Do-Wop Hop

I stepped off the train at my Princeton stop, briefacse in hand, with a wide smile.  I have always loved playing an important role in the lives of strangers, and to have had the opportunity to have enriched the lives of four separate people, all at once, so randomly, was a treat.  

Luigi would have loved to have been there for that one.  He would have gotten a kick out of Jean and Gerry, not to mention the young lovebirds.  They all get a kick out of him, and the stories I told only helped to strengthen the myth of Luigi Vitrone: amazing chef, lover of life, and gentleman.  I do what I can.

I hopped into my car and made my way home.  I live just outside of Princeton.  I wish I could still live in Brooklyn, but my extensive travel makes a more centralized and easily accessed place of living requisite.  Additionally, now that my two young adopted daughters and my love, Frankie, have a couple of dogs and a cat, it is important that we be able to stretch our wings.  

I still maintain one of the few penthouse apartments in lower Manhattan, but it has long since become a haven for my spoiled, sweet, debauched daughter Melanie, from my first marriage.  Melanie is in her twenties, talks like she's in her thirties, walks like she's in her teens, and acts like she's 5.  But I love her.  I'm happy when she's happy, and she's happy when she's happy.  So everybody wins?

Melanie is great, and we meet up for lunch a couple of times a week, as her fashion design school schedule allows.  

The two young loves of my life are Daria and Winny.  We adopted them at the age of seven. They are twins, and to say they had it rough is beyond an understatement.  We had in mind a baby, or a toddler at the oldest.  But these twins had just arrived at the orphanage, and when those two little angels laid their angelic eyes on Frankie and I, we nearly melted.  

It was official a few weeks later, and since that time we have watched as the girls blossomed into comfortable, mature, energetic, intelligent pre-teens.  The house in Rock Mill is a compromise.  I wanted to move back to Brooklyn, buy a couple of house, knock them down, and put up a gorgeous monstrosity of a mansion, a testament to my success in the face of moderate difficulty.  

I confided this dream to Frankie, who assured me that a much better choice would be the suburbs of D.C. where Frankie could follow dreams of political life, I could reach my varied destinations, and the girls could get a great education and live comfortably.  

In the end, I just couldn't see myself moving that far away from New York, and when Frankie and I saw the house I found in New Hersey, we both fell in love with it immediately.  We hope to grow old here together, and watch the girls mature into beautiful young women.  

When I pulled into our driveway, past our automatic gate, I nearly crashed my car straight into our meandering creek.  Who of all people, was standing in my front lawn, animately talking to Frankie, and holding in his hand a bottle of his world famous marinara sauce?  The one and only Mr. Vitrone!

Here's a video of Luigi making his famous Spiced Apple Chestnut Soup for Delaware Online.

I looked up from my half empty plate, smiled, and said "Luigi, don't tell my grandmother, but these are the best meatballs I've eaten in my life?"

"I'm glad you like 'em" he replied, and sat down next to me.  "I can tell from your accent that you're not from around here" he said.  I agreed, and said the same thing about him.

"I come to Baltimore by way of Brooklyn, how about you?"

I was taken aback by this, mainly because I too was born and raised in Brooklyn!  It really is a small world.  These days, I travel across the globe, and my fading accent still gives me away to fellow Brookynites.  Deep down, I think I had known Luigi was from Brooklyn before I asked, and I am sure he knew where I was from as well.

He smiled and said "I thought so" when I told him where I grew up.  "So tell me, Johnny, how long have you lived in Baltimore?"

I explained that I did not live in Baltimore.  In fact, I told him, I still lived in Brooklyn, in the very house I grew up in.  My father had recently passed away, and I moved back in to take care of my mother.  In truth, I had never really moved out.  I had graduated from college only weeks before my father's death, and had been in the process of moving back home when it happened.   The plan was to live there and save some money.  I was too embarrassed to admit all of this to my new friend, so I let on that my living at home was an act of kindness rather than necessity.  

Everything else I told Luigi was the truth, how I had graduated and began a career in microfinance, and was doing my damndest to crawl up that great corporate ladder one rung at a time.  I went into dramatic detail about the meetings I had been to here in Baltimore, and in doing so no doubt violated my disclosure contract.  

However, Luigi seemed like such a nice guy, and so innocuous in terms of wishing or being able to negatively affect my burgeoning career.  Plus, that scotch had yet to wear off completely, so my lips were a little loose.

After a barrage of dramatic exclamations and boring explanations on my part, Luigi looked up at me, and said "Johnny, we've only just met, but let me tell you, you seem pretty tightly wound.  Maybe you and I should take a whirl around town here.  Let me show you some of the best places for young guys like us to have fun, and let me introduce you to some of my good friends here in the city.  That way, next time you come to Baltimore, you'll feel more at home, and maybe you can relax a little."

He was right.  I was pretty tightly wound, and I needed a good night out on the town.  And that is what he gave me.  After one of the best nights of partying in my life, I felt priveledged and obligated to consider Luigi Vitrone one of my dearest friends.  

If Babcia could see me now....

