THUGLIT Issue Fourteen

by Scott Sanders

  "There's a lot you can do," said Dukes, "even more I can do. That fucking guy is turning this neighborhood into Epcot Center. Some nerve on him—ain't even Italian and he's gonna tell us what real Italian food is? Get the fuck outta here with that."

  "Thanks Tony, but I want to play it straight. We'll just keep doing what we do, and doing it right. The people will come back."

  "Yeah. I gotta have a talk with him anyway. He thinks he's too good to donate to the Our Lady of Pompeii Orphans Fund."

  Enzo shuffled behind the counter, filling a pizza box with rice balls, spinach pinwheels, macaroni pie, and the envelope from the register before handing it to Tony's six-foot-five heavy in the black velour tracksuit.

  "Dukes, come behind the counter for a second. I gotta tell you something I don't want nobody else to hear."

  LoDuca's smile turned into a poker face as he stood comfortably in Enzo's personal space.

  "Tony, not for nothing," said Enzo, "but you might want to be a little careful with this chef. I keep hearing that he's partners with Chief Rinaldi."

  Mike Rinaldi was the most hated man in Bensonhurst. As an undercover cop of average intelligence, he rose to the top of the Bath Avenue crew—and in one investigation, crippled the mafia in south Brooklyn. Then, in a move that further infuriated those that attempt to glamorize their lives through gangland affiliations, he not only came out as gay, but became the president of G.O.A.L.—the Gay Officers Action League. Fifteen years after breaking the back of organized crime, Rinaldi still walked the same streets, and despite years of bluster and empty threats, not a single thing had happened to him.

  "What kinda partners? Cop, business partner, or fruit basket?" asked Dukes.

  Enzo shrugged his shoulders. "From what I heard, two outta three."

  "Minchia! Now I really gotta talk to this guy. I appreciate you tellin' me that. Good to know."

  "I got some sugar-free Manhattan Special for you." Enzo handed Dukes's goon two large bottles of the stuff as Tony made his way to the door. "Tastes just like the real thing. Good for diabetics—your mother's gonna love it," he called out.

  "Grazie mille, Lorenzo. You're a good kid—don't ever change."

  "Broo-shket-ah, not broo-shet-ta," Brad Jensen instructed a customer. "Say it with me, broo-shket-ah…. There you go." Jensen turned to the camera crew: "I'm only asking for the slightest bit of consideration. The minimal amount of respect a diner can have for their food is the ability to pronounce it correctly. It offends me. If your name is Johannes, I'm not going to call you John and think it's good enough—because it isn't."

  "Have I adapted to the neighborhood? I find that question offensive," snapped Jensen, looking at the camera. "Are you suggesting that because my surname doesn't end in a vowel and I'm not a living, breathing Italian-American caricature that I somehow don't deserve to have my restaurant here?" Jensen picked up a paper and showed it to the camera: "The delivery menu for Cucina Spolidoro—the restaurant across the street. Look what they have: 'Sunday gravy,' something unheard of in Italy. 'Sugo' is the Italian word for gravy, and it's used for exactly the same thing we call gravy in America. They're serving penne vodka and fettuccine Alfredo. Ask a real Italian about fettuccine Alfredo and they'll say, 'Chi è Alfredo?' Who the fuck is Alfredo? Authentic? My food is authentic! Their food is a bastardization! And still these closed-minded buffoons buy Sunday gravy like nonna never made."

  Enzo brought two cappuccinos and a plate of biscotti from his mother's kitchen to her dining-room table, placing a cup in front of her and setting the cookies in the middle of the table. Enzo put his hand around the sides of the cup and took a sip. "Ma, 'member you asked if there was anything that you could do to help with the business?"

  "Yeah?" She looked up from her coffee.

  "Well I think I got an idea. I know it's driving you crazy sitting around the house all day watching empty-headed TV. A woman like you has to be active."

  Eva Spolidoro cut her son off: "What you want from me?"

  Enzo grabbed four biscotti at once and began to chew. "What would you think about coming down the restaurant, one or two days a week? We'll set you up right in the window. All you gotta do is make your orecchiette with broccoli rabe and sausage. They'll go crazy for it. These people take the train for an hour for something they think is real, and there's nothing realer than you cooking up what your mother taught you back in Potenza."

