Reaching Back
There are a ton of Italian Restaurants on Hanover Street in Boston. I'd heard the stories for years by friends who'd spent time in a few. No one really knew which was the best one so last week my beautiful wife and I just walked the streets and checked the menus posted on the doors.
I could have made due at any of the places. Kathy, on the other hand, was searching for a few choices that would satisfy her limited likes.
We settled on one and the waiter headed for the table. He was a very dark man and his English was broken as he raced his way through the specials. My mouth was already watering. The aroma of the place was either garlic and olive oil or olive oil and garlic.
I hit on the first appetizer. Moments later, I was 15 years old again.
You see, we knew that Grandma was making lunch every summer day. A big lunch. We were always invited.
"Let's go to Grandma's," someone would mention around eleven in the morning. And off we'd go.
The waiter placed the dish in front of me.
Bread, cheese, Italian meats, pickled eggplant, roasted red peppers, fresh basil, olive oil.
I inhaled it.
Grandma served it every day. She'd fry the meat in olive oil. The sauce on the pasta and the vegetables mixed in were the only things that changed. It was usually short macaroni.
I ordered seafood mixed with mine in a marinara sauce. I normally stay clear of red sauces because Dad and Grandma...and me...and my siblings...all make it way better.
Usually.
I thought about picking up the bowl and drinking the sauce that was left after I finished my meal.
"How is it?" Grandma used to ask.
"You know how good it is," I used to say.
The waiter returned to our table. He smiled at the completely empty dishes around me. I was wiping up the sauce with the very last piece of bread.
"How was your meal?" he asked.
"Made me think of days long ago," I said.
"Good," he answered. "I'm glad."
He seemed to know exactly what I was talking about.
I could have made due at any of the places. Kathy, on the other hand, was searching for a few choices that would satisfy her limited likes.
We settled on one and the waiter headed for the table. He was a very dark man and his English was broken as he raced his way through the specials. My mouth was already watering. The aroma of the place was either garlic and olive oil or olive oil and garlic.
I hit on the first appetizer. Moments later, I was 15 years old again.
You see, we knew that Grandma was making lunch every summer day. A big lunch. We were always invited.
"Let's go to Grandma's," someone would mention around eleven in the morning. And off we'd go.
The waiter placed the dish in front of me.
Bread, cheese, Italian meats, pickled eggplant, roasted red peppers, fresh basil, olive oil.
I inhaled it.
Grandma served it every day. She'd fry the meat in olive oil. The sauce on the pasta and the vegetables mixed in were the only things that changed. It was usually short macaroni.
I ordered seafood mixed with mine in a marinara sauce. I normally stay clear of red sauces because Dad and Grandma...and me...and my siblings...all make it way better.
Usually.
I thought about picking up the bowl and drinking the sauce that was left after I finished my meal.
"How is it?" Grandma used to ask.
"You know how good it is," I used to say.
The waiter returned to our table. He smiled at the completely empty dishes around me. I was wiping up the sauce with the very last piece of bread.
"How was your meal?" he asked.
"Made me think of days long ago," I said.
"Good," he answered. "I'm glad."
He seemed to know exactly what I was talking about.
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