Several years ago, my car service driver told me about a “secret” Italian restaurant in Harriman, while en route to the airport. 

“A secret?  How strange,”  I thought, but Al talked of handmade pasta, homemade sauce… real, old-world Italian food. 

After my trip, this mysterious restaurant haunted me.  I drove all through Harriman looking for it; and after some searching; I found it.  Only, it was closed.   The tiny restaurant lived in an old brownstone on what was once the center of a now defunct town, across from a corner store.   Someone hand-painted the name Angelos  on the window that I peered through.  I could see a handful of tables… maybe six.

Well, the restaurant did not have a phone book listing, and each time I drove past it, it was closed.  For years now, I have tried to dine at the elusive Angelos, to no avail.  

Yesterday, my brother and I drove past it and found the door open.  It seemed that they have expanded to include the building next door to their original location, offering 12 tables, instead of six.  We walked into the empty restaurant and called out.

“Hello?  Is anyone here?”

No one answered.  We walked out and tried the second door.  It was locked.  Determined, we re-entered the first door.

“Hello?” we called.

This time, someone answered. 

“What time do you open?” I asked.

“4:30, madam,” the man answered in a thickaccent.  “But you need a reservation.”

“Can I make a reservation with you?” I asked, hopefully.

“Yes, I will give your information to the owner, and he will call you to confirm.”

We brokered a reservation for 5:00pm on Sunday (today).

My brother returned to Brooklyn that night.  I asked my friend Ronnie if he wanted to try out the secret restaurant with me.  Intrigued, he agreed.

Ronnie and I met in town, near a local bar.  He followed me up the less-traveled road into the old village of Harriman.  Well, we entered the small restaurant with pretty glass lamps and a bar alongside the kitchen wall.  A sweet young woman that we took to be the owner’s daughter, Nicole, greeted us and invited us to sit wherever we liked.

I watched another patron, sitting across from us sitting alone.  He drank wine with his dinner that looked like a bottle he brought with him and thought,  “Wow, I should have brought a bottle of wine for us too.”

The menu reminded me of the Italian restaurants that I grew up with in Brooklyn…  Baked clams, mussels in red sauce, seafood fra Diablo, chicken cacciatore, chicken parmesan… the list went on.  I can’t quite explain the subtle differences between a real, local Italian restaurant that caters to Italians and the millions of homogenized “Italian” restaurants around this country, but when you find the real thing, you can immediately tell the difference.

First, they brought us toasted semolina bread and a tray with olive oil, olives and red pepper tapenade.  



Next, Nicole told us the soup and fish specials; which were a white bean soup with slivers of sopprasata and a tilapia poached in lobster broth.

I had to try the soup…  I envisioned the cannelloni bean soup with escarole and miniscule pork meatballs.  However, I received something totally different and delicious.  The thick soup consisted of large white beans with slivers of spicy sausage.  If I were to guess…. I think they made the broth by pureeing half the beans and garlic together with chicken stock, and returning the other half of the beans to the thickened broth.  They brought me a huge bowl.



Meanwhile, Ronnie tried the eggplant Rollatini appetizer.  They brought him a thin strip of fried eggplant rolled around a mound of fresh ricotta cheese, topped with deep red tomato sauce and melted mozzarella cheese.  It reminded me of Sunday supper at my friend Rosemary’s grandmother’s house as a child.



After seeing the huge soup portion, I knew that I should bring most of it home because the rest of our meal would be equally as large.  Ronnie and I chatted with the handsome, young server.  I noticed his accent and asked him where he was from.

He told us that he came from Latvia, but speaks four languages, Latvian, Ukrainian, English and Russian... as well as a bit of German.  I was very impressed, considering I struggle with French.  

Ronnie ordered the chicken cacciatore, which reminded him of his grandmother’s cooking.


I ordered the gnocchi bolognaise.  The homemade potato gnocchi were plump and light, while the sauce had the right mix of ground pork, tomato and oregano.  They topped the dish with some of the fresh ricotta, which really made the meal.  



After taking my photos of our entrees, Ronnie asked me, “Does anyone ever ask you why you take pictures of your food?”

“Not really, most people don’t ask, they just let me be,” I shrugged.

Not two minutes later, the young server came out and joked  “All our food is served with copyright protection.”
Ronnie and I laughed.
Nicole came over and asked.  “Why do you take pictures of your food?” 

I, of course, explained my devotion to you, my dear blog readers.

Ronnie and I both brought half our entrees home.  The portions were enormous.  The food, delicious.  

I wanted to try their zeppolis with cannoli cream, but I literally could not eat another bite.  

The secret restaurant turned out to be a success!  The people were friendly and fun, the food was fantastic, and the price, right.  I will not wait years to visit Angelo’s again!  I am already planning my next reservation.