Within Close Range - The Great Chicken Debate

Whether going out or eating in, food either consumed Nonnie’s thoughts or busied her hands for hours each day — and for the latter, I'll be forever grateful. 

Meals at Nonnie’s were often laborious feats and four-course, Italian feasts. Piping hot servings of handmade manicotti or tender, breaded cutlets, lemony, garlicky vegetables, hot rolls, vinegary salads and sweet desserts.

Second helpings were always encouraged and praise for the cook, expected.

As well as a little too vehemently rejected. 

The three greatest mis-steps at this Italian table? 

One: Cutting spaghetti. Either twist it on a spoon, or prepare for a gentle cuff on the back of the head from Papa. 

Two:  If all diners are not seated at the table while the food is still visibly scalding… Nonnie will burst several blood vessels.

And three:  Never…EVER… say you’re not hungry.

Utter blasphemy.

I loved the impromptu meals at Nonnie’s best.

Rattling her with an unexpected visit and the usual ravenous appetites. 

She’d forage through the refrigerator and freeezer, brimming with outwardly unidentifiable, but doubtlessly delicious leftovers, sealed inside ancient Tupperware and old Cool Whip containers - happy to see us, but perceptibly agitated that she could only offer what she saw as barely acceptable fare.

Each serving dished up with a generous dollop of misgiving.

I ‘ve never known anyone as good at cooking as Nonnie, who complained about it more.

So it’s little wonder that while visiting her in Florida during winter breaks, the moment Papa announced we were having dinner out, a palpable - near frenetic - excitement would  electrify the apartment.

Nonnie would spend most of the day (between meals) in her dressing gown, in a walk-run, making sure our dress clothes (I was usually there with a cousin) were pressed precisely, her hair was maintaining its proper "do" beneath a sea green hair net, our snack intake was severely monitored, and her sisters Camille and Rose were consulted and updated (via long distance) on EVERYTHING. 

For Nonnie, dining out seemed the equivalent to an audience with the Pope. 

For me, such an event proved far more predictable than papal.

More "Holy Cow” than Holy Spirit.

And it nearly always meant Italian (not that I was complaining) and a lengthy car ride to get there. 

Much of my early views of Florida were seen above a sea of car upholstery, through tightly sealed windows, where the only things visible were the tops of Palm trees and passing trucks, condos and clouds, and Nonnie and Papa's heads hovering over a wide expanse of leather stretched across the latest Cadillac's cavernous front seat.

Where conversations were muffled, and occasionally in broken Italian, so young ears couldn’t possibly understand.

And elevator music-versions of Rock ’n Roll songs played softly.

Where Papa's cautious, half-mile-to-execute lane changes regularly caused the turn signal to remain blinking. 

It must have been an audio-visual black hole for Papa. He was oblivious to both the flashing green light and the constant clicking for miles on end; the sound of which often lulled me into a trance, until Nonnie finally noticed the signal of perpetual motion and snapped at Papa to turn it off, or an accompanying cousin brought me back to reality with an innocent elbow nudge, tongue extension…

or hair burning.

There sat John, with the car's backseat cigarette lighter in his hand, a smug yet sorrowful look on his face, and the smell of flaming follicles slowly wafting through the well-sealed compartment. 

Once the sulfurous smell finally drifted to the front seat, things got lively.

And loud.

Nonnie shreiked, “What’s burning?! Something’s burning! Jimmy, something’s on fire!”

Papa pitched the lumbering Caddy to an empty parking lot at the side of the road, unrolled the windows, and ordered everyone out of the car; while Nonnie stood there mumbling and grumbling and shaking her head.  

After making absolutely sure nothing else had been set on fire - and throwing John one, last incredulous look - Papa ordered everyone back in the car before signaling his return to the road; where, for the final miles to the restaurant, I lost myself in the click and glow of the sedan’s left blinker. 

Eventually Nonnie’s aggravated murmurs receded, even though the smell of John’s burnt locks had not.

No matter how frayed nerves became on the journey to food, temporary calm would always be restored when opening the door to these Old World restaurants of times past — to the enticing smells and curtained nooks, smartly dressed waiters with thick accents, and an animated maitre d' who greeted everyone like family. 

Past trompe l'oeil walls of rural Tuscan scenes; rich, red fabrics draping doorways, and rolling dessert carts of cannoli and tiramisu. 

From well below the mouthwatering chaos, I’d watch the loaded serving trays — piled high with pastas and soups, roasted chickens and fresh seafood — pass deftly overhead, with a "Scuza, Signorina!”, until a hand on my shoulder gently guided me out of the busy traffic and into a chair in front of a round table covered in linens and complex table settings. 

A fast-moving figure from behind would cast a well-aimed cascade of ice water into one of the two stemmed glasses set at eye-level before me. 

Tempted and tormented by baskets of breadsticks and freshly baked rolls, my hand would be gently spanked away from a second helping.

 "You'll spoil your dinner,” Nonnie would scold. (When what she secretly had in mind was a bakery heist for tomorrow's breakfast.)

Excitement would rise again with the arrival of the menu which ignited imaginations and appetites. But burdened with such choices sometimes meant questionable judgement, such as Mary’s foolhardy decision to order a NON-Italian dish at this favorite Italian restaurant.

Which also happened to be the "market price" Surf and Turf.

Papa was speechless.

Nonnie was not.

It was a mistake Mary would not make again.

But the inexplicable regularity with which Nonnie ordered veal when presented with an abundance of choices was enough to make family members cringe and Papa's blood boil. 

Not because baby cow meat was one of Nonnie's favorite things to eat. 

But because every time she ordered veal (whether Marsala or Picante, upscale joint or neighborhood favorite) Nonnie would often only take two bites.

One for eternal optimism.

The other, raging cynicism.

Then she’d raise her head from her plate and - wearing utter disappointment as a mourning veil - complain meekly but unmistakably.

"This doesn't taste like veal. It's tastes like chicken. I'm sure this veal is chicken."

Thus another battle in Nonnie’s tireless crusade to unmask poultry dressed in calves' clothing would begin; prompting children to slip lower in their seats and adults to start commenting about the day's weather. 

Papa would bow his head and sigh with exasperated disbelief. Then he and his wife would begin a short-lived, but emotionally escalating and frustrating exchange that would end with Papa vowing to never take Nonnie out to a restaurant again.

And Nonnie looking self-righteously miserable, as she rummaged through her dinner-roll-filled-handbag looking for tissue. 

The drive home on these evenings was what I imagined floating in space would be like.

Silent.

Solitary.

Dark.

Except for the flashing, green light emanating from the dashboard that let me know other life forms still existed.

A few days would pass.

Then Papa would announce we were going out to dinner.

And Nonnie’s excitement would rise anew.

Until she decided to order the veal that night.

And Papa would end up swearing that it was the very last time he would ever take her out to dinner - a vow he would repeat until the day he died.

Nonnie would work tirelessly in her quest to find real veal for decades more.