Friday Night at Vesuvio’s

A Friday evening in June. The sun is still high in the sky, and the warm, humid air defies the breeze blowing up from the lake, causing us to slow down a little as we hot-foot it from home. We are on a mission. A mission to preserve our sanity, to rid ourselves of five days' worth of work problems, family issues and even the oft-demanding dog.

In the 20-minute walk, we develop a slight sheen of sweat on our brows. But our target is in sight, and the heat fades from our thoughts. The target is where a small group gathers around a doorway. Sure, there’s lots of foot traffic in Toronto’s west-end Junction neighbourhood. But there are only a few spots where people gather. Gathering to wait for access.

There was always a small group gathered around the entrance to Vesuvio’s on Friday nights in the early evening. It didn’t matter what the weather was throwing at Toronto, there would be a cluster of folk. When it was cold or rainy, people clustered themselves into the tiny entrance vestibule. But we don’t worry. Reservation or not, we always squeeze by. Hardly VIPs, we knew where to sit - the bar. There was always room at the bar. It was here that we discovered how great it was to sit at the bar and not at a table. Here, we could survey the restaurant and be entertained by the constant activity behind the bar.

Friday night was our chance to reset from work and parenting. I learned this from my parents. We would get hot dogs or something simple like that while my parents disappeared with steak and a bottle of wine. A chance to touch base and reconnect. Tonight wasn't about clients, pets, children, bills. For a couple of hours, it was just about us. Letting the joyous chatter, the smells of pizza, tomato sauce, garlic and red wine waft over us and wash the week away.

This was our place for so many years that if I had known, I would have asked for an ownership share or at least a frequent eater discount.

Tonight, I called ahead for the reservation. The big garage-style window is open, so we opt for the seats at the short end of the L-shaped bar. There are only nine seats here. Three on the short end and six along the long side that abuts one of the two main aisles. Often, we are the only ones there. Otherwise, it’s other couples and the occasional single male, who usually sported a wedding ring, suggesting his wife was out with friends and he had to fend for himself. We get a better view of the restaurant where the 100-odd seats are rapidly filling up and the serving staff bustle back and forth armed with baskets of bread, jugs of water and platters of Vesuvio’s New York-style pizza, pasta and steaming bowls of Stracciatella soup.

Our favourite bartender is there. Don't ask me what his name is. We're not friends, and names don't matter. Just good clients and a young guy earning decent coin while working towards a bigger goal. He’s a constant flow of graceful movement. A flare with each transactional motion. He twirls the beer glass as he rinses it before pouring a draft of Peroni. Holding two goblets, he fills them with an exact 8 ounces of wine. For me, the wine quickly became and stayed the Primitivo house wine. Vesuvio's imported directly their own choice of this varietal from the Apulia region of southern Italy.

The staff remember us. Instant recognition. Especially the bartender. If I order something different, he expresses encouraging surprise and a friendly comment about me branching out.

Sitting at the bar, we are provided entertainment. Watching the interaction of staff, the loud conversations at the tables are just a background buzz. The warm evening air is fighting its way past the air conditioning unit, reminding our backs that there is a world out there. The slow procession of cars crawling along the congestion of the newly popular Junction commercial strip. Kids waiting for a table getting hungrier by the nanosecond, asking when they can eat and telling parents what kind of pizza they want (nothing ever involving artichoke hearts or olives). Music, curated for boomers, coming from the speakers embedded in the ceiling unsuccessfully competes with the conversational buzz, at least between the hours of 6:30 and 8 pm. After that, the crowd thins.

Vesuvio wasn’t about high-end cuisine. No Michelin star would even be considered for this place. Don’t get me wrong; the food was good. The Pizza was unique in the neighbourhood for its crispy bottom crust. The food, pizza, pasta, and Caesar salads were about comfort and reliability, not winning awards - only repeat customers. It wasn’t always that way. We stopped going for a while in the 1990s because the quality wasn’t consistent. But something happened in the kitchen, and all was well with the world once again.

Vesuvio’s opened in 1957, the year I was born. It closed down permanently in April 2020 because they didn’t want to deal with the problems of operating during the COVID-19 pandemic. Hundreds lined up down the street for an entire weekend to get their last pizza.

Founded by the Pugliese family in the Junction neighbourhood, Vesuvio’s was named after a bakery in New York City where Dominic Pugliese learned how to make the unique New York-style pizza. The restaurant had two sections - the takeout and the dining room. The dining room remained open until 1984. The Junction was alcohol-free, and they couldn’t make a go of the seating. Also, the neighbourhood was dying. Stores were closing, and after dark, the sidewalks belonged to prostitutes and drug dealers. But the take-out continued to thrive. Enough to pay the mortgage on the entire building. For almost two decades, the restaurant partnered with other business owners to fight the dry designation until it was finally abolished in 2000, and Vesuvio’s reopened the dining room.

The last bite has been taken, and the lattes ordered. There are some pizza slices left to be wrapped in tin foil for tomorrow’s lunch. Day-old pizza, mine cold, Anna’s heated up in the oven. The flavours evolve overnight in the fridge. Some were more intense, and some faded.

I'd signal for the bill, a quick flick of my left wrist over the open palm of my right hand. A universal wordless sign of its time to move on. It was also here that I would learn that asking for the bill wouldn't guarantee a fast transaction. Servers would go off to serve others because they know they can't earn anything more from you. It was here that I first mouthed the short phrase that galvanizes even the weariest server. “I'd like to give you some money.” We once again share the same chuckle over my closing witticism, grab our leftovers, say our goodbyes and, refreshed, revived, and reconnected, head back along Dundas in the setting sun towards home.