The Conos of Brooklyn

November 10, 1998

Many Brooklyn Italians Favor Cono as a Name for Their Sons

By CHARLES GASPARINO

Staff Reporter of THE WALL STREET JOURNAL

BROOKLYN, N.Y. -- Walk along Graham Avenue, past the salumerias and trattorias, and you'll run into plenty of guys with names like Anthony, Michael, Vincent and Paul. But here in Brooklyn's Williamsburg neighborhood, the most popular first name isn't one of the staples of Italian-American manhood. It's Cono, which means "cone" in English.

There might be more men named Cono in Williamsburg than in any other place on earth, outside Italy. There are delis, pizzerias and restaurants with Cono in their names. There's a Cono club, located in an old synagogue on Ainslie Street, the heart of the neighborhood's Cono population, and a Cono festival each fall.

"There are Conos all over the world, but this is the capital," says Cono Natale, owner of Cono & Son's O'Pescatore restaurant on Graham Avenue. "Every family has a Cono, maybe two," he says. "It's still going strong."

Mr. Natale named his oldest son Cono. His recently married daughter, Anna Maria Natale-Darienzo, age 27, says she plans to keep the tradition going by naming at least one of her children Cono, "even if it's a middle name," she says. "When you hear the name Cono, you think, 'Where did he get such an odd name?' But then you remember the connection."

That connection is the medieval mountain town of Teggiano in southern Italy, the legendary birthplace of the first Cono. According to local lore, Cono was born around 1100, became a Benedictine monk and went on to perform numerous miracles. A 100-foot monument and statue of St. Cono, his head crowned with a golden halo, stands proudly in the town's piazza.

Some of his remains, embedded in a statue of a sleeping Cono, are in the church of Santa Maria Maggiore. Generations of Teggianese boys were named Cono, and the name spread as Teggianesi, fleeing the poverty of southern Italy's Mezzogiorno region, settled in Argentina, Brazil, Uruguay and, of course, in Brooklyn.

Williamsburg, a quiet working-class neighborhood of neat row houses and backyard gardens, became a favorite destination, a place where immigrants spoke southern Italian dialect and where the old customs -- food and family and devotion to the Catholic Church -- were always present.

"The name is particular to this neighborhood because of the devotion to St. Cono," says Msgr. David Cassato, of Our Lady of Mount Carmel Church. Msgr. Cassato says there are 100 to 150 men with the first name Cono living in the neighborhood. But the Cono population is even larger when you count middle names and confirmation names.

It isn't easy keeping track of all the Conos in Williamsburg. Locals like to say there are more Conos here than in Teggiano. On Graham Avenue, across the street from Mr. Natale's popular fish place, there's S. (for Saint) Cono's Pizzeria. Down the block, Cono D'Alto runs a popular salumeria -- or delicatessen -- which offers some of the freshest pasta and homemade mozzarella around. A few storefronts down, Cono Colombo and his wife, Maria, run La Locanda, a trattoria specializing in homemade cavatelli -- a shell-shaped pasta made from ricotta.

"Sometimes you get a whole bunch of Conos together and someone says, 'Hey, Cono!' and everyone turns around," Mr. D'Alto says. Customers often get confused between Mr. D'Alto's deli and Mr. Natale's restaurant. "My friend Cono [Natale] is always calling complaining that my customers call him for orders," Mr. D'Alto says.

Over the years, the Conos have come up with ways to differentiate themselves: An elderly Cono would be called "Conucio," (pronounced co-NOOCH-ee-o). A youthful Cono is affectionately called "Conocino" (co-noo-CHI-no), or little Cono, to distinguish him from his father or grandfather.

Mr. Natale concedes that it isn't easy being Cono. For years he has tried, without success, to get the state to correct a misspelling on his driver's license; it calls him "Como" instead of "Cono." "I tried a couple of times to get it changed, but it still came out Como," he says.

The confusion can get a bit more serious. Mr. Natale's son, Cono Natale Jr., recalls one time when he was pulled over by the police because, they said, he had several outstanding tickets. Turns out, however, they weren't after him -- it was his cousin Cono they wanted. "I had to go to court to straighten it out," Mr. Natale says. "It wasn't easy." In another instance, yet another cousin named Cono was served with divorce papers from the younger Mr. Natale's wife. "The process server probably thought, 'Hey, both these guys are Italian, they look alike, and how many Conos can there be in the world?' " Mr. Natale says.

