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On a humid Friday night, two pretty German tourists walk slowly down Mulberry Street, surveying the thicket of eateries. They pause near Il Cortile, an upscale Italian spot just south of Canal Street. Codi Workman, the restaurant’s suave 27-year-old greeter, utters not a word.
Instead, his eyes twinkle and the corners of his mouth lift into a grin. The ladies linger over his menu board. After a few moments of intenso eye contact, the women settle on a table for two.
“Sometimes you don’t have to say that much,” Workman offers, with a satisfied shrug.
As if to illustrate his less-is-more approach, he notes, “I call myself the outside maitre d’. It sounds a little bit more classier.”
Indeed, the greeters — ahem, “outside maitre d’s” — of Little Italy are saying a lot less these days.
No more brash bargaining for curbside customers. No more sidewalk shouting about pasta, pecorino and puttanesca. Behold Little Italy’s new secret ingredient: a heaping plate of handsome charm — hold the hawking.
“If I start haggling, the prestige of this restaurant goes down,” says Workman, a dapper dresser who’s been working on the block since age 12, when he hauled produce for a family friend’s restaurant.
“I use the polite approach; I’m just here to give them guidance.”
He admits to trying — along with the rest of the nabe — more aggressive hawking tactics in the past. But he says the gruff style didn’t appeal to Il Cortile’s “classy” personality and longtime customer base.
Instead of boisterous bellowing, Little Italy’s sidewalk maestros now draw diners with their chiseled chins and natty wardrobes. “It does help in this business if you’re attractive,” acknowledges Workman.
On this caldo summer evening, he’s sporting suspenders and a carefully chosen purple tie. He pairs the look with an ultra-soft sell, inviting passersby to check out the entire neighborhood before settling on a supper spot.
That’s not to say Workman doesn’t delight in joking, flirting and dancing in the street with potential diners — but he keeps those moments high-charm rather than high-pressure. “I know when to turn it on and when to turn it off,” he says with a wink.
Ralph Tramontana, president of the Little Italy Merchants Association and owner of Sambuca’s Cafe, says the neighborhood’s crop of sidewalk greeters sprouted decades ago, when customers needed help deciphering “foreign” menus. “I used to sell cannolis during the San Gennaro Feast, and people used to call the cannolis ‘calamari,’ ” he recalls.
“New Yorkers have come a long way; they’re now very educated about Italian food.”
But the Sept. 11 attacks struck a devastating blow to the neighborhood, which saw a 40 percent loss in business the following year.
“Hawking was a way to compensate,” Tramontana says.
These days, the neighborhood is compensating for its bad rap as a tacky tourist trap full of aggressive hucksters vying for attention. In a study two years ago by the Little Italy Merchants Association, 60 percent of customers listed hawking as a reason they disliked the neighborhood. The association shared this data in meetings with neighborhood restaurants, asking owners to address the issue. Muting hawkers is part of an image overhaul — a makeover designed to lure locals back from the enticing arms of new upscale spots such as Eataly, the successful Italian market launched last summer in the Flatiron District.
“All the loud, pushy greeters were annoying, like eating dinner at a used-car dealership,” says 28-year-old TV producer Chelsea White, who frequents both Eataly and Little Italy. “I’m definitely more inclined to dine with a guy who’s playing hard to get, so I’m glad Little Italy has finally cracked that code of seduction.”
OK, so Mulberry’s cacophonous calls of “Bella, bella!” haven’t fallen totally silent, but the sidewalk come-ons now tend to be of a kinder, quieter variety.
“There’s no hawking people here anymore. It’s just welcoming them to your home in a gentle way,” says Salvatore Lima, 34, the fetching greeter at red-sauce eatery Giovanna’s. “I’m not for the pressure.”
Twenty-two-year-old Gianni Falino entices customers into the newly reopened Umberto’s Clam House in four languages: English, Italian, Spanish and German. But he doesn’t speak hawker.
“Always, I be charming my customers,” he boasts. But now he says it’s with an on-the-house sangria or a compliment about a woman’s dress rather than sidewalk auctioneer antics.
Nowhere is this curbside cultural revolution more evident than at sweets spot Sambuca’s, where cherub-cheeked Batim Spinelli mans the sidewalk.
“There’s not a night that goes by that some woman doesn’t try to take him home,” jokes owner Tramontana of his hunky hire.
Spinelli, a velvet-voiced 22-year-old from Calabria, Italy, says he prefers luring customers in for dessert by flirting rather than hard-sell hawking. “Especially the older women — they get excited when I ask for ID,” he notes.
So, does the new seductive soft-sell approach reel in more ladies or guys? “Oh, more women, for sure,” he says with a huge smile.
And those women aren’t complaining. Courtney Vilela, 33, an accountant from Minneapolis, sips a beer at the Mulberry Street Bar while explaining the difference between pushy hawkers and handsome charmers.
“Oh my God, the hot guy just standing there smiling is going to get me to eat dinner,” she says.
Swiss sisters Fabienne Roth, 20, and Valerie Roth, 22, from Geneva, agree. “They are very easy to look at,” says Fabienne, glancing back at the friendly, flirty guys lining Mulberry’s curbs.
“Yeah, this street is full of cool, cute guys,” giggles Roth.
Male customers, too, say they’re man enough to handle Little Italy’s new sidewalk charmers.
Dave Pentz, a 61-year-old property manager from Upland, Calif., and Bruce Erickson, a 60-year-old retired firefighter from San Clemente, Calif., appreciate the aesthetic appeal of fellows flirting for diners. “They look a hell of a lot better than we do!” says Pentz, sipping vino with Erickson at Positano Ristorante while their wives shopped for trinkets.
But the charms of Little Italy’s outdoor maitre d’s can’t win over everyone. Lauren Laviter, a harried 25-year-old mom visiting from Salt Lake City, says her epicurean decisions are more etymological than erotic. “I just read the names of the restaurants,” she says. “I didn’t even notice the men.”