I’ve always admired the people who spend their Saturday mornings in an intense kickboxing class or doing downward facing dog in a 104ºF room. I’m not one of those people. My Saturday self care routine involves a one-mile stroll from my apartment in Brooklyn to Lella Alimentari.

Lella is a hybrid of a third-wave coffee shop and a teensy grocery store plucked off of a vicolo, or small alley, in Italy. The shelves are stocked with imported goods—cans of tomatoes, beautifully packaged olive oil, bags of dried pasta—while the walls look like something a nonna decorated, down to the children’s dolls. My friends refer to Lella as “ciao,” which is how the Tuscan baristas greet you as you breeze through the doors.