Were I to tell you that these were not the best meatballs that I had ever been served, I would be lying.  Were I to have told my dear, sweet Polish grandmother, may God rest her soul, that some day in the future, some random chef in Baltimore would make and serve me meatballs that did for the Italian classic what she did for the Polish variety, I would be ducking under the table as her shoe came flying past my left ear.  

I grew up in Brooklyn, as I mentioned, and while I will not be revealing my full name here, to protect myself and my business partners, suffice it to say my last name has more consonants than the world had continents.  

I have always taken a strong interest in food.  I have traveled the globe sampling local oddities and delicacies, and I am a frustrated cook.  I am self taught, essentially.  This is because, at the very last moment, I acquiesced and decided not to go to the Culinary Institute, as per my parents wishes.  My father told me he would pay for business school, but to be a chef I would have to pay my own way.

Despite financial and personal success beyond my wildest dreams, it is still, in a way, the biggest regret in my life that I did not follow my passion.

B-more outragreous

"I met Luigi Vitrone in Baltimore, in 1983. I was in town for a meeting. In fact, it was officially my very first corporate meeting. I had sat through the board's discussions of various action plans, and was thrilled when the CEO invited me back into his office with a couple of key players after the formal presentations had ended. I was literally fresh out of grad school, and here I was, sitting in the office of the CEO of a large, well known company (which will go unnamed to protect the innocent and the guilty). There were six of us in the room, and as I sat silently, enthralled, each made a play on explaining to Bob (the CEO) just what they had thought of the presentations, and just where the company should go from here.

Marty, a middle aged gentleman and head of acquisitions, made the greatest impression on me. This was not because of his stellar insights, or ability to garner favor in the room. In fact, it was just the opposite. As Marty droned on about the bottom line and importance of being earnest, it dawned on me that Marty was in fact just an empty suit. The words he spoke carried no authority, and served no purpose other than to provide him with the false assurances that everyone else in the room didn't think he was a complete moron. How he got to be head of acquisitions, I will never know. I do know, however, that the consensus in the room must have mirrored my own thoughts. He was gone within the month.

But Marty taught me an important lesson that day. He taught me, through his actions, to play my cards close to the vest, never say to much, and certainly, most importantly, don't speak just for the sake of hearing your own voice.

As he sat back down in his chair, I kind of smiled to myself, aware of just how poorly he had performed in front of all the major players.

I, on the other hand, was still trying to figure out exactly why I had been invited into this cabal, and therefore attempted to keep my glib evaluations to myself.

But a big hand reached across from the big desk, and, topping off my now empty glass of scotch, said "what do you think, kid?"

My heart burst into my throat, and my mouth dried up like the Sahara. But I managed to keep myself together, and mentioned that, from what I had been reading as of late, it seemed that our best opportunity for growth and success would be to move into the area of affinity marketing. These words would have a profound impact on the trajectory of my life, and I still am not exactly sure where they came from.

I left the meeting after three large glasses of scotch, and a few hearty pats on the back from the "boys."

I stumbled into the nearest restaurant, which seemed a bit above my budget, but appropriate for the kind of solo celebration I was ready to get into. First though, I needed to get something in my stomach. As I bellied up to the bar in a half drunken, but functional state, I saw the chef step out from the kitchen, and happened to catch his eye.

"You look like you've had a rough day. I have too. In fact, I was just about to clock out and join you at the bar for a Cherry Cola. But you seem like a nice guy, and you look like you need a good meal. So I'm gonna go back in there and put together, for you, one of my specialties. He smiled and stuck out his hand. "My name is Luigi." I smiled and said "Johnny. Nice to meet you." He made a quick about-face, and as he walked away he said "be right back." He returned, about eight minutes later, and that is when I had my first experience with "Nonna's Meatballs."

Wrestling Geriatrics

A bit taken aback by Gerald's abrasiveness (though after listening to how he talked to his wife, I shouldn't have been) I nonetheless smiled and said "Forgive me, sir, I meant no offense. I merely overheard these young folks discussing one of their favorite restaurants, and I was actually speaking to them, and not you. However, I also noticed that you and your lovely wife had been speaking of the very same restaurant just a few minutes before. Now, I may not have noticed this coincidence at all, save for the fact that the restaurant the four of you are speaking of, Luigi Vitrone's Pastabilities, happens to also be one of my very favorite restaurants. Furthermore, I happen to be very good friends with Head Chef & Proprietor Luigi Vitrone."

Kristina's eyes lit up. "You know Luigi??" she asked earnestly. "Wow! That is so cool. Mike & I just love that place. We try to get in there at least once a month, and I always try something different. There are so many amazing dishes on the menu, and his specials are always top notch as well."

