There’s no large “Going Out of Business” sign. No big announcement, no last-minute fanfare. The news came in a Facebook post, shared by a family friend. Just a few lines to say that after nearly sixty years, SAS Italian Records will close its doors for good.
The store opened in 1967, founded by Ciro and Rita Conte, immigrants from the island of Ponza. It has remained in the same location ever since: 7113 18th Avenue, in the heart of Bensonhurst. The name — SAS — is an acronym of their children’s names: Silvana, Adrianne, and Silverio. More than a brand, the sign was a marker of origin, a statement of belonging.
What began as a small record shop with a few household goods gradually evolved into a kind of Italian-American general store: CDs, DVDs, flags, bath products, pasta makers, crossword magazines, and toys. Nothing flashy, but everything with a clear and traceable lineage.
For decades, it served as a quiet waypoint. Some came in looking for a rosary, others for a Totò film. Some just wanted to hear Italian spoken for a little while longer.
Silvana Conte, the founders’ daughter, has been running the store in recent years. “Everything changed after COVID,” she said in a video posted by Once Upon a Time in Brooklyn. “But I kept it open because my mother still called it her gold store. She used to say, ‘I built this.’ And I wanted to make her happy.”
Rita passed away this past May. With her gone, the store’s survival shifted from a personal act of devotion to a matter of inheritance. Silvana says neither her brother nor her sister wants to keep it going. Business, too, has been in steady decline. “We used to order fifty copies of La Settimana Enigmistica (an Italian weekly crossword magazine) — they’d sell out immediately. Now I order five and two are still sitting on the shelf. It just wasn’t sustainable anymore. But I kept doing it for her.”
For Silvana, the store was never just retail. It was memory, routine, and a long stretch of family life contained within four walls. A space that carried the shape of her mother’s daily gestures, and the feel of a household history.
Now, those who remain are left to reckon with a kind of loss that doesn’t make headlines or balance sheets. As one longtime resident wrote on Facebook: “This isn’t just the end of a shop. It’s the end of one of the last places where you could feel Italian — without having to explain it.”
Still, not everyone has let go. Silvana herself allows for the possibility — however remote — of a last-minute reprieve. “If someone came in, an angel, who wanted to fund it all, I’d be here,” she said. “But it’s not up to me anymore.”
SAS isn’t closing because it failed. It’s closing because the world around it changed. In the meantime, the shutters are still up. Anyone passing by can walk in, browse what’s left: a few CDs, some old DVDs, the last remaining magazines. No ceremony, no announcement. Just time winding down — quietly, as it often does.
