A Matter of Love in da Bronx
Page 22
--You gotta have the gnocchi.
--I don't want the gnocchi.
--Whadaya mean? It's the specialty of the house! You gotta have the gnocchi!
--I don't want the gnocchi. They're always hard like bullets. You have the gnocchi.
--Promise you taste one--just one--and I'll drop it.
--Thank god! I promise! I promise!
--SAM! SBRIGARTI! You the sauce cook tonight! Primo is no come in. Here the menu for you to do. Il padrone say it look like full 'ouse and crowd that give you some few extra momenti. But, sbrigarti, hurry! hurry! And Sam?
--Yeah?
--When you gone stop fucking aroun’ an come work here full time?
--Yeah...yeah... There was an attraction to the invitation. Almost all the work waiting to be done in the shop when Sol left was nearly completed. In a couple days he'd be washing the windows, and scrubbing the floor to keep busy. He was long overdue for a change, especially to cooking, which was so much cleaner than redoing upholstery. He knew now he did that with a passion just to keep busy, but he would be busy cooking with a passion, too. Besides, the money was better. It was an appealing consideration. Except for a major factor: Sol. He couldn't conceive of leaving Sol. Not on any account. Not that Sol was dependent on him. They owed each other not a thing. But, there was a particular bit of loyalty that cemented the two lives; it had a long memory; it was stubborn; it was born of honor, too. Sam took a deep breath, exhaling the same quality of resignation with which he awoke that morning knowing he would never quit Sol until Sol quit him. Only under those circumstances would they part in peace. Strange, it seemed to Sam, how in thinking about the amount of time he spent in the shop, how it felt as if he had used up a whole and entire lifetime which was ready to expire; and just as strongly it seemed that when he did quit the place he would begin again a whole and entire new life. He'd be a born-again something, but not an upholsterer. Perhaps, maybe, even, a pimp. Naw! He was too bashful. He couldn't do that. But he could cook, with that thought creasing a grin wide across his face putting every sad-faced, dreary bit of atmosphere out of his heart. He seemed to pay particular attention to the fact that the fluids in his body seemed filled with sparkling bubbles when he was able to internalize a truth he was once unable to admit, like he preferred to cook over anything else in the world. He was sorry if it would disappoint Sol. Whatever, he'd wait until Sol came back. He could never tell what would happen. Sol could decide to retire, in fact. Or, sell the shop. And, if he wanted to go on as before? For that very moment, a hurt in Sam's heart. Ambivalence did that, tear two things hard and slowly in opposite directions. So much for that, as he adjusted the white crown of a chef's hat on his head. Forgotten was all the rest of the world backwards, forwards, sideways; forgotten all thought, word, deed inscribed light, medium, heavy on his brain; forgotten all capacity short of excellence. All this merely to turn out consistently exquisite dishes, like his own gnocchi al la carbonaro. The gnocchi were little potato dumplings that had taken much experimentation before he was satisfied they were as good as they could ever be made. First, old potatoes, boiled, then cooled overnight in the frige. Eggs, flour, salt all combined with as little doings as possible, the less the mixture was worked, the lighter they came. His mother made gnocchi that could be used for Minnie balls. For the sauce, he used nothing less than prosciutto and olive oil. Adding to their specialness was the fact that they were made and cooked on order; and the pinch of nutmeg and the fresh majoram added in the last moments. He insisted the order be served the instant it was ready, and on a red-hot plate. Just the odor of the gnocchi going through the dining room incited orders, a fact that didn't escape the attention of the owner of the restaurant who usually made sure someone was served the gnocchi even as a complimentary gesture.
And this night, a huge serving with its ethereal piquanter went to their table.
Vito, determined to capitalize on the generosity of the owner, went beyond gross to consume every single bit of a thing brought before them. Two double shots of scotch whiskey, a huge antipasto, a bowl of the strachatella made with chicken soup and beaten eggs, a he-man serving of mussels in a strong garlic sauce, stuffed mushroom caps, fried mozzarella cheese, and nearly a bottle of Asti Spumanti were all snuffled by the baker when the specialty of the house arrived.
