When I moved into my Albany house in November 1992, I knew the place needed a little work. Investments included white paint, green bushes and red, black and blue Oriental carpets.

Lucky for me, the people next door were in terrific shape. My Irish grandfather once said Italian people are the best neighbors you can have. He was right.

I met Assunto and Rose Barbato, and their then-teenaged son Gabe, shortly after I moved in. Later I met Louie, John, The Coach, Sam, Kelly, Josephine, Nicky, Patsy and Lee ... all relatives or friends of the family.

I learned a long time ago that if Dino and his family are gathered in the large back yard, around tables and in chairs under the roofed patio, I must stop by. At first, Assunto — everyone calls him “Dino” — would walk to the stone fence that separates our yards and insist “Come on, come on, come on.” Other times, he would bring over a plate of pasta, meatballs and sausage. Around the holidays, homemade Italian cookies are tucked into my car for a ride to Rochester.

Now, when a party has started, I just walk over.

This past Saturday afternoon and evening was one of the first large parties of the summer. Dino’s relatives from Montreal were visiting, and I added a little Irish to the festa.

As soon as I arrived at 8 p.m., Rose and some of the other women — they are all great cooks — asked if I’d like anything to eat. Several times.

I had earlier completed a 25-mile bike ride, and hot weather kind of kills my appetite. So I took a rain check on the Italian buffet. There was a pitcher of draft beer on the table, a few green bottles of Pellegrino, the Italian mineral water and a carafe of red wine. I splashed some beer into a white plastic cup.

I talked with John, a sixtysomething guy with white hair and a nice tan, about frog legs. He calls them a delicacy, and tells me I’ll have to try them next time the family convenes. I kidded around a little: “John, what’s a nice Italian fellow like you doing with frog legs? What’s wrong with the sausage, the meatballs, the parmigiana?”

He said he could make frog legs parmigiana. “Jeff! Jeff! You have to try these frog legs!” he said, in accented English. “You’ll never eat anything else!” The persuasion lasted about 30 minutes, and John was not successful. Dino, a tailor at Christopher’s clothing store in Colonie Center, said he’ll never eat them either. He’s kind of nervous around frogs. Toads, too.

I get the biggest kick just listening to the language. A lot of Italian is spoken, and there’s not a more expressive language in use. At one point, there was animated conversation about work in Italy. In some places of the country, Dino explained to me in English, there are no jobs. In other sections, young people don’t want to work. They live off their parents.

After a few years of listening to these discussions, I’ve learned to follow along. I may not know not the subject, but I have an idea who is making the strongest point. But it can be hard to keep up — people who know the language speak it quickly.

We talked about baseball, about hockey — the visitors from Montreal have a rising skater in the professional ranks.

We talked about the big fireworks show some kids launched in the Beacon Avenue playground on the 4th of July, we talked about Lee’s prospering new business, the Mama Mia pizzeria on Fuller Road — it’s near the Deli Warehouse.

We talked about the wet summer. We talked about the gold chains and crucifix medals Dino and other men in the family wear. “It’s tradition,” Dino said. “When I go over to Italy, I have to bring back white gold for my son — that’s all he wears.”

I used to enjoy conversations with “The Coach,” Antonio “Tony” Tirino, a longtime and well-respected soccer player and coach in Albany. Tony passed away in December 2006; he always had an opinion, and I used to kid him my Baltimore Orioles were going to best his New York Yankees in the American League East. Such a scenario remains a joke ... at least for now.

I have learned other parts of Italian culture through Dino.

He once showed me his “presepio,” a miniature town of Bethlehem, that he creates every Christmastime. This elaborate nativity scene, complete with mountains, dark blue night sky and dozens of shopkeepers, are common in Italy.

Dino has graciously allowed guests at my annual Christmas party into his basement to view his work. One year, poor Dino was in his pajamas when the night visitors came calling.

I even wrote a Gazette piece about the Italian custom in 2001. You can see a photo of Dino and his work by clicking HERE.

Every fall, there’s another custom. Dino and some family members travel to local farms, buy bushels of tomatoes and make sauce for the winter. Tomatoes are ground into pulp, stirred and spooned into clean bottles and jars. A leaf of basil goes onto the top of the sauce, which is then sealed and placed in a giant outdoor cooker. The Barbatos must bottle close to 100 jars; no Del Monte or Prego for them!

It’s fun being part of the “family,” even for a little while.

I explained my longtime bachelorhood by mentioning the Irish often marry late in life. I’m 53, and I told the assemblage I have until my mid-50s, even my 60s, to settle down. “Then I wish I was Irish,” said John, getting a laugh — I think — from his wife.

“Jeff — you have to get me passes to Saratoga,” said Louie, a big race track fan. “Ask your brother — I’ve got to get those passes, the races start soon.”

My brother Tim, the horse racing expert, also knows Dino and the uncles, cousins and friends. He just doesn’t get the chance to visit as much as I do.

The party broke up shortly before 11 p.m. Very quickly, torches and pails full of citronella-scented candles were extinguished. Patio lights were doused, chairs pushed into tables, farewells exchanged. Dino gave me a five-second lesson in Italian: “Buona sera,” I said to his visitor, putting “Good night” into the proper dialect.

They’ll all be back again, talking, eating and drinking, late into the night.

Of course, the next door neighbor will never complain.