  "Doctor Dispensa says I'm no posta work with my hands on a canna the arthritis, but I'm happy to go to the place if it's gonna help you," said Eva, adding, "Why you eat like morte di fame? Slow down. Take it eesh."

  "You crazy, you think I'ma gonna wear this thing," said Eva as she examined the black mourning dress her son presented her with. "So primitiva. Why you want to embarrass me? You father would roll in his grave," shouted Eva at her son as she shook the veil away from the frock in the cramped bathroom of Cucina Spolidoro.

  "Ma," said Enzo, "I really need you to do this for the sake of the restaurant. We gotta try everything we can to save what you and Pop built, even if you gotta dress up a little. Think of it as show business, no different than what I did on TV. I swear to God, this is gonna work. I need you to believe in me. I know what I'm doing."

  And it did work. The spectacle of the old widow making pasta by hand was something out of National Geographic playing live in the window of a Brooklyn restaurant. Bored with the three-hour wait, some of the more impatient Manhattan and New Brooklyn foodies began to ditch the line outside Sotterraneo and cross the street to check out the throwback joint. Demand got so high during the days Eva worked the window that Juan Carlos brought in Pedro, a brilliant pastamaker from Ecuador. His job was to hide in the kitchen and make orecchiette to beef up Eva's slow, arthritic pasta production.

  It wasn't just the new special that was selling. Bearded Jensen devotees were devouring the scungilli casserole and tripe that had been a staple of the menu since 1957—and they were loving it.

  I passed by Cucina Spolidoro thinking it just another relic from Bensonhurst's past on my way to Sotterraneo. Why would I have stopped? It's located next to a body shop at a busy intersection across the street from the hottest new restaurant in the city. But what's there is the best old-school Italian food I've ever had. From the grandma making pasta in the front to the red-and-white checkered tablecloths to the out-of-this-world panelle (think falafel, but better), I felt like I was eating real Italian food for the first time in my life. –Peyton C., Greenpoint; Yelp! review, 4/17/14

  I'm no Andrew Zimmern, so anybody who can make tripe something I'd actually order, let alone enjoy, is a genius. Plus, the adorable grandma—I had my picture taken with her twice! Last time I came in she told me I better watch my figure with all that pasta. Love her! #grandma #ForzaItalia #realness —Rachel A., Williamsburg; Yelp! review, 4/22/14

  Juan Carlos and Enzo were prepping hours before the Tuesday lunch service when a young woman in a vintage dress and cat-eye glasses opened the door without knocking and let herself in. "Hey, boys," she said. "I'm Justine from Gotham City Insider, and—"

  "As you can see, we're not open yet," Juan Carlos said, cutting her off, "and our bathroom is for customers only."

  "That's great to know," replied Justine, "but I'm not here to pee. I was hoping that I could ask a few questions before you got too busy and our photographer could come by later for some action shots."

  "What? Are you kidding me?" asked Enzo. "You wanna ask us questions?"

  "That was my plan."

  "Why? This place has been here for half a century, and your magazine never gave a shit about us before. You probably got the address wrong. I'm not the guy from TV who insults his customers."

  "I know. That's just why I want to feature you and not him. I'm a Brooklyn girl—born in Bay Ridge. My parents used to take me here when I was a kid. This place is Brooklyn. That's just an art project across the street."

  "Sorry if I was a jerk. I just never figured that a trendy magazine like yours wo
uld ever be interested in a place like this."

  "Stop assuming and answer three questions for me."

  Brad Jensen has made several mentions of your menu lately, which is spurring some lively debate in the food community about the meaning of authenticity. What's your take on the issue?

  Enzo Spolidoro: What's the issue? I don't get the whole obsession with this authenticity thing. I mean, "authentic" just means real, from the heart. This other thing is some kind of nostalgia for a time that never existed. My father always said that Sicilian food was the first fusion cuisine. Let's be honest: The Africans, the Vikings, and anybody else with a boat got all up in Sicily—each changed the culture and the food. Sicilians make their meatballs with raisins and pine nuts; Northern Italians stick their noses up at it because of the Arab influence. So how could something be authentically Sicilian? I don't buy it. My restaurant has had the same menu since 1957. Is that authentic enough for ya?"

