Rosa's death ended Tony's era

The restaurant was always called Tony's, but for 30 years, the face behind the counter, which watched the ravioli boil and shrimp sizzle and beamed at neighbors and their children and their children's children, was that of Rosa DePasquale.

So when Rosa died of cancer at 83 in June, a neighborhood institution went with her, a time capsule of mid-century, Italian-American culture, shuttered forever behind her mint-green, padlocked grate. The building at 329 Sumner St. in which Rosa cooked and lived is now for sale, having passed in a head-spinning fashion from the estate of Rosa's deceased husband, Tony, to Ronald DePasquale (who also passed away unexpectedly in July) -- Tony's son from his first marriage -- to Tony's first wife, Teresa Catina, who, at 91, still styles hair just two doors away.

Catina had at least one offer from a couple who want to live upstairs and cook downstairs, just like Rosa, realtor Anthony Giacalone said. But, at less than the $389,000 asking price, it may not fly. No matter what happens, Rosa's death is the end of an era, he said.

"People treated her as an anchor in the neighborhood," Giacalone said. "She basically made time stand still. Here she was, the curator of the Italian-American museum of East Boston."

Tony's sign, with its oversized spoon, is gone, along with most of Rosa's things. But on the 55-year-old restaurant's wood-paneled walls, remnants remain -- the rows of dusty ties that Tony snipped off diners who couldn't clean their plates. (Governor Francis Sargent's tie still hangs as a testament to his insufficient appetite.)

Gone are the pictures of the rich, famous, and connected: Connie Francis, the Kennedys, the pope. But there are still school and wedding pictures. There is Tony, cooking. And a younger Rosa, smiling with guests. Postcards are sprinkled about, bearing loving messages from the self-selected family of a woman who never had her own children. "I think she lived vicariously through her customers," Giacalone said.

With boxes of ravioli still in the fridge and glasses stacked on the counter, it seems Rosa could materialize any minute, bearing plates of shrimp scampi and jugs of red wine. (With no menus, Tony's customers ate what was cooking.)

But the kitchen has been cold since January, when Rosa fell and was taken to the hospital. She wound up in a Chelsea nursing home, where she died June 1. Julie McHugh II, who owns the Sharper Canine & Devine Feline next door, remembers Rosa was furious when she called 911, despite an alarming head wound. "She did not want an ambulance to come," McHugh said. "How embarrassing!"

Rosa was feisty, proud, and strong, her friends said. "She was moody at times. But who isn't?" Catina said. Catina sometimes helped Rosa in the restaurant. "Everybody couldn't understand the relationship," she acknowledged. "I felt bad for her. She came from Italy. She had no family."

Rosa came to Boston from Naples in 1968 to marry Tony in an arranged marriage. She was 45 and spoke little English. Nine years later, Tony died of cancer. "But the way she talked about him, you'd think they were married a lifetime," said her niece, Teresa Shutters. Indeed, Rosa told the Globe in 1997, "I miss very much my husband. I want to kill my pain in my work."

She ran Tony's alone, working 12-hour days as hostess, waitress, cook, bus person, and dishwasher. Her only change was to remove the bras from the walls -- bras Tony snipped off light-eating women. Shutters said her aunt was humble and gave Tony all the credit. "I know it was his name," Shutters said, "but it was hers."

Shutters always wanted "Zia Rosa" to live with her mother, who died in 2005, in Maryland. But she refused. "She was a very determined person, a heart of gold, but very set in her ways," said Shutters, who spent her childhood summers in Boston, along with her brothers, Andrew and Victor. "I think she was happy being her own boss, being in control of her life, with no one to answer to."

Rosa was buried next to her sister, Lucia, in La Plata, Md. She had a wake, two funeral Masses -- one at Our Lady of Assumption Church in Eastie and one in Maryland -- and a memorial luncheon at Spinelli's. Her neighbors say the street isn't the same. "We don't get to see the grates open in the morning and see her sitting outside," said Maria Gnerre, 25, whose family owns A&L Bakery across the street.

Rita Gnerre, 56, said Rosa became part of her family after A&L Bakery was opened three decades ago. "She was like a mother to me, because my family is in Italy, too. She came in the store, this little, tiny old lady dressed in all black."

After Rosa died, and as Shutters and her husband cleaned out the restaurant, she began to truly grasp the immensity of the neighborhood's affection for her aunt. "People would come by and say, 'Could I please just have a plate?' That's how she touched people."