a nutshell.

On the left, artist Joel Bergner used hues of amber and gold to depict European immigrants, who populated Southeast Baltimore from the 1800s until the mid-20th century. The right side, adding cooler tones of blues and greens, celebrates the community as it looks today—diverse and full of Latino immigrants.

“This has always been a neighborhood of immigrants,” Smit-Peters says. “You don’t get your Matthew’s, Hoehn’s, and DiPasquale’s around for 100 years without remembering where we started and keeping that going.”

As the mural suggests, the latest census data found that 34 percent of Highlandtown residents are Hispanic, many hailing from Mexico, El Salvador, and Puerto Rico. More recently, there has been an influx of Middle Eastern and African immigrants and refugees. 

“Jambalaya is the best way I can describe it,” says Lynne Distance, branch manager of the Southeast Anchor Library, who has worked at every branch in the Enoch Pratt Free Library system. “You’ve got a mixture of everything here. When I look to hire people, I make sure they can speak at least one or two languages.”

The immigrant culture permeates nearly every aspect of the neighborhood, from the Hispanic-owned businesses to the diverse makeup of community leadership.

“Southeast Baltimore wouldn’t be growing if not for the immigrant community,” Snyder says. “It’s incredibly important that they stay here and we do a lot of things to encourage them to stay.”

Neighborhood Housing Services of Baltimore partners with the Southeast CDC to provide home-loan assistance to lower income families. Also, programs through United Way help counsel people at risk of eviction. 

The library turned a former cafe into a “creation station” where local families can take (or teach) classes in cooking, sewing, and robotics. The branch also provides video job interviews for people who don’t have transportation.

In addition, residents say, the community associations make it a priority to represent the demographics of the neighborhood so that no one feels left out of the conversation.

“Our goal is that the board of directors consists of longtime residents, immigrants, and people with different economic backgrounds,” Parker says. “Our association probably has 100 active members, and we need to make sure those 100 are an accurate reflection.”

While most residents and business owners admit that Highlandtown isn’t perfect, there is an overwhelming sense of pride in its diversity.

“The neighborhood hadn’t really turned over in 100 years.
It was due.”

“If you look at the history of Baltimore, there have always been pockets of segregation,” says Nuñez, who owns Tops in Cellulars on Highland Avenue. “But we’ve got every race and every culture here and we somehow make it work.”

One way they are making it work is through the arts, like Creative Alliance’s former SalsaPolkaLooza event that blended the old and new immigrant populations. Or Artesanas Mexicanas, a program started by Maria Aldana, in which Mexican women teach traditional arts, like piñata- and altar-making, to the community.

“This is a way to show and transmit my tradition and make me feel at home,” says master artist Yesenia Mejia Knight. “I am able to show my son how his mom was raised in Mexico. I have made friendships and feel like I have a new family here.”

It’s these kinds of connections that set Highlandtown apart, Footner says: “It’s not just build it and they will come. We have made it our mission to develop relationships with very different kinds of people in the community. And we’ve drawn in outside energy from people all over the state to come and visit Highlandtown.”

An emphasis on the arts can be seen in plenty of places outside the Patterson’s walls, too. After all, the neighborhood is an official Maryland Arts & Entertainment District and its blocks are lined with local galleries, colorful murals, and creative installations. 

“We invest a lot of money into what we call place-making projects,” Snyder says. “This has been a way to re-envision how we use our public spaces and create a new identity.”

This reinvention can also be seen in a crop of businesses that have opened in the last two years. There’s the Italian corner bar Gnocco, massive brewery Monument City, whiskey distillery Old Line Spirits, and sausage bar Snake Hill, just to name a few.

“We keep joking we’ll call it the Highlandtown circuit,” says Snake Hill co-owner Randy Coffren, who has been a local resident for 10 years. “For me, this is a proud neighborhood instead of a transient one. People want to stick around because Highlandtown has flavor—it feels like a city. I don’t want to live in a place where all my neighbors look the same and drive the same BMW.”

Adjacent to Snake Hill is the 500-pound gorilla in the neighborhood, Highland Haus, a six-story building with 65 market-rate apartments built by commercial developer Peter Garver and set to open this fall in the old Haussner’s restaurant space. 

“Now what you’re seeing take shape are anchor buildings that are bigger and harder to redevelop,” says Ryer. “There’s really been a process to get them in competent hands.”

The fact that the Haussner’s property sat vacant for more than 10 years is less a testament to a lack of interest and more a sign of the careful consideration Highlandtown took to make sure that the right developer came, one that would respect the soul of the culturally rich neighborhood.

“None of us want this to be a transition to something inauthentic or corporate,” Snyder says. “We want to make sure that this is forever a diverse, friendly, accessible place to live.”