Mary, considering anything available free was neither a gain nor a loss if declined, chose to be considerate of her figure, and maintained a Spartan diet. Besides, she knew there would be an almost endless barrage of barges loaded with goodies; it was just part of lowlife crassness. So, she had a bit of this, a sip of that, a few of those, and a taste of the others. She encouraged her companion not to desist in his consumption just because she was being disciplined. She preferred to chainsmoke in self-defense, Vito's performance too abominable to watch objectively. She asked the Lord for forgiveness when she secretly wished he ended up with a weeklong, massive case of indigestion; then realized he was going to accomplish that goal all by himself with or without her secret implorations. All this until the waiter wheeled closer the little potato dumplings. As their bouquet filled her nostrils, her eyes widened, her mouth watered. The waiter, a true professional, had cased this patron well, and knew she preferred small, tempting portions much unlike the slob she was with. Attentively, the waiter spooned seven gnocchi on the heated plate, dribbled them with the sauce and its variety of morsels, sprinkled on the fresh-chopped marjoram, and finally ground half a teaspoon of freshcut parmegianno cheese over them.
Mary could barely wait for Vito to have his trough filled. The very first one she tasted exploded in her mouth awakening a remarkable sensuality. Instant addiction.
The waiter, to his chagrin, was too slow for Mary, so she served herself. And again. And again. Finally, unabashedly reaching over to commandeer Vito's half-full plate:--Better you leave some room for the main course...! She savored them all, including the last three she ordinarily would've left as required in polite circles to indicate one did not eat because one was--Heavens!--hungry!
--Vito, I want the recipe for the gnocchi.
--Don't break my balls! I'm a baker!
--Not from you! Get the owner. Get it from him.
--What if he doesn't give it out?
--Make him! Who does he think you are? I've never asked you for a thing...
--That mean you'll give a listen next time I ask something from you?
--Why can't you be a gentlemen, and not resort to blackmail?
--Yeah? I can be a gentleman if you can tell me how a gentleman works it so he can get laid. Eeeeyyyy! Waiter! C'mere... Tell your boss we want the recipe for those things.
--Scussi, ma... It's no up to the boss. The chef he give if he want, or he no give. I can ask.
--Ask my ass! She wants it she should have it.
The waiter, solemnfaced, perturbed, strode toward the kitchen. In a surprisingly short time he returned to announce that the chef was extremely busy, and unable to oblige. Besides, under no circumstances would he give out his recipe.
Angrily pointing his index finger at the man's nose, Vito's voice went up an octave as he blatted out in staccato: --You tell...your boss...Vito wants...the recipe...and he's gotta make that cook...come out here,...and tell us himself!
The waiter shot off.
--Come on, Vito, you should know when to stop. Why throw your weight around?
--Eeeey! How am I gonna prove to you I'm not such a bad deal? That I can do for you, that I can get you things you want? You want a recipe? I get you a recipe. Period. He gulped the last of the Asti.
I suppose it would never occur to Vito that style had anything at all to do with anything in this world. I suppose using a stumpclub to crack a walnut is about as much class as he possesses. I'm sorry I asked for the dumb recipe now, but the taste is too exquisite. Full as I am, I can still savor how delicious they were.
--The boss he say chef is very busy. Is rush time for him. But, he try make him come out later when he can.
--Vito, stop now, or I'm leaving. This is nonsense. It belongs in the jungle.
--I guess you're right! No more of this nonsense. Now you listen up, waiter... He had found a wonderful ultimatum, one that would put him in a marvelous position. He would both get his way and impress Mary with his macho success; or he's save his honor--his honor!--by leaving. Besides, he couldn't swallow another mouthful. ...if that chef isn't out here in five minutes, we're going to be gone! You tell your boss that! The waiter turned semaphoring his exasperation by flagging his eyebrows. As he left, Vito turned back to Mary: --That's how to handle these guys!
