Meet the ultimate handmade meatball

A devotion bordering on the sacred can attach to a properly made (or perhaps

familiarly

made) meatball, its specific dimensions and manner of browning, its tenderness and level of grated cheese signaling that, for a moment at least, one thing can be relied on to be what it is supposed to be in this world.

This is not the case, of course, with so-called novelty meatballs, stuffed with feta or pine nuts or composed of exotic meat. It is the unwavering character of a meatball that is its chief asset - character and predictability and consistency.

Nowhere is this cultish attachment stronger than in the precincts bordering South Ninth Street. So it is no wonder that among the denizens of these once solidly Italian neighborhoods (and emigres therefrom) a poster in a storefront two cheese shops north of Villa di Roma has been the cause of no small amount of attention.

"Gravy, meatballs and more!" it announces. And sometime at the end of August, more likely in September, that is exactly what will flow from the long-vacant space, a storeroom for years for the nearby restaurant that is fitting it out into a new production kitchen (with a small retail counter).

The restaurant is Villa di Roma, the old-school red gravy house the DeLuca family has run in the Italian Market since 1963. It has a problem: Every single meatball (and all the red gravy) is made each morning on the butcher-block counter in its compact kitchen, which dictates that cooking for lunch cannot progress until the meatball-making concludes.

The meatball-making is the province of one man and only one, Basil DeLuca, 56, the middle of the three sons of Domenic ("Kaiser") and Carmela, Villa di Roma's founders. Basil does not merely oversee the meatballs; he hand-forms each one - up to 400 a week - singularly and painstakingly and possessively at that counter.

They have become beloved meatballs. And while cooking may not have been the life Basil would have chosen if his father had not mandated it, he is proud of these meatballs - made to the precise standards of his tutor, Uncle Sammy - and of the following they now have.

Each morning before sunrise, he makes his great pots of gravy from cans of Saporito tomatoes, oil, fresh parsley, garlic, and chopped onion for sweetener (but no oregano; oregano goes in the marinara, not the gravy).

Then, to 10-pound batches of ground beef from nearby Esposito's Meats, he adds bread crumbs, grated Pecorino Romano, a dozen eggs, garlic, and chopped parsley, folding them in by hand, and portioning out rough balls. (When his brother Frank takes over on the rare days Basil is off, he adds the meat last, into the other ingredients.)

Then one by one, Basil cups each generous ball in the palm of his hand, flicking it around like he's holding dice, tightening it lightly with his thumbs, pinching off a little, or adding a bit, finally rolling the balls (his hands slicked with oil) until they are as smooth and glistening as pool balls, but not too dense.

They sit like marbles in a ring, awaiting the next step - frying in a big skillet of blended oil, Basil flipping each one with two spoons, pressing them lightly on top (so they don't get pointy), kicking up froth until with 16 frying, the skillet appears ready to foam over. (Some cooks bake. Basil fries, giving the meatballs a browned crust but a still-tender interior, flavored by its long bath in the bubbling gravy.)

They are straightforward, all-beef meatballs (no blend of pork and veal, as many home cooks swear by, no chicken stock or milk-soaked bread). But they are honest and homey, supremely comforting, always dependable, addictive: I sliced them two days running and had them on toasted, seeded rolls from Sarcone's with a few slices of Claudio's fresh mozzarella.

But, yes, they take time. And on Fridays and Saturdays when Villa di Roma offers lunch, it is always a scramble: Will Basil be cleared out in time? (Lunch, says oldest brother Pip, for Epiphany, begins at roughly noon or 12:30 - or, frankly, whenever it can.)

Thus the impetus for the kitchen down the block, the future domain of Basil DeLuca and his meatballs. It is nearly finished. But Basil is in no rush. After 20 years in one space, he wants to get acclimated before opening to the public.

Let them buy the gravy ($8 a quart) or his big meatballs ($3 each) at the bar at Villa di Roma if they can't wait. He is taking - as he always has - his time.

932 S. Ninth St.

215-592-1295EndText