This sentiment was on full display during a block party on a warm day in May. In classic fashion, the party was all about local groups coming together to transform a block. The Highlandtown Business Association wanted to clean up the alley, Healthy Harbor Initiative wanted to put up a mural and educate students about the environment, and Highlandtown Main Street was game for all of it. 

So they all threw a party on the 3500 block of Eastern Avenue to celebrate a new mural—depicting the Gulf of Mexico and the Chesapeake Bay.

With the vivid waterway as the backdrop, kids played on kayaks while parents drank margaritas and a mariachi band played in the background. 

“There’s a heart in Highlandtown,” Cruz says. “And Highlandtown is in my heart.” 

Just when we thought the local dining scene couldn’t get any more on trend—boasting everything from sushi burritos to acai bowls—two Highlandtown locals are planning to unveil a rolled ice cream shop in the neighborhood by the end of next month.

With roots in Asia, the dessert involves freezing liquid anglaise on a cold slab at -25 degrees. The cream is then mixed with customizable flavorings, pressed flat, and scraped into rolls before landing in a cup with DIY toppings. Owner Jason Werner, a 15-year Highlandtown resident, says that he and partner Jessica Reyes were inspired by the process while visiting New York City.

“It’s a new approach to an old favorite,” says Werner. “Everybody likes ice cream, and we saw this as an opportunity to bring something new to the area that just wasn’t here. There’s something exciting about being the first on the block.”

Roll: Ice Cream Social will operate in the building that formerly housed Bolewicki’s Appliance Center on the corner of Eastern Avenue and South Bouldin Street, which Werner recently purchased. He says that the old row home is ideal, not only because of its location in his neighborhood, but also because of its 1950s soda-fountain vibe.

With the help of local designers at Carballo Architecture in Fells Point, the owners have come up with a floorplan that allows for 25 seats, with the possibility of window, bar, and bench seating. Because all of the rolled ice cream will be made to order, Werner mentions the importance of a swift service model. His goal is to have the capability for up to five slabs operating at once.

“It can take some time,” he says, adding that each order takes approximately three to five minutes to prepare. “But we want to provide an environment where people want to hang out. It’s just as much about eating ice cream as it is about watching it being made.”

Aside from the ice cream—which will be sourced with ingreditents from South Mountain Creamery in Middletown and come in classic flavors like vanilla, mint chocolate chip, and coffee—the eatery will also specialize in house-made seltzers, and high-end coffees and espressos sourced by local roasters.

Werner says that the shop also gives the owners an opportunity to explore other dessert trends, like nitrogen flash-frozen ice cream, in the future: “We’re always looking around the corner for what the next big thing will be.”

In fact, right around the corner Patterson Park shop Bmore Licks is expected to officially debut to the public by the end of this month. The can’t-miss building on the corner of Eastern and South Milton avenues boasts colorful ice cream cone and milkshake murals.

Owned by Baltimore locals Kim Proctor and Barbara Maloni, the shop features 30 ice cream flavors (including some dairy-free varieties), soft-serve options, milkshakes, snowballs, and Italian ice. Another highlight will be twists on the traditional waffle cone, like waffle cone tacos, nachos, and chocolate-layered waffle cones filled with espresso or coffee.

The idea for Bmore Licks was largely inspired by the small-town ice cream parlors that Maloni operated with her family growing up in Western Massachusetts, and the duo plans to use some of the family recipes in their new shop.

“Her idea of the food pyramid are the food groups from Elf,” Proctor quipped in an email. “We’ve always wanted to create the feeling of a local business that provides a great product and contributes to the community.”

Werner, too, is enthusiastic about becoming a staple in the neighborhood.

“I’ve lived here for 15 years, but I feel like I’ve met more people in the past couple weekends hanging out on a ladder on the side of the building,” he says with a laugh. “We’re excited to stay in the area and help it prosper.”

Numbers Game

South Caroline Street
April 20, 2017

In the auditorium of City Springs Elementary/Middle School, four fifth-graders are set to take the stage for a battle of wits against four “celebrity” adults. The annual quiz show knock off—Are You Smarter Than a Baltimore Public Schools Fifth Grader?—serves as both a fundraiser for the Baltimore Curriculum Project, which operates several neighborhood charter schools in the city, and usually, a source of some embarrassment for the adult team.

The format is straightforward: The two teams alternate answering questions in every imaginable academic field, including geometry, ratios, musical composition, the American Revolution, French literature, Greek poetry, and the science of cells. Thus far, the fifth-graders remain undefeated.

This year’s students—Bryan Burroughs, Miyonna Johnson, Soraya Johnson, and Luis Matzul from Govans Elementary, City Springs, Hampstead Hill Academy, and Wolfe Street Academy, respectively—jump out to a 3-0 lead initially, successfully tackling questions about metaphors, photosynthesis, and the formula for measuring the volume of a rectangular prism.

