Capri wasn't just a pizzeria it was our family's foundation before we even knew we were building something.

It's where our parents met.
Where our grandma wiped tables.
Where our siblings came for free food and jukebox songs.
Where I spent 12 years working starting by bussing tables for arcade money and mozzarella sticks and where my Irish twin and I worked tag-team shifts like mind readers.

From 1979-2015, someone from "The Scroggy's" was on the schedule.

The last shift I worked, I was pregnant.
That baby? She's now running around the kitchen while I simmer sauce the same smells that raised me. I brought her back to Capri years later, back to the neon lights, the garlic knots, and the stories still stuck to the walls. 

This is where I learned:

- How to work

- How to lead

- How to laugh through chaos

- And how to love people with your sleeves rolled up

Rocco, the owner, was a second father in a Yankees tee. His dad founded the place, and Rocco ran it with heart, broken English, and a deeply offensive sense of humor that only made sense in that kitchen. When I was pregnant, he'd yell that I wouldn't fit through the double doors and tell me to "go play in traffic" (his way of saying I love you, you drive me nuts).

Todd, the manager, has known me since birth. He found me when my house burned down, helped me through my parents' divorce, and tried to sneak my dad's calls past me when I was being stubborn. He never stopped giving me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. If you're in Lake George Village, go to Capri Pizzeria between 5 PM-12 AM. Buy a slice, take a picture with Todd at the counter, and I'll give you 50% off your next sub because anyone who makes him smile deserves a reward.

My best friend worked there too and just like the generation before us, my sister and I would argue about him like it was part of the job.

My (Baby) sister and business partner didn't work shifts but she always came in with Nico, ordering a white broccoli slice and letting him mix all the sodas at the fountain.

And my brother? He's in every corner of that place. The only boy. A carbon copy of our dad. We lost him too soon, but during his whole life, someone in our family was always on a Capri shift. I'll always hear him yelling for a pepperoni and bacon slice, or see him at the soda fountain mixing everything together.

Now? We're serving hot subs and scratch-made sides from a food truck in Austin but the spirit is pure Capri. Same sauce. Same sarcasm. Same love.

This is Hoagies & Boagies.