10/14/2026
ā¤ļø My Father, My Hero ā A Journey from Kosova to Grapevine, Texas
Iāve been sharing some memories of our familyās years at Amoreās, and today I want to tell you about the man who started it all.
My father. My Babi.
Some of you knew him very well. If you ever spent time at Amoreās during our familyās years there, thereās a good chance he stopped by your table, asked how everything was, and somehow ended up telling you a story. š
That was my dad.
He loved people. He loved conversations. And boy, did that man have some stories.
What many of you may not know is that we lost him this past January after his battle with Alzheimerās.
He was 83 years old.
Watching the man I grew up admiring, the man who was always my hero, slowly lose pieces of himself was one of the hardest things Iāve ever experienced.
But thatās not how I want him to be remembered.
I want to tell you about the incredible life he lived.
His story began in Kosova in 1942.
My father was born into a very different world. Life wasnāt easy, and when he was still a young boy, he lost his own father.
He never knew exactly how old he was when it happened, but he was still in grade school.
Imagine losing your father at that age, growing up with very little, and having to figure out how to make something of yourself.
As a young man, he eventually left Kosova in search of work and opportunity.
He spent time working in Slovenia before making his way to Italy, where he lived for several years.
Somewhere along that journey, through a remarkable series of encounters, he learned about a professor who was helping people obtain visas to countries like Canada, Australia, and the United States.
Iāve heard that story so many times over the years, and itās one I wish I had recorded him telling.
But somehow, against some pretty incredible odds, he found his way to America.
In 1968, at just 26 years old, my father arrived in the United States.
A young Albanian man from Kosova, thousands of miles from home, ready to start an entirely new life.
He settled in New Jersey and worked incredibly hard.
Over the years, he built a career in the restaurant business, working at some wonderful establishments in the area.
He worked in kitchens, managed restaurants, and spent many years behind the bar.
And honestly, I think bartending was his favorite.
Not because of the drinks, but because of the people. š
My father could talk to absolutely anyone. He had this incredible ability to make strangers feel like old friends.
He worked at restaurants like Villa Clasico, Magic Pan, Houlihanās and later Bellissimoās, which had a cigar bar and attracted everyone from businesspeople and politicians to professional athletes and entertainers.
He had stories about serving Yankees players, Mets players, New York Rangers, actors, and soap opera stars.
He talked about people like Yogi Berra and Paul OāNeill, which, as a Yankees fan growing up, I always thought was the coolest thing in the world.
But what I remember most wasnāt necessarily who he served.
It was how much he enjoyed telling me about the people he met.
He genuinely loved his work.
Along the way, he returned to Kosovo, married my mother, and together they built a family and a life in New Jersey.
We lived in a beautiful little town called Ringwood. I have so many wonderful memories of growing up there.
But by the late 1990s, things were changing.
Some of the restaurants my father had dedicated years of his life to were changing ownership. He was getting older, and I think he began wondering what the next chapter of his life would look like.
He was in his mid-50s.
An age when a lot of people might start thinking about retirement.
Not my dad. š
And thatās where Texas comes into the picture.
We had some close family friends who own Moniās Pasta & Pizza in Arlington.
They kept encouraging my father to come visit Texas and see what was happening down here.
So around the winter of 1997, he finally did.
And the timing couldnāt have been better.
New Jersey was dealing with miserable winter weather, and here he was in Texas, enjoying beautiful sunshine and warm temperatures.
He couldnāt believe it. š
But it wasnāt just the weather.
He saw something in the DallasāFort Worth area.
The growth. The opportunity. The communities being built. The potential.
He fell in love with it.
And he decided we were moving.
So in the winter of 1998, our family packed up and left New Jersey for Texas.
Another enormous leap of faith.
My parents had already built a life together in America, and now they were starting over again.
At first, we didnāt even know exactly what we were going to do.
My father worked at the Cowboys bar at DFW Airport, helping manage the operation while looking for a restaurant of our own.
I remember going with him and our friend Moni as we drove all over Texas looking at opportunities.
Waco, Georgetown, Cleburne, Burleson, and just about everywhere in between.
We looked at restaurant after restaurant.
And eventually, we stumbled upon a little Italian restaurant in Grapevine.
Amoreās Pizza & Pasta.
It was owned by another Albanian family who was looking to move on, and the restaurant needed some attention.
But my father saw something there.
He saw the location near DFW Airport. He saw the lake, the hotels, the surrounding neighborhoods, and all the development happening in Grapevine.
More importantly, I think he saw a community where our family could build something special.
So we bought it.
And just like that, our familyās next chapter began.
My older sisters helped run the front of the restaurant. My mother worked tirelessly alongside my father. And I was the young kid doing a little bit of everything.
Bussing tables, washing dishes, helping in the kitchen, riding along on deliveries.
Eventually, I learned to cook, learned the business, and developed a passion for restaurants that has stayed with me my entire life.
And through it all, there was my dad.
Talking to customers. Telling stories. Making sure people were happy.
He wasnāt just interested in selling someone a pizza or a plate of pasta.
He wanted people to feel welcome.
He wanted them to come back.
And he wanted them to feel like family.
I think thatās one of the greatest things he ever taught me about hospitality.
People may forget exactly what they ate, but theyāll remember how you made them feel.
Looking back now, I realize how much courage it took for him to do everything he did.
He lost his father as a child.
Left Kosova.
Worked his way through Europe.
Immigrated to America.
Built a career and raised a family in New Jersey.
Then, in his mid-50s, took another enormous chance and moved all of us to Texas to start over.
And somehow, that journey led us to Grapevine and to all of you.
My mother passed away in 2020, and losing her changed my father in ways I donāt think he ever fully recovered from.
They had built an entire life together. She was his partner through so many of those risks, sacrifices, and adventures.
Then came Alzheimerās.
Watching someone who spent his entire life telling stories slowly struggle with his memories is something I wouldnāt wish on anyone.
There were moments when he seemed to relive the losses of people heād loved throughout his life. His parents, his brothers, my mother.
It was heartbreaking.
And there are so many things I wish weād had more time to do.
We used to talk about going back to some of the places heād lived when he was younger. Italy, Slovenia, and the places that shaped his journey before America.
I always thought weād have more time.
I wish Iād taken those trips with him. I wish Iād asked more questions. I wish Iād recorded more of his stories.
But Iām also incredibly grateful.
Grateful that I got to call him my father.
Grateful that I got to work beside him, learn from him, laugh with him, and watch him build something from nothing.
And grateful that his decisions brought our family to Grapevine, where we met so many incredible people who became part of our lives.
My father came to America chasing opportunity. But what he ultimately built was so much more than a business. He built a family, a community, and a legacy.
And I hope, in some small way, I can continue that legacy.
Babi, I miss you more than words can describe.
I hope you and Mom are together again, laughing, sharing stories, and looking down on everything you helped build.
Thank you for taking all those chances.
Thank you for never giving up.
And thank you for giving us the life we had.
I love you, Babi. Rest in peace. ā¤ļø
To everyone who remembers my father from our Amoreās days, Iād love to hear your stories about him.
Knowing my dad, Iām sure he told some of you a few good ones. šā¤ļø