Eventually, Fox 45 meteorologist Vytas Reid, WYPR’s Gil Sandler, CareFirst vice president Maria Tildon, and notably, city schools CEO Sonja Santelises, rally. “I may have to resign if I miss this,” Santelises jokes before nailing a tough astronomy question. Later, the kids drop a geography query, opening the door for an adult-team comeback and some trash-talking by Reid, who cracks that he “needs a moment to massage his medulla oblongata,” which is actually part of the brain stem that deals with automatic functioning such as breathing, not thinking.

After several rounds of back-and-forth volleys, including final correct answers from Luis about a French literary device and one from Reid about the solar system, the score ends in a tie at 9-9 when Santelises misses (or maybe throws) a final question on fractions.

“I’m 90 years old,” Sandler says afterward. “As soon as I saw the math questions coming, I wanted to hide under the table.”

Almost Famous

Pratt Street
April 11, 2017

On the packed deck outside the Hard Rock Café, the original members of Baltimore’s popular one-hit rockers—The Ravyns—are playing their single, “Raised on the Radio,” which found its way onto the soundtrack of the 1980s teenage classic Fast Times at Ridgemont High. (The enthusiastic jeans and T-shirt crowd appears just old enough to recall all of the above.)

“Everybody remembers that movie and that song,” says Tim Tilghman, 54, host of Radio RockonTour on WLOY, with a smile. “And everybody remembers Phoebe Cates”—the young actress who had a memorable bathing suit scene in the film.

The Ravyns’ six-song set is meant as a kickoff for a bigger reunion show in 12 days in Annapolis. But the band is clearly happy to be together again this evening. Guitarist and singer Rob Fahey, who wrote their signature song, explains he was simply transcribing his own teenage years when he discovered rock ’n’ roll, which became his lifelong obsession—lasting stardom or not.

Raised on the radio
Just an all-American boy
I found my favorite toy

“Being a musician, I’m just still trying to get better,” says Fahey.

In their heyday, the band opened for Billy Idol, the B-52s, and on their biggest night, Styx at the Baltimore Civic Center.

“The phone rang at 10:30 in the morning and I was the one who woke up and answered it,” recalls keyboardist Kyf Brewer. “It’s Styx’s promoter and he says their opening act can’t make it, is there a chance that we can play? I tell him we’re booked for a late gig at the Dulaney Inn, which was true.

“Anyhow, we open and we’ve never been on a stage anywhere near that size. After we finish playing, the event staff tells us to throw some guitar picks and drumsticks into the front row—which we can’t even see because it’s so dark and the stage is so big. Long story short, the picks and drumsticks barely roll off the end of the stage and end up landing on the security team.

“Then we went and played the Dulaney Inn.”

Grape Friends

Claremont Street
April 30, 2017

On a warm Sunday, in the street alongside Our Lady of Pompei, the 14th Annual Highlandtown Wine Festival is well underway when someone refers to the neighborhood here as “little, Little Italy.” Joe DiPasquale, whose grandfather opened the original DiPasquale’s Marketplace on this block more than a century ago, gently corrects the visitor. “Oh no, this is big Little Italy. Not the other one,” DiPasquale says, referring to the popular Italian restaurant destination near the Inner Harbor. “Always was.”

For decades, the Rev. Robert Petti of Our Lady of Pompei organized a local wine and food get-together, which the festival has supplanted as a community fundraiser. Petti used to collect grape orders—trucking them in from California—for those in his congregation who toiled as basement winegrowers, similar to those in the festival’s competition this afternoon. DiPasquale assumed that task after the beloved priest passed away in 1984. 

“We get a tractor-trailer delivery every October,” DiPasquale explains. “There’s still about three-dozen basement winemakers in this neighborhood.”

For the first time ever this year, the same basement winemaker—Dominic Petrucci—sweeps first-place honors in the red and white categories. Petrucci’s chief competitor, Dominic Parravano, won top honors in the festival’s first year and, ever since, the two men—both stonemasons by trade, both immigrants from the same small town south of Rome—have become rivals not just in business but in winemaking after arriving separately in Highlandtown in the ’70s.

Parravano, who still lives on this street, dug his basement down an extra 7 feet to make room for larger fermentation tanks years ago. Petrucci eventually moved his operation to a bigger cellar in Cockeysville. Although the guest judges choose Petrucci’s wines in both categories this year, it’s not as if it settles the issue of which stonemason is the better winemaker once and for all.

“We usually have about 30 entries,” says DiPasquale. “But it’s pretty much the battle of the Dominics every year.”

As devoted fans of both Fork & Wrench and Salt, we were delighted and intrigued to hear that Brian Lavin—former executive chef at both venues—had opened up his own shop in a snug corner row house in Brewers Hill. Lavin’s cooking features subtle but oft-surprising combinations, like a fondly remembered sweet-and-sour date purée and tzatziki pairing devised to accompany an oven-roasted duck at Salt.

