Ova here?

I was surrounded by stereotypes while walking in New York’s little Italy last week. Short, pudgy, greasy haired Italian restaurant hosts outside every restaurant selling the virtues of their food while ending every sentence with “ova here”. “You gonna lova our pasta, it’s a like mama used to make. In fact, it's mama who’s making it. She’s ina the back, slaving over some handmade gnocci…..ova here” After such a heart wrenching sales pitch, I loved answering with complete disinterest. “No thanks,” I’d say and walk away. But they’d follow, throwing their arms in the air, proclaiming that I had insulted them by not looking at the menu. It was a strange feeling having a last name that has anything to do with what I saw and heard. They were begging for my money using demeanor and attitude that would be at home in a scene from Goodfellas. I was with three people who have no connection to Italy and I must say that I was a little embarrassed. Da vinci. Michaelangelo. Hell, Sophia Loren. For that night, they were all trumped by a guy name Vinnie who whores out his mom and his culture to sell spinach-filled ravioli. Ova here.