Tim C.
Yelp
Here's the thing about hidden treasures - sometimes they hide in plain sight. Tony's Colonial isn't some trendy pizzeria with a neon sign and a waitlist. It's a 72-year-old salumeria, one of those timeless Italian deli-markets where tradition isn't just a word they throw around on the menu. Most folks hunting for the best type of a style of pizza in Providence would cruise right past it, their Yelp searches missing this corner of culinary heaven entirely. Their loss.
And this corner of Atwells is one of those places that matters, where time and tradition were never sacrificed on the altar of convenience. Tony's Colonial sits there with its brick face and that confident green awning, holding its position like an old boxer who still knows how to take a punch and dish it out.
The surrounding neighborhood might change, but Tony's stands firm, a cornerstone in a world that's forgotten how to slow down. Step inside, and you're somewhere else entirely - somewhere better.
The ceiling stops you first. Colanders in riots of color hang there like some kind of hardware store constellation, each one catching light and throwing shadows, creating this accidental masterpiece that no designer could have dreamed up. It's the kind of touch that only happens in places where function and time collide, creating their peculiar poetry. Some interior decorator would probably call it "kitschy," but they'd be missing the point entirely.
The deli counter stretches into forever, a museum of meats, where they slice the prosciutto so thin it practically dissolves on the paper. Behind the glass, it's a geography lesson in Italian abundance. Olives swimming in oil and herbs, cheese that's been aging since before your kid was born, salami that brings you right back to Sunday afternoons, newspaper on the table, and vinegar peppers in oil. And your grandfather telling you for the hundredth time that they don't make it like this anymore... Turns out he was right.
That prepared foods section... a Renaissance still life come to life, in colors that would make an expressionist painter weep with pride. The negotiations here are serious business: "No, no, a little more. No, a little less. Perfect. Actually..."
The place moves like a tarantella - people weaving between shelves stacked with the kinds of pasta and cookies that taste like fond memories. It's a symphony of commerce and conversation that's been playing on repeat since before anyone can remember.
Time does something different here. Minutes stretch and fold like somebody's nonna working dough, especially when you're hungry and the smell of that pizza is starting to drift over. Providence has changed - hell, everything's changed - but in here, you can still find something true. A place where food is memory and culture and family, all wrapped up in brown paper and tied with string.
Then they call your name across the store like a Sunday dinner bell. There it is - your tomato pie on a silver serving tray (foil-lined, because some traditions can respect the health code) that's been on hand since Saturday Night Fever played at the Elmwood Twin Theater. Here, at one of the four little tables wedged between the aisles, we're about to discover what made someone stake their reputation on this pie.
The crust holds the middle ground - not thin, not thick - except where it billows up around the edges into these beautifully puffed borders that beg to be torn into. There's a light crunch when you bite in, then this perfect chew. They've hit it with just enough olive oil to make it interesting without turning it greasy. It's a tasty crust and would be delicious all on its own.
But the sauce - this is where things get real. It's thick, herby, and unapologetically tomato-forward, with these little chunks that remind you that actual tomatoes died for this cause. Take the best Rhode Island pizza strip you've ever had, upgrade every ingredient to imported, top-shelf quality, then imagine it as a proper pie cut into six large, rectangular slices. This isn't really a pizza strip - this is a pizza strip's Ferrari-driving, Tuscan-villa-owning cousin who summers on the Amalfi Coast. That's what we're eating here. It's like someone finally cracked the code on how to elevate street food without losing its soul. This is party pizza that got its MBA but still remembers where it came from.
One enormous slice of lasagna and a half dozen meatballs sealed up in plastic containers later, I pause at the door. Emmanuelle and the Last Cannibals isn't playing on the other screen at the Elmwood Twin anymore. While DoorDash drivers circle the block and fast-casual spots down the street promise "authentic" from an iPad menu, everything here still runs on personal service and perfect timing. Outside feels a little too modern after that experience, a little too new.
But that's fine - I know where to find the real thing when I need it.