"Luigi and I go way back," I explained. "I am a couple of years older than him, but our lives have taken a strangely parallel course. "

I looked out the train window as I said this, and as the trees whizzed by, making way for passing smokestacks and highways, I thought back to just how long ago it had been since Luigi and I had first met, and how, despite our incredibly disparate lives, we really had taken strangely parallel paths. I thought back to the innumerable joys and sorrows of the past twenty six years (that is how long we have known each other) and remembered how, whenever I found myself sitting at Luigi's table, the two constants were always amazing food and wonderful, empathetic company. For every story of joy or woe that I could tell, Luigi always had one that, if it wasn't better, was at least as good, and always made me laugh. I smiled to myself, about this, while trying to think of where I could begin in telling these strangers, brought together by some soft, twisted fate, about my good friend Luigi and the years of friendship we had shared.

I could tell that Gerald was completely unimpressed by all of this, but all he could muster was a grumbled "his food is pretty good" since both he and I had noticed the extreme interest his wife Jean had taken in what it was that I was saying. With the ladies enraptured, I continued.

Synchronicity and Serendipity

But right as I opened my mouth, to tell them that the man they were speaking of, Luigi Vitrone, is one of my very good friends, and that I could tell them story after crazy story of all the wild times Luigi has had during his twenty years serving the good people of Wilmington, Gerald let out a shriek, the likes of which such as I had never heard from a man of that age, or a man of any age, for that matter, ever.  

"YYYYYEEEEEEELP!!!!  Gerald screeched, as the full extent of the tragedy of the forgotten Zagat's book fully set in.  

"Dammit, Jean.  I wanted that book."

I settled back into my seat and back into my Foreign Affairs.  

We pulled into 30th St. Station in Philadelphia, and shortly thereafter, a young couple made their way into our car, and sat down on the other side of the aisle.  They were both dressed in red and white, and it did not take me long to figure out where they were coming from.  

"What a game!" the guy said to his lady friend, and she leaned up against him.  "Yeah" she replied, it was really great to see Carrie and Angie and Bob and Michael, and how about those sweet seats that Timmy hooked us up with?   And to watch that hunk Chase Utley hit a walk off home run in the bottom of the ninth....wonderful!"

"Easy now, Kristina" the gentleman chuckled, "you married me, not Chase Utley."  They laughed and settled into their seats.  I swear I heard Gerald grumbling.  

I've always been a begrudging fan of the Phillies.  Born in Brooklyn, I am a die hard Yankees fan, and have always been so.  But I was born in 1950, and it was in that year that the Yanks beat up on them Phils for the title of World Champion, so, even though I wasn't old enough to know it then, I would always hold a sort of Philadelphian love for the little brother team from the south.  Also, my favorite color has always been red.  

This is where serendipity crosses paths with the unbelievable, and I got my opportunity to again tell my stories.  As Kristina dug through her day bag, and Michael (as I came to learn was her husband's name) tried to find something listenable on his mp3 player, Jean stood up to stretch, let out a yawn, and the train pulled slowly out of the station.

It was only because of Jean's standing to stretch that I even noticed what Kristina was pulling out of her bag.  It was the Spark Magazine from this week, which I knew, from having picked it up myself earlier in the week, featured a profile of the very same Luigi Vitrone's Pastabilities that Jean and Gerry were speaking so passionately about just moments before.  I sat back in my seat, and waited to see if the moment would present itself.

Sure enough, a few minutes later, Kristina, leafing through the mag, said "Mike, look at this."  They then went into a lengthy discussion about how that cozy little, amazing restaurant that they had visited just last week was now profiled in the Spark Magazine, and how utterly serendipitous this was.  I smiled to myself at that, and listened on.  "It says here that on Wednesday and Friday nights, Pastabilities is hosting acoustic music events, and that Luigi has converted some of his classic dishes into late night sandwich offerings, at late night (read: affordable) prices."  Mike took an interest at this.  "Who is playing there next, Kris?" 

She told him "A guy named Tommy Murray will be there on September 5." 

"I love Tommy!  You know him.  We saw him play back at Mojo 13 a few months ago.  He has been playing in this area for years, in bands like the Crash, and Clayton.  And he has been doing his acoustic thing for a while now too.  I think he has a record out on Creep Records.  We'll be getting back into town on that afternoon, so we should definitely go to that, check out the scene and see how it is."

I agreed with them, silently, as I planned to be there too.  I normally only travel to Wilmington about once every three months for business, but it just so happens that I have a series of meetings I cannot avoid, to be held at the Hotel DuPont on September 4-7.  Having read that Spark article myself, I'd already made my Friday night plans.  

I hadn't realized it, but I was staring.  I've always been a big fan of Olympic Sports, so the cover of the Spark, heralding their Olympic coverage, swept me into a daze, and I was embarrassed when Mike stared right back at me and said "what are you staring at, old man?"  He thought I was inappropriately oogling his wife, but though she was oogle-worthy, I was not.  I smiled, apologized, and explained my interest in the cover.  I used this as a chance to jump in.

"I couldn't help but notice, earlier, the two of you discussing Luigi Vitrone's Pastabilities."  They both smiled, and, almost in unison, said "we love that place!"  

Gerald, whose hearing was no longer as good as it was in his days as a covert audio technician (pure conjecture, on my part), missed their response, as well as the fact that I was speaking to someone other than him.  He waved his cane somewhat wildly at me, and barked "what's it to you, bub?"