--Yeah. And besides you couldn't eat another crumb if your life depended on it. Vito, it seems, understood only hackneyed phrases. As she brought the lighter up to another cigarette, she noticed Vito was looking past her wearing a nasty smirk of success. As if she could see behind her she envisioned the white dressed man approaching their table.
He stopped just behind her. --Sir. Madam. What can I do for you?
--We want the recipe for the gnocchi.
--I'm delighted you enjoyed them. I'm proud to have them as the Friday night specialty of the house. My gnocchi are unobtainable anyplace else in the world. If I gave out the recipe the dining room would not be near so crowded.
--Yeah! Yeah! But we want it just for ourselves. We don't give it to nobody else...
--I'm sorry. It's just not available. May I send you out another complimentary dish of them?
That voice! I know that voice. I don't know anyone who cooks...
--I'm sure you understand, Madam...
At the same moment, they turned to look into each other's eyes. Their reactions were nearly identical. Their eyes widened. A slight gasp. Several blinks. A hand over the heart. The plain, pure, unadulterated astonishment filling the atmosphere. Then, simultaneously: --You! Followed by: --Me! Vito, keeping the beat, his head nodding as a metronome first turning to her, then to him.
--Mary!
--Sam!
--Eeeyyy! What's going on?
--You look beautiful. Absolutely alluring. Alluringly gorgeous.
--Watch it with this allurin' shit!
--Thank you. And you cut quite a figure of a man yourself as a chef. Did you? The gnocchi?
--All mine. I can't get over how gorgeous you are.
--This isn't exactly a delicatessen.
--No, it's not the surroundings, Mary. It's an inner glow. There's a radiance about you, like a...predestined connection has been made.
--Eeeey! Enough of that crap, You. Go beat your own time someplace else. You know what you can do with your recipe...
--I never, just never expected to see you again.
--So you've been thinking of me, like I've been thinking of you.
--I remember you now! You're the Sol guy from the christening. I knew you were bad news. Talking to my girl about allurin...
--But she is. She's absolutely alluring.
--I'll allurin you...
Sam didn't realize how fast Vito moved because he had turned his attention back to Mary. His face gave Vito a perfect flat-side to view. Unable to resist, or to control himself, Vito took full advantage. He brought the roundhouse up from his left buttock in a looping arc that landed like a mortar shell flush to Sam's jaw. Sam thunked to the floor like a sack of trash chucked out of a tenth floor window. Out. Like a tornado hitting a flickering birthday candle. It was considered by some onlookers that he had made it to the other world, the look on his face so...ecclesiastical; so peaceful; so contented. If heightened visages were in vogue, Vito came in a close third with his look of satisfaction. Second was Mary. She managed three or four in quick sequence: Astonishment, horror, anger, concern.
--Sonofabitch didn't even give me a chance for a second shot!
--You hit him when he wasn't even looking--unable to defend himself--you cowardly ugly assassin!
--Give him some air!
--Open his collar!
--See if he's dead!
--Call an ambulance!
--Let's not get involved!
--Let's finish our dinner.
--The Mafia! Let’s get out of here!
--Will this be on t.v.?
--Unbutton his jacket!
--Who's going to cook the gnocchi?
--See the jealous husband? See him standing there? See him protect his home?
--The guy in white is really the bad guy?
The gyrations were actually quite pleasant to Sam, as if he was turning slowly as he rose out of a deep, thickblack well, the colors changing from a jade green to a rich sky blue as all stopped moving and consciousness returned. Quickly his world returned to him, very much aware he was lying on the floor, comfortably cradled though his head thunk-thunked with pain. --My parachute didn't open, right? That's how I got to Paradise? Why else would I be looking into the face of an angel?
--Shhhhh! Shhhh! Lie still. Will somebody get a doctor!
--Doctor! By the time I'm through with him, he'll need an undertaker!
--You're so very beautiful. It's no big thing if there's no time for last rites...
--Now you're talking!
