When Dave’s Aunty Cam was alive, we rarely ate out. Why would we? Her tomato sauce topped with crushed nuts was heavenly,
and her stuffed peppers, with their filling of capers, garlic, black olives,
and breadcrumbs, were similarly divine.
Somehow, when Cam was the cook, simple as it was, fresh lettuce dressed only with olive oil and
lemon juice was the perfect accompaniment. Still, sometimes for lunch, we’d head down to Shrewsbury
Street, which, conveniently for us this evening, was just down the road from
the Holiday Inn.
Dave has been nostalgic about his native city lately, perhaps because of Peggy's passing and that visit to the past through stories and photos. When we made plans for the trip North, he said, "Let's go a day early and spend a little time there." So we arrived Sunday afternoon, took our time getting settled, and then realized we were starving.
In our search for food, we passed a low structure on the
curve to Shrewsbury Street. Dave said, “Used to be D’Elriccos.” He gave a hoot of satisfaction when the
sign in the window still had the same name. Up ahead, we spotted the red brick building that had housed
the Italian Kitchen, noted the new name, “Piccolo,” but figured it still
sounded like a place to get pasta.
So we parked the car at the side of the road, climbed out, and fighting
quiet discouragement at the lack of activity, tried the door. Locked. We cupped our eyes with our hands and peered in the window
to see a young woman piling wooden chairs on empty tables.
“Oh well. No
problem. Let’s hit the Parkway.”
We wanted to eat someplace where Dave had a sense of
connection, of history. I could
easily picture Dave’s dad, Colombo, seated at one of the stools at the Parkway
Diner, digging into a plate of sausage n’ peppers. And for me, having grown up believing I didn’t like eggplant
because my mother didn’t, the Parkway was a culinary education. There was nothing like their eggplant
parmigiana sandwich with its generous sliced eggplant, tangy red sauce, and
melted mozzarella on thick slabs of Italian bread.
We drove down the block, took a U-Turn, and pulled up to the
curb outside the diner. Again, we
parked, dismounted, and tried the latch.
Success! The door opened to
the raucous laughter of a crowd of young people in jeans, sweatshirts, and Red
Sox caps.
“You want food or drink?” asked the cute bartender with a flip of her ponytail.
“Food! A bowl
of pasta! And drink!” we crowed.
The girl cocked her head and bit her lower lip in
apology. “Mmmm. Sorry. Kitchen just closed.”
“Noooo…” Dave and I wailed in mock despair. Dave checked his watch: 9:02. Wow. Prompt group.
With a sigh, Dave asked for recommendations, which set off a
flurry of discussion between the bartender and her pleasant, but scruffy,
patrons.
“Vita’s,” said one.
“No. No
way. Not Vita’s,” the bartender
was adamant.
“Why not?”
“Not my favorite.”
.
“Hah! You’re Irish! What do
you know about Italian food?”
retorted a man, puffing his chest at the approving guffaws of
those around him.
The bartender leaned from the waist, arms flung wide, eyes
sparking in mock fury, “I WORK in an Italian place!” She did not say, “so stuff it,” but that was implied. She turned to us and said, “Try Jimmy’s
Tavern. Up at White City. Know where it is?”
“Shame on me if I don’t,” said Dave. It was clear by his bright grin that he
was tempted to stay, pleased with the atmosphere, the camaraderie, and the
boisterous exchange, food or not.
“How ‘bout one drink?” he said to me.
“Hon, we have to eat…” Okay, so maybe I was a little whiny.
Dave nodded, but called over his shoulder, “Save us a seat! We’ll be back!”
Time was passing as we drove down Shrewsbury Street. It was 9:15. “This mall we’re going to – White City? Used to be an amusement Park,” Dave
said.
I knew this.
Dave and I have been together for forty years, so I have a vague sense
of the fields where he played Little League, the fields where he knew baseball
glory, and yes, even landmarks that were not part of his baseball career.
Dave took the right into White City and we circled and
circled and circled the sprawling parking lot encircled with the same
stores that encircle most every sprawling parking lot in the country. Finally we spotted Jimmy’s prominent
sign, right next to the entrance we’d come in at the start of our circling. We were hungry…and
getting tired.
Inside Jimmy’s, servers were straightening up and most of
the tables were empty. Still, a gangly youth greeted us cheerfully and, preparing to seat us, picked up two
menus. Dave apologized for the
late hour and said we’d be quick; we just wanted a bowl of pasta. The man’s eyes shadowed a touch. “Well. We have several varieties of mac n’ cheese…?” he offered
hopefully.
Dave cannot eat mac n’ cheese.
“If you want pasta, your best bet would be Buca di Beppo,
just down the way.” We’d actually
passed it, noted the very obvious Italian name, but in our fatigue and focus on
Jimmy’s, had driven on.
It was really late now: 9:30. Back on
the road, we drove the brief distance to Buca, parked in the lot, and noted the
marble statue of a maiden by the front door, the festive strings of lights, and
the lake behind the building.
