Anybody who walks into the East Rock neighborhood fixture that is Romeo and Cesare’s Gourmet Shoppe these days likely will see its longtime owner, Romeo Simeone, being embraced by a tearful customer.

As his daughter, cashier Francesca Simeone, keeps saying: “It’s time.”

This isn’t a happy Christmas present for the folks in the neighborhood, including me, but the timing is rather poetic: Romeo’s will close and go out of business on Christmas Eve.

After a 31-year run, Simeone has at last reluctantly heeded the pleas of his family. He is about to turn 70 and last year he suffered a heart attack. (Francesca told us he might not come back after that, but none of us believed her.)

And in another sign of change and age, Simeone’s older brother and the market’s co-owner, Cesare, died earlier this year.

“He had that big, big heart,” Simeone told me Wednesday afternoon when I dropped in to see him. “He was always supporting me. He was a sweet guy, more sweet than me.”

Actually they don’t come much sweeter than this Romeo, who is beloved in East Rock. He’s a big, friendly talker, his arms moving in circles as he tells stories and boasts about his fresh local produce.

It’s in his blood. He told me how his father also owned a food store in Caserta, Italy, the small village where Simeone was raised. Simeone came to America on Feb. 17, 1974, (he readily recalls the date) and made his way to New Haven, where he opened Fruit City on Grand Avenue. This was followed by Romeo’s Imports on Quinnipiac Avenue and Romeo’s Imports II, also on Grand Avenue.

He spoke no English but his wife, Louise, was fluent in English and Italian. Her business acumen helped him and by 1988 they were ready to come to 771 Orange St.

Simeone made everybody feel at home. Dean Celotte, who was at the market Wednesday to talk with his old buddy and wish him well, said: “Everybody knows everybody here. It’s like a family. I love the place. I love him.”

Francesca Simeone, who has worked with her father since 2004, couldn’t stop smiling as she stood behind the cash register. “I’m happy!” she said. “We’re moving on with our lives.”

She said she has no idea what she will do when the store closes, at about 2 p.m. next Tuesday, but she is looking forward to having some free time.

Her dad isn’t quite there yet. “That’s my problem; I’ve got to find something. I’m always up at 5 or 6, every morning. All my life I went up, step by step. I never went down.”

“My family, they’re pushing me out,” he said with a smile. “They tell me, ‘You want to drop dead in the store?’”

But he admitted he is looking forward to traveling with his wife, including taking trips to Italy. “We’ve got to enjoy a little bit. All that sweat!”

The next minute, however, he was telling me, “I want to do something. I can’t stay home. I’m active. That’s me.”

And so, because he can’t really stay away from his social center, he is talking with some other Italian food market people who are talking with the building’s owners about establishing a new food store there.

“For two or three hours a day I want to be the consultant, so everything goes right,” he said.

A co-owner of the property, Joe DeLucia, told me over the phone that “multiple people want to lease the property.” But nothing is firm yet.

Meanwhile, as his shelves become more and more empty, Simeone is offering nice discounts to his customers as a way of thanking them for their support through the years. “The cheese, the salami, the provolone — anybody can see me and I’ll take care of it.”

“I want to thank all the people around the neighborhood that supported me for 31 years,” he said. “All the students, the professors, the local people, I thank them very, very much. It’s become like one big family.”

He added, “It’s too bad. You grow old, you’ve gotta stop. It’s like the pears on a tree; when they’re ripe, they fall down.”

After we talked for awhile, Simeone jumped up and said he was going to make me a free sandwich, an unspoken parting gift. “See! Big Italian bread!” he said, holding it up proudly.

I stood and watched him at work. There were the signs from all the years: “whole prosciutto” and “Romeo’s baccala salad,” etc.

Simeone is encouraging people to come and say goodbye, especially on that final day. “You can wheel and deal with Romeo!”

randall.beach@hearstmediact.com