  So what is your food philosophy?

  Enzo Spolidoro: We don't make Italian food, or Sicilian food, or anything like that. We make Brooklyn food. I was born here, I was raised here, and I'm not trying to be something that I'm not. People see our menu and think 'Italian,' and that's fine. It's from the Bensonhurst region of Italy.

  I'm getting the feeling that you aren't too impressed with Jensen and his fans. Am I sensing hostility here?

  Enzo Spolidoro: No, no, that's not what I…

  Juan Carlos Chavez: Listen, lady. I respect all immigrants that come to Brooklyn to make a better life for themselves, and to make it a better place here. It's a first stop in the U.S. It's been like that since Ellis Island days. I came here from Mexico. Enzo's parents came from Italy. We got a cook from South America; our delivery guys are from Armenia, or Albania, one of those. The only immigrant group I got a problem with is the Americans from the Midwest or wherever they came from, who moved here and want to make it only for people like them with money, by driving the people who already live here out. All they brought is expensive beer and college football. Nobody in Brooklyn ever cared about college football except bookies."

  The Gotham City Insider piece was more than just a three-question interview box; Justine Marchese's six-page feature introduced the latest food trend to cross the East River: "Brooklyn Italian." As soon as the article came out, business at Spolidoro blew up. It wasn't just the neighborhood regulars and those frustrated by Sotterraneo's Soviet bread lines—gastro-buffs from all over made the pilgrimage to experience something that was both old and new at the same time.

  More staff had to be hired. Gennaro got bumped up to a spot on the line next to his father; Mama Spolidoro insisted on coming to the restaurant every day in full black widow drag. (She had grown to love taking pictures with the new customers.) After 55 years, Cucina Spolidoro had become a hotspot. The Town Cars waiting outside weren't for half-assed gangsters, but for ladies in Louboutins on a field trip from the Upper West Side.

  Enzo, Juan Carlos, and Eva spent as much time talking to reporters and bloggers as they did preparing food. In a matter of weeks, the lines for the Spolidoro became almost Jensenian. Enzo would saunter outside and give those waiting a sample of something from the kitchen, shake hands, take pictures, and thank them for their patience and patronage—something the chef across the street would never be caught dead doing.

  The blogs exploded with the notion of a "Sicilian vendetta" between the two restaurants—a "Blood (Orange) Feud," as Grub Street called it. Jensen was quick to dismiss any animosity, in his own way: "I suppose you could call it competition, in the same way that Babbo competes with the Olive Garden," Jensen told Chowhound.

  Brad Jensen arrived at a closed Sotterraneo at 10 a.m., puzzled as to why his prep cooks and interns weren't in there chopping and dicing up a storm. He found the key on his key ring and unlocked the front door. He turned on the lights and got a fright when he saw Tony LoDuca standing at the hostess station.

  "What the fuck," said Brad slowly, "are you doing in here?"

  "How ya doin', Brad?" said Tony Dukes as he buttoned his yellow suit jacket, then ran his pinkie-ring adorned right hand through his shock-white pompadour. "I'm Tony. As a betting man, I'd wager my house on Todt Hill that you know who I am."

  "Yeah. You're Tony Dukes."

  "Good. You're a smart kid. Maybe you can figure out what I'm doing here," said LoDuca. "Any ideas?"

  "You're here to shake me down. That's what you do, right?"

  "Oh, whoa, whoa. What kind of talk is that?" said Dukes. "Maybe I'm here for an autograph—my wife is a big fan of yours, never misses a show. Maybe I'm here to ask you about the Gypsy palm readers next door. How do you think they stay in business doing five-dollar palm readings? You know the price of rent on this block. It don't make no sense to me. They're all over the city. You ever see anybody go in there?"

  "Not really," snapped Jensen. "What's this about?"

  "Simple economics," said Tony, now standing just inches from Brad. "Maybe the whole Gypsy family sleeps in the back, so it's their apartment too," speculated Dukes, straightening the collar of Jensen's shirt. "Maybe they're selling broads or cleaning money in there. The girls from our houses sleep in the rooms too. Every massage parlor is a flophouse for the tuggers, so I guess that's what you got next door. But the Gypsy don't kick up to me. He treats me like a jerk and pays rent just for the storefront."

