The Hill feels like a neighborhood with one foot planted firmly in the old world and the other steadily marching forward. St. Louis is often described as a city of neighborhoods, and nowhere did that feel more true than here — a pocket of narrow streets, brick homes, and family-owned businesses that feel as though they’ve been here forever.
We wandered through the delis first, taking in the shelves crammed with imported olive oils, jars of marinated artichokes, and cans of San Marzano tomatoes. The scent alone was intoxicating — the mingling of fresh bread, sharp cheese, and cured meats filling the air like a siren song. I could have stood in those shops all day, tracing my fingers across packages stamped with Italian script, some brands unfamiliar, others familiar but somehow more authentic here.
The grocery stores were equally enchanting — bags of dried pasta in a dozen shapes I’d never seen before, bundles of fresh herbs stacked in crates, and walls lined with enough jars of red sauce to build a fortress. But the sausages — my god, the sausages — were the crown jewel. Coiled ropes of fresh Italian sausage, links packed so tightly they seemed ready to burst, and spicy varieties that promised to leave a lingering heat.
And the sweets! Staring into the bakery cases felt like stepping into a dream. Rows of butter cookies dusted with powdered sugar, delicate pastries piped with rich cream, and biscotti that seemed sturdy enough to crack the mug they were destined to be dunked in. I don’t know how many I tried — enough to risk slipping into a sugar coma — but I regret nothing.
The food alone would have been enough to win me over, but what lingered with me most was the sense of history. The Hill has a heartbeat that stretches back generations, a place where names and traditions are passed down like family heirlooms. Baseball’s own Yogi Berra grew up here, and I couldn't help but imagine him as a boy — maybe sneaking bites of fresh sausage from a butcher’s counter or chasing a ball down one of these quiet streets.
I thought of Berra’s famous quip: "When you come to a fork in the road, take it." The Hill feels like one of those roads — a path that leads to something rich, vibrant, and deeply rooted. We took the fork, and I’m glad we did.