Giorgio is sitting in his family's italian café called 'Il Santo Bianco dell'Abate'. He is sitting in the back, and his bony white fingers fiddle with his thick round glasses. He sniffs up his nose and brings the freshly brewed Nespresso to his gaunt lips. He sips it slowly as he crosses over his skinny legs. With his small fork he takes a piece of the Cassata on his dainty plate and eats it.

Surrounding him is his family, the men. Some waiting tables, others doing transactions and doing home deliveries. Others are smoking and sitting around a table together playing cards. Most of them look better than the other new yorkers as they are true first-second gen italian-americans.

Giorgio feels the eyes of his big uncle on him who is putting a big Cavallucci for the pastries in the oven. The uncle, named Uncle Rocco raises his eyebrow, a big sturdy fat fellow with crows feet by his smile lines and a grey-black mustashe.

Uncle Rocco: "Giorgio, sei così silenzioso stamattina, eh?"