The San Cono di Teggiano Catholic Association -- or the Cono club, as it is known in the neighborhood -- is most certainly the center of Cono activity. Members meet in the hall to play cards, drink espresso and reminisce. Every year, in late September, the club meets to celebrate the birthday of San (Italian for Saint) Cono, serving food native to Teggiano-fresh cavatelli with broccoli rabe sauteed in olive oil, and zeppole, fried dough covered with powdered sugar.

In 1997, the club, which has about 140 members, arranged for the statue of the sleeping Cono -- 800-year-old bones and all -- to be flown to Brooklyn. A police escort led the bones and 75 of Cono's followers -- including the mayor of Teggiano -- back from Kennedy International Airport to the Cono hall on Ainslie Street. Old women guarded the statueday and night, until the celebration was over. "It was like the president was here," Ms. Colombo says.

The statue was safely returned, with many thanks, to Teggiano, with its 14 churches and five convents in the center of town. Mayor Angelo Mario Giffoni says that of the city's 8,600 inhabitants, 1,500 men have the name Cono. Mr. Giffoni, who named his son Cono, says Teggianesi believe St. Cono protects them from earthquakes, and they "even write poems about" him.

The man in whom they place their faith was born in Teggiano (it was then called Diano) near the end of the 12th century to an elderly couple who thought they were sterile, regarded the child as a gift from God and named him Cono after receiving some form of divine indication. Why "Cono"? Some say the child's head was shaped like a cone. The cone-head, so to speak, was a "symbol of perfection," representing the Holy Trinity.

The young Cono ran away from home and became a Benedictine monk -- against the wishes of his parents, who wanted their only son to marry, have children and carry on the family name. His parents ultimately gave up on their conventional ambitions for their child when they witnessed him praying, unscathed, in a burning oven.

The rest is history, or legend at the very least. Cono went on to perform miracles -- by some accounts, he saved the town of Teggiano from invaders by catching a cannonball in his bare hands. He died when he was 18, but he continued to protect his flock with miracles -- and the name of Cono spread. The Teggianese credit Cono with protecting them from Allied bombs during World War II. Cono is also believed to have healed the sick.

There's only one problem: St. Cono of Teggiano actually may not be a saint. At least not according to the Vatican, which says it "tolerates" him but that there are no records showing he was canonized. Msgr. Robert Sarno, in the Vatican's Congregation for the Causes of the Saints, in Rome, explains: "In a lot of local towns, people have their holy people, and they are called saints. No one is going to go back and investigate something from the 11th or 12th century. ... They've been tolerated -- that's all."

But in Williamsburg, there's really no debate about St. Cono -- though the various Conos have a lot to say about living with this unusual name. "When I first came here, [Americans] couldn't make heads or tails out of my name -- they didn't know if it was my last name, or what," says Mr. D'Alto, 51, who arrived in the U.S. in 1957, when he was nine, and now owns Mamma Maria Salumeria on Graham Avenue. "They made me almost paranoid."

Cono Namorato, 56, says one of his Williamsburg elementary-school teachers recommended to his mother that she change his name from Cono to Conrad. "Back then, we had a lot of old-time Irish teachers who were concerned that I couldn't go into the business world with a name like Cono." His mother politely declined, choosing to take her chances on Cono.

Mr. Namorato, who went on to become an investigator for the Justice Department, and who now is one of the nation's top tax attorneys, says his name has become one of his "biggest assets" in attracting clients. "I get referrals from all over the country," he says. "They don't know how to spell my name, but they know the guy named Cono who does tax work."

But Rocco Manzolillo, president of the Cono club, fears the name is dying out as young Italian-Americans give up the old ways. When Mr. D'Alto recently asked his 20-something cousin what he was going to name his newborn son, Cono wasn't at the top of his list. "He said, 'I don't like the name,' " Mr. D'Alto recalls. "He's going to regret it."

Cono Natale Jr., 33, says he isn't sure whether he will hand the name down to his son. It was difficult venturing outside the friendly confines of Williamsburg with a name like Cono. "You should know what I went through," Cono Jr. says. Seated with his father one afternoon at the restaurant, beneath a picture of their beloved Teggiano, he recalls some of the gibes he took because of his name -- some people "would call you Cano, some would call you Conrad. Would I want my son to go through that? I don't know." To which his father replies: "You better name your son Cono."