“You gonna make me look good? Okay. Come on, take your picture.” We’ve all seen it. In Little Italy, on the busiest restaurant street in the city, oysters and negroni bazaars all around it, a singular limoncello-yellow residence stands stubborn like the house from Up, with one distinct difference—the man on the porch.

From his perch, Nick Pecoraro sees much, but speaks little. Sunglasses on, pompadour combed back, sideburns long, he could be a character in a Scorsese movie. But his would likely not be a speaking part. He’s not big on conversation. If you’ve said hello, you may have gotten a nod, or, if you’re lucky, a sideways response in an Italian accent as thick as gelato.