Friday, June 13, 2025
Pietro’s was months from closing when my dad called me in 2022. He had been struggling with cancer, and keeping the restaurant going had become too much. The fact that he called me—last minute, out of the blue—even though I had a full-time career at the time, told me everything. He was giving it one last shot. A final ditch effort to keep the place alive, even as the rest of the family was ready to say goodbye to the late-night phone calls, the emergency repairs, the never-ending pull of a business that consumes your time, your energy, your heart.
This week, when Domenico’s in Levittown announced they were closing after 58 years, it hit me hard. Another beloved Long Island institution, gone. I didn’t know the family personally, but I can imagine what that moment felt like, because I saw it happening in real time with my own parents. They were so close to pulling that trigger. I watched the heartbreak build, the pressure mount and how heavy that kind of goodbye can feel when you’ve given everything to a place.
It reminded me how close we came to losing Pietro’s and how many neighborhood spots just like ours are quietly slipping away. Not because the love isn’t there. But because when the numbers no longer work, no amount of love can save you.
Sometimes, the next generation isn’t interested.
Sometimes, there is no next generation.
Sometimes, the numbers just don’t add up—no matter how much love is behind the counter.
And sometimes, the family has simply given all they can.
After decades of pouring everything into one place, they just want to close the chapter with peace, knowing they created lifelong memories, brought comfort through food and provided steady jobs that supported other families for years.
And every now and then, someone comes along who says, “Not yet.”
The Beautiful Chaos of the Restaurant World
To most guests, restaurants are places to relax—whether it’s celebrating a birthday, grabbing a quick slice or lingering over wine. But on the other side of the dining room doors, it’s a different world: one of nonstop pressure, personal sacrifice and behind-the-scenes chaos. I live that reality at Pietro’s every single day.
Managing a restaurant means managing personalities, emotions and lives—often all at once.
People are the hardest part.
I’ve had employees walk out mid-shift, leaving the team scrambling. Others disappeared into substance-abuse spirals or stole cash or food—even after we treated them like family. But when it does work—when someone becomes part of the crew—it’s magic.
And then there’s everything else:
Slip-and-fall suits—some real, some not—that cost thousands just to defend.
Renovations tangled in red tape.
Permits delayed without warning, stalling progress and piling on costs you never budgeted for.
All of it lands on your shoulders—and none of it comes with a manual.
Margins and Hidden Costs
Margins? Razor-thin.
Marketing, photographers, video, influencers—all costly. Third-party delivery apps take up to 30% of each order. We offer our own in-house delivery, but many customers default to the apps, so we’re stuck participating—even when it cuts deep.
Hidden costs lurk everywhere: plates and glasses that break weekly, linens that need constant laundering and electric bills that soar just to keep our outdoor igloos comfortable. Tables scratch, chairs loosen and décor wears down faster than most people realize.
Even the paper menus cost a fortune—especially the ones we reprint constantly to feature new specials. Uniforms for staff have to be cleaned, replaced and restocked. We absorb credit card fees that most restaurants now pass on to customers. And Point-Of-Sale systems? They charge us monthly just to keep our business running.
We hire professional cleaners every single night to keep the space spotless. We update menus, lighting, seasonal displays and the overall vibe because guests want more than food. They want to feel something. And honestly, so do I.
Then there’s the cost of staffing. Training takes hours—sometimes days—only to find out someone isn’t cut out for the pace, or calls out so often we’re back to square one. It’s a cycle that costs more than time. And it never stops.
The Personal Cost of a Life in Hospitality
Running a restaurant isn’t a job—it’s a lifestyle. My husband and I have four kids, which means long nights, early mornings and missed milestones. School concerts, birthday parties, bedtime stories—all sacrificed while I tried to keep things afloat: managing schedules, customer issues and a flood of emails. Meanwhile, my husband was busy fixing ovens, refrigeration units, walk-ins, leaks, whatever chose to break that day.
We built something people love—but not without cost.
My kids know when I’m not fully present. They see it in my eyes—those moments when I’m sitting right next to them, but deeply focused on my phone, replying to a customer or helping a staff member fix something that just can’t wait. Even on vacation, we’re still troubleshooting from afar. I’ll never forget the time my husband was FaceTiming an electrician from the beach, walking him through a repair in real time. That’s what this life demands.
As Pietro’s grew, some friends and relatives felt left behind. From the outside, success looked easy. Inside, it was sleepless nights, financial risks that made us sweat and doubts that crept in at 3 a.m.
Reviews and Feedback Culture
I read—and answer—every single review. Maybe it’s obsessive, but to me, criticism is gold. Fix one problem and you prevent a dozen more. Compliments fuel me; complaints sharpen me. That’s who I am.
But I wish more people would come to us first.
Sometimes, it’s something small—a slightly burnt slice, a missing side of dressing—and before we even know there was an issue, it’s already online, telling others not to come. One bad review becomes a snowball, and suddenly, a place built on decades of hard work is being torn apart in a matter of hours.
Once, someone posted that our pizzas had gotten smaller. The photo they shared showed one unusually small slice—because the pie hadn’t been cut evenly. But that just meant another slice was bigger. Still, the post spread quickly and suddenly I was being called a greedy owner. It was heart-wrenching. I ended up writing a post explaining the truth—not because I needed to be right, but because I needed people to know how much I care.
I reach out. I try to fix it. And 90% of the time, we make it right. But sometimes, it’s already too late. We take accountability seriously—but we can’t fix what we don’t know.
The Love, the Legacy, the Real Magic
Here’s the irony: people are both the hardest part of the industry—and the very best part.
It’s the customer who tells me they sat in the front booth 40 years ago with their grandparents and now bring their own grandkids. It’s the couple who orders the exact same meal every Tuesday afternoon, without fail. It’s the longtime guest who starts coming in alone because their spouse passed—and we cry together, quietly, over the memories. It’s the guest who grabs my hand and says, “I’m proud of you,” and I tear up right there in the dining room.
Pietro’s isn’t just a restaurant. It’s a love story—told through sesame-seed crust pizza, first dates that turn into anniversaries and strangers who become family. That’s the real magic. That’s what makes all of it worth it.
Why It Matters
This business takes everything from you—but if you let it, it gives everything back. When a family-owned restaurant closes, we don’t just lose a place to eat. We lose a chapter of the community’s story.
And here’s what most people don’t realize: from the outside, restaurants can still look busy—especially on weekends. But the truth is, weekday dining has dropped off a cliff. Families are eating at home to save money, skipping the midweek meals that used to keep us going. But restaurants can’t survive on weekends alone. We need that steady, everyday support to keep the lights on, the staff working and the heart of the business beating.
So the next time you sit down in a neighborhood spot—whether it’s Pietro’s, Domenico’s or another local legend—remember:
Behind every plate is a story.
A legacy.
A dream.
You may think you’re just going out to eat. But to us, every visit is a piece of our story, too.
Even if I’m not always at the front door, I’m still here—behind the scenes, giving it everything I’ve got. So take the pictures. Make the memories. And know that every bite, every moment, is part of something bigger.
To learn more about Pietro’s, visit https://pietros-pizza.com.
