On a Tuesday morning in late October, Carmen DiMaggio is already behind the counter at Sulmona Market by seven. She’s wrapping a half-pound of prosciutto di Parma for a woman who’s been coming in since the 1980s, and they’re having the same argument they always have — about whether the bresaola is better sliced thick or thin. Carmen says thin. She’s been saying thin for thirty years.
Sulmona sits on Salem Street in the North End, which is a neighborhood that trades heavily on its Italian identity but doesn’t always back it up. Sulmona backs it up. It’s a proper Italian salumeria and specialty grocery, the kind of place where the stock changes based on what came in from importers that week, not what looks good on a website. The shelves hold dried pastas, canned San Marzanos, hard-to-find Sicilian olive oils, aged balsamic that costs what aged balsamic should cost. The glass case up front runs the length of the counter and holds cured meats and cheeses that rotate with the season.
Carmen took over the shop from her uncle in the early 2000s after spending years watching him run it. She didn’t make dramatic changes. That’s the thing about Sulmona — its steadiness is the point. She kept the same suppliers, kept the same layout, kept the same policy of cutting everything to order. You won’t find pre-packaged anything in the deli case. If you want a quarter-pound of coppa, she cuts a quarter-pound of coppa. It takes four more minutes and it’s worth it.
The shop is small enough that there’s usually a line snaking past the pasta aisle on Saturday mornings, and the line moves at whatever pace Carmen decides it moves. Nobody complains. Regulars know to come early in the week if they want the good stuff — the house-made fresh mozzarella goes fast, and once it’s gone, it’s gone until the next batch. She makes it herself, or has it brought in from a local dairy she’s worked with for years, depending on the week. Either way, it’s the right texture: soft and wet, not squeaky, not rubbery.
Prices are fair for what you’re getting. A pound of imported Parmigiano-Reggiano runs around fourteen dollars, which is honest given the quality. A small container of fresh mozz is six or seven dollars. Sandwiches, which Carmen started doing more seriously a few years back, run eight to eleven — prosciutto and fresh mozz on a roll from the bakery up the street, or mortadella with provolone and a little olive spread. Nothing fancy. Very good.
What she talks about most, if you get her going, is sourcing. She spent two weeks in Abruzzo the summer before last visiting producers she’s worked with for years. She came back with contacts for a new pecorino she’d been chasing for a while and a story about a ninety-year-old woman in a hill town who still makes guanciale by hand. The guanciale showed up on the shelf three months later. It sold out in a week.
There are newer, glossier Italian markets in the Boston area now. Some of them are very good. But Sulmona is what a neighborhood shop is supposed to be — specific, a little worn around the edges, and run by someone who knows exactly what she’s doing and isn’t particularly interested in your opinion about it. That’s not a complaint. That’s the whole reason to go.