  "Look, maybe I should call my partner," said Brad. "He'd be interested in talking to you. He warned me about you stopping by with bad news."

  "Bad news? I just stopped by to see my new neighbor, grab a bite, and talk about Gypsies, that's all. You should see Vatican City now; it's polluted with them. Disgrazia."

  Brad took a deep breath and exhaled through his nose, then met Tony Dukes's stare without blinking: "Two dozen old men in piss-stained suits blowing their Social Security checks at the racetrack. That's what the Mafia is in 2014."

  "Be very careful about what comes out of your mouth next," warned Dukes.

  "You're a bunch of clowns. Like Civil War re-enactors or guys who dress up for the Renaissance Faire—playacting a role from a dead era," deadpanned Jensen. "You're a feeble old man copying what you see in Scorsese movies—your outfit is bargain-store Ace Rothstein. Mike Rinaldi co-owns this restaurant. You won't do anything to me, and you're not getting a fucking penny out of us, so get the fuck out," said Brad in his best attempt at Brooklynese. "I almost feel sorry for you."

  "We'll see who's sorry," said Tony, as he turned his back and walked toward the door, the neon psychic sign flashing light across his face.

  Later that night, Sotterraneo and the psychic shop burned to the ground.

  Spolidoro's kitchen was barely able to keep up with the overwhelming crush of customers, even before the normal lunchtime rush. A distraught Brad Jensen stumbled into Cucina Spolidoro for the first time, screaming for Enzo to come out—drawing the attention of the entire dining room and the massive takeaway line.

  "Enzo, you bastard," Brad bellowed. "I need to talk to you. Look at what you did to me! Come out here, you coward." Enzo emerged from the kitchen in his white jacket and checkerboard pants.

  "Buddy, you better calm down right now and keep this polite or we're gonna have a problem."

  "We already have a problem. My restaurant is a pile of ash…and your greaseball friends are responsible," he said.

  "No more chances. You don't cause a scene in my place," said Enzo sternly. "We'll have a sitdown tonight. Ten o'clock in the back room of Brennan and Carr. We'll say what we gotta say to each other. If you're smart, you'll sober up before you come talk to me. And drop the fake tough-guy act. I got work to do." Enzo stomped back into the kitchen.

  Enzo arrived early at Brennan and Carr, a dipped roast-beef sandwich institution deep in the asshole of Brooklyn. He sat in the wood-paneled back room at the big table under the picture of George Washington that someone drew a mustache on ages ago. His back was to the wall, eyes focused on the back-room entrance. At his right was
Juan Carlos. Enzo asked him along to watch his back, but instructed him to say nothing during the course of the meeting.

  Jensen arrived at 10:10 p.m. with a look of determination on his face. He was flanked by a middle-aged pudgy man and a plain-looking lady, both wearing Banana Republican business casual and carrying leather messenger bags. Brad's group sat at the opposite end of the table. Enzo and Brad locked eyes and sat in tense silence.

  "YOU FUCKING DID IT!" screamed Brad at Enzo from across the table. "My God, you fucking did it." Enzo got up from the table and walked toward Jensen, who stood his ground. After a few tense seconds, both men embraced, squeezing each other in the tightest of hugs. They finally broke their grip.

  "No. We did it," said Enzo. "You were unbelievable. Actually, I mean, you were totally believable. What an elitist, hipster, gentrifying douchebag. Nils, if I didn't know you better, I'd think you were really that guy." The man and woman who joined Brad applauded joyously. Juan Carlos sat in stunned silence as Jensen introduced them: "'Zo, this is Keith Henderson from the Fillmore Restaurant group—he's here to set us up with our new Jensen-Spolidoro ventures—Galamad in the East Village and Sangwich in Williamsburg, and this is Laura Cody from the Food Network to talk about the show."

  "'Zo, seriously," said Nils with a grin. "Your 'regular guy from Brooklyn' character was perfect. You played it Rocky perfect. Man, people love a scrappy underdog."

  "But without the perfect villain," said Enzo to his former Upright Citizens Brigade Improv classmate, "nobody would have cared. You made them want to see me win and you get your comeuppance. Should we workshop it?"