--Shut up, Vito! And get out of here!
--Right! Let's go, I'm taking you home.
--You're not taking me anyplace! I never expect to see you again.
--Vito, I'm sorry! What happened?
--Your boy, there, came to the table making a big fuss, insulted the lady...
--He did not!
--...swearing, using bad language, threatening...
--Sam? Not Sam, Vito, it's gotta be a misunderstand.
--I know what that loudmouth said.
--Vito, we settle down, look what's happening to my dining room!
--I'll settle down! I want to hear you fire that sonofabitch first!
--I can't do that! Not Sam! He's one my best cooks...
--Sure! Any way you want it. Pay now, or pay later. You musta forgot who you're talking to. Now fire him!
The atmosphere grew noticeably crackling, a leaded pressure from ceiling to floor; not one diner holding a fork, or spoon, or knife, or glass; not a syllable of a word uttered; those at the far edges of the room standing; every eye with but a single view. Finally, the boss, signaling desperate resignation, hunched his shoulders, closed his eyes, shook his head, aware he had taken the more judicious path but the least honorable. He knew, in fact, it was downright cowardly. --Sam, I'm sure you understand... I am constrained...
Sam made himself escape from the woman's arms, energetically rising to his feet, straightening his full-open jacket, re-setting his hat tall to his head. --Not another word, Padrone, you have done right by me all these years. You got me started. You trained me. I've gotten more from you than you could know. And I appreciate that. Don't be concerned of la puttana della miseria that makes us part like this. As for you, Vito, you can curse your own luck for what you made happen here tonight. Rose, my sincerest, deepest apology for any discomfit or embarrassment any of this may have caused you. I look forward to our next meeting, as destiny would have it. Sam turned abruptly, anxious to have his and everyone else's world reset, stared straight ahead focusing on the door to the kitchen. However, he was unable to constrain his bubbling brain: Shoulda kicked him right in the balls! Hacked that ignorant, gross of bastard to bits with a butter knife! Talk about getting coldcocked from the blind side! Jesus! You sure got decked! Bam! Just like that! Oww! Or like the cat said, fucking meooow! Does my head hurt! Shit! This one's good for seven aspirin. But, didn't she look gorgeous? It was worth it! Yes, sir! It was worth it! Can you imagine her surprise when she looked up and saw me! Saw me! Destiny! That's what that word means! How can she not know that now? I told you! I told you! How just fantastic to find her here. I really don't like what happened, but who's complaining? Do you know what it means...really means...to see her again
? And concerned about me? Well, maybe she'd be that way about anyone hit by a piano, but looking up into that face, those exquisite eyes. For however long I have on this earth, I can only look forward to ecstasy--Sam and Mary, Mary and Sam. Is there really anything else worthwhile in this whole world besides love? If there ever was, the guy who made it kept it for himself.
Then, he was in the kitchen, standing by his station where he made the gnocchi, and the sauces, and everything else he enjoyed doing. It wasn't the only restaurant in the world. He would find another, if he didn't find his own first. Some things were just meant to be.
Like Mary standing before him.
Wordlessly, she reached up and took off his chef's hat.
--Why did you do that?
--To honor you.
--Why?
--For that. She pulled his coat back off of his shoulders from where it fell to the floor, leaving him naked from the waist up. --Is the Mary for Mary Dolorosso?
--Yes. For all I know, it could've been Louisa Golczek. They both laughed, oblivious of the kitchen help stealing glances in their direction.
Her hand moved up to lightly brush his scabby chest. I couldn't believe it when I saw it. You were right, you know?
--Destiny.
--Yes, destiny. Now, her hand, held up as if giving a benediction, moved close to his chest, the middle finger millimeters above his handiwork traced the letters "S-A-M" between his nipples; then, an "L" centered beneath; with her name--"M-A-R-Y"--on the third line. Finally, she followed the heart that started at his breastbone, went around his nipples, almost down to his belly button and back around to where she started. --Sam Loves Mary?