But again, the door was locked. A couple came out, clutching a white plastic parcel of
leftovers and before it closed, Dave ducked in the door behind them.
“Honey….” I whined again, exasperated, but he was out of
sight. I stood, waiting, the
maiden at my side.
Almost immediately, the door re-opened and a thin young man
in a black tee-shirt emerged to trot across the parking lot in pursuit of the
departing couple. “Excuse me! Your leftovers….” He said, and gave the
man yet another container of food.
The server walked back toward the building, the maiden, and
me, and tried the door. “Locked
myself out,” he said with a shrug.
“I can get in through the back.”
“You’re a good soul to go to that trouble with the
leftovers,” I said as he turned to walk around the restaurant.
“Well thanks,” he said, smiling. “‘A good soul.’
I like that.”
Just then, Dave poked his head out the front door. “Come on in. They said they’d feed us.”
“Oh Honey.
They’re cleaning up. They want to go home.” I felt sheepish, a little annoyed.
“Really. I
didn’t ask. They offered.”
“Still, we shouldn’t do this. We’ll feel rushed and have to eat fast…”
I expected tension when we entered the main dining room, but
no. The staff was bustling about
rolling napkins and utensils for the following day, nudging chairs back in
place, and eating their own meals, but everyone smiled at us. A hostess armed with menus appeared,
and beaming welcome, led us to a table covered with a brown and white checked
cloth.
I blathered apologies and regrets, but she assured me,
“Really, it’s no problem. Your
server will be with you shortly.
Enjoy your dinner.”
We were the only customers in an extraordinary, spacious,
two-tiered space. Three arches spanned the room, each decorated with paintings
of lemons and pears. Photographs
crammed every inch of the cranberry colored walls: Frank Sinatra, the Pope, and
JFK side by side with someone’s grandmother, nuns riding Dodgem cars, the
Colosseum, the Forum, and St. Peter’s Cathedral. Jimmy Durante chuckled and crooned in the background when
Sinatra took a break, and the young man I met in the parking lot came to take
our orders.
“I didn’t catch your name,” Dave said.
The man pointed to a nametag on his shirt, “Donnie.” He chuckled. “I covered the word ‘meat’ with the tag…See? ‘Balls as big
as your head.” The three of us laughed, and he added, “They’re really
good. The meatballs. Chef just made ‘em.”
I said they sounded great, but explained we don’t eat meat.
Promising we’d eat quickly, we ordered our long-awaited bowls of pasta, a beer,
and a glass of Chianti.
“No rush,” said Donnie. “We have things to do to get ready for tomorrow
anyway. Besides, tonight I feel
like a good soul,” and he smiled at me.
Shortly, huge bowls, HUGE bowls, of steaming pasta were
placed before us, along with a basket of thick-sliced bread and olive oil for
dipping. Dave and I touched our
glasses, toasted Donnie, and grinned.
Ram Dass said, “We are all here to walk each other
home.” It is my new favorite
quote, a “Do Unto Others” without the wag of the finger. A reminder that
kindness serves all. When we were tired and hungry, Donnie and the other
good souls of Buca di Beppo - who
were, no doubt, more tired and hungry than we were – took us in, welcomed and
fed us. And we were warmed and
filled by far more than pasta.
4 comments:
So nice to be reading your blog again. I missed it. You've such a gift at storytelling.
Check out my blog at:
davidsdecadentdishes.wordpress.com
Makes me want to go to Worcester - and no offense, Dave, that's a first!
You should send them this post. (and the bar!)
They'd be thrilled, I'm sure - especially Donnie-good-soul.
Lovely piece, as always.
How exciting to google lea sylvester and find Lea Sylvestro! What a happy happy find. It was a bit like finding pretty stone while on a hike, stuffing it in my pocket to look at later and then discover it is really a 20 karat diamond. Whomever you are Ms Sylvestro, you are one terrific writer. You take us with you on your adventures (ok...I did read other posts...you are like potato chips, one post is not enough). How sweet that you and your husband can return to his hometown and even you know the landmarks of his youth. How dear that, without even trying you made Donnie feel good about himself. Apparently that is what you do, either with your writing or your presence, you make people feel good. Now that is a skill lea sylvester does not have. At least not as near as developed as you. Thank you for a wonderful discovery. I will be sharing you with other friends who may not be so lucky as to find you by accident.
Such a Sylvestro adventure! "In pursuit"! Love this....I found myself hungry as well, as you weave this tale of tortellini. The emotional moments were sprinkled throughout for me....Dave's satisfaction at knowing names of establishments from his youth....you, Lea, for knowing some of Dave's 'ol familiar places, your affirmation to Donnie of his kindness, the waitstaff assuring you it was no problem to extend themselves to you, and, finally, the Ram Dass quote (one I had not heard before, but will carry with me from this day on). We do have the opportunity to see each other home.
Thank you for this gift, my friend.
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