We wondered if that sensibility would translate to this new venture’s menu, which features a narrower range of Italian and Spanish flavors on display in a roster of mostly small plates and pastas. And we wondered, too, if the challenge of running his own kitchen would blunt his talents. Happily, Lavin seems more than up to the task. On the outside, Gnocco looks like your typical neighborhood haunt, but on the inside, Lavin is serving up some of the most inventive cuisine around.

Food takes pride of place here. The rustic simplicity of the environs—repurposed wood, fresh flowers, dark colors—seems designed to provide a quiet backdrop to plates that are often spectacular in their colorful artistry. There’s a bar on one side, a small dining room on the other. We love that there’s Prosecco on tap, Italian aperitivo and digestivo, a well-curated wine list, and some beautiful craft cocktails on offer (try the Negroni Sfumato with smoked rhubarb amaro). And we love the thoughtful, attentive service. But the noise level? Not so much. When the place gets crowded—and as word spreads, this is increasingly the case—it’s deafening, the single glitch in our overall experience. But focus on the food and you’ll soon forget that you have to shout to convey how fabulous it is.

This is especially true of the ever changing roster of nine or 10 small plates, each one a gem of execution. A succulent mound of lobster salad floats over cool cucumber soup dotted with tarragon. Pale, silky scallop crudo gets color and spark from bright bites of tomato escabèche and basil. Grilled head-on shrimp, draped over romesco sauce and showered with bits of crispy garlic, melds beautifully with creamy roasted leeks.

On our first visit, we especially loved the grilled octopus. You wouldn’t think there’d be much you could do to make octopus look pretty, but Lavin manages it. The tentacles (nicely charred on the outside, tender on the inside) sat atop a salad composed of contrasting pale and bright green fennel and arugula, a circle of deep purple grapes echoing the cephalopod’s faintly violet hue. It’s typical of the great care that goes into plating here, a thoughtful approach that doubles your dining pleasure. The dish had disappeared from the menu by our next visit, but we happily discovered a new seafood favorite: crispy polenta-crusted oysters beside a pool of green goddess dressing.

Veal Sweetbreads
Nestled on a bed of grilled green onions, lightly breaded veal sweetbreads reveal a creamy richness beneath their crisp coating. They sit atop a purée of roasted corn that brings out the “sweet” in the sweetbread and underscores their delicate flavor.

Three small pasta dishes round out the trove of small plates. One night, delicate thyme tagliatelle with chanterelles and sweet corn made us swoon. A little later in the summer, a heartier squid ink gnocchi with tomato-braised calamari and mint had us slowly tasting to discern the way each element complemented the others. We admit we’ve been so captivated by the smaller dishes that we’ve only tried one of the two entrees on offer—a sweet-fleshed, whole, grilled red snapper garnished with snap peas and pickled onions.

We only tried one dessert: warm ricotta doughnuts glazed with fennel honey and served with ginger ice cream. These made my dinner partner clap her hands with childlike glee.

Next time, maybe we’ll eat nothing but entrees and desserts. And rest assured, there will be a next time. There’s a braised wild boar shoulder in chickpea stew we’d love to catch when it’s available, and a yummy sounding chocolate panna cotta with blueberry jam that we hope will stay on the dessert menu. We’re dreaming of Lavin’s way with autumn’s bounty already.

GNOCCO 3734 Fleet St., 443-449-6540. HOURS Tue.-Thu. 5-10 p.m.; Fri.-Sat. 5-11 p.m.; Sun. 10:30 a.m.- 3 p.m., 5-9 p.m. CUISINE Mediterranean.
PRICES Appetizers and small plates: $9.95-18.95; pastas and entrees: $16.50-25.95; desserts: $8-19. ATMOSPHERE Rustic.

The brothers, who actually took out some of the automation from the brew equipment to be even more hands on, say they are excited to go from a contract-brewing situation at Peabody Heights to now being able to have a bit more control.

“Peabody Heights was such a great environment to learn and experiment,” Matt said. “We’re going to be able to tweak what we’ve learned and produce more limited edition one-offs in the brewery.”

In fact, Monument City will be expanding its current core product line from two to four beers, with quarterly seasonal and more small-batch releases, and they’ll be moving from bottles to cans once the facility opens. The brewery’s team will be expanding from two to four employees, and will be focusing more on the brewhouse operations and sales.

The new brewery will also have a taproom, an area for live music, and the ability to host outdoor events with food trucks in its parking lot. Despite all the exciting changes, the Praay brothers insist they the backbone of their company and its beers—like the popular 51 Rye and newer Battle IPA—will remain the same.

“We are so proud and grateful to Baltimore that our model of staying local has worked,” Ken said. “At the heart of it, we’re a family brewery and we want to remain an integral part of the local community for as long as they will let us.”