Valentina sat in her stroller in the corner; Leah at the bar, logging delivery orders. Giuseppe was by the oven, imported from Italy, methodically cooking one pizza at a time—a change from his usual rhythm of juggling five orders.
The occasional person stopped by. Carlo, who helps out on busy nights, came by to pick up a delivery. One longtime customer stopped by to escape the quarantine in his apartment. He dropped off a 6-pack of beer, chatting with Leah and Giuseppe about the likelihood of the world ending. Eventually, he picked up his two pizzas and headed back home. A couple sat by the bar as they waited for their order: the eponymous Dough Vale NYC pie, with fior di latte cheese, porchetta, and mushrooms. They both worked as servers in midtown and had been laid off.
COVID-19 hit the city like a slow-moving hurricane. We knew it was coming, but we were still in shock. Everything was uncertain. Everyone who came in talked about rumors swirling around: checks for every American, sales tax and rent relief for businesses, a quarantine that would last a year. I asked Giuseppe how he was dealing with the upturn. He looked up from stretching out dough.
“I take it day by day,” he told me. “Yesterday, I was walking to come over here, and I said to myself, is this a dream? Is this real?”
He put the pizza on a peel and slid it into the 700-degree oven.
“Today, I woke up, and told myself, okay. It is what it is. It’s bad, but I still have to do what I have to do. Tomorrow, I don’t know. I’m just going day by day.”
Around midnight, Leah put Valentina in her stroller and began the long journey back to Bensonhurst. Giuseppe stayed back. He was experimenting with a new bread recipe, which he thought he could start selling as a to-go option.
“Thank God I have people who love me, still coming over here for pick-up,” he said. “I wish I could kiss and hug every person.”