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Arthur Avenue is not of this world. Turn the corner off Fordham Road in this less than wistful section of the Bronx, and behold a dreamy, movie-camera-ready urban block where trees grow uniformly, old folks walk well-lit streets hand in hand at night, and kids play basketball in the playground after dusk. What's the deal? Aren't the double-parked Cadillacs a big enough wink-wink? If you're still clueless, notice how everyone sitting family-style at Dominick's sounds . . . like family! No one chooses from a menu. Everyone screams out orders and gets heard. Nothing seems too much to ask of the waiter. You? You ask him if you can have menus. He walks away for a while. When he comes back, empty-handed, you ask if they have veal. He says yeah. You ask if you can have pasta. You get offered a couple of Ronzoni-box ideas. Don't ya get it yet? Think big. Tell the guy what you want. Like a seafood pasta loaded with a month's catch. Or enough stuffed veal to make you kinda sorry you laughed at those Sansabelt slacks. Hey, when in Rome—and all points south—open up your mouth. Dominick's will stick something in it. Something real good. — Hal Rubenstein