That’s Amore!

Here’s this week’s reflection. I hope it resonates with you and ask that, if you enjoyed, please comment and share on your social media. Heartfelt thanks for all your support!

Keeping the light on for you,

Carol

“Figlio di puttana!”

Leaving my station to assess the commotion erupting in the kitchen, I stop short, seeing and feeling the floury contrail of a high speed pizza cutter whipping across the space. I remain still and watch my boss, fully immersed in a first-class Italian hissy fit of unknown origin. Continuing to swear in Italian, he notices my teenage presence and immediately lowers his ire and decibel level. Composure regained, he smiles, apologizes (in English), and continues to artfully toss pizza dough. With no idea what set him off, although assured that it wasn’t me, I return to my customer on hold, answer their question, take their order, and smile broadly.  

Louie and Lola are true gems. No strangers to hard work, they endured not only a move to another continent, but possessed the grit to make a family business thrive in a new country. Louie and Lola have a lot on their literal plates, serving up delicious food and good vibes. I am all too eager to soak up their secret sauce.

It didn’t take long for “Uncle” Louie and “Aunt” Lola to become lovingly adopted kin and an enormous influence on me. My high school job at their pizzeria expanded my life’s education far beyond any printed menu. Marketing pizza and taking care of customers included modeling the honest daily life tenets of a family that loved, laughed, and occasionally sparred together. That affection extended to the few employees allowed into the mix. I loved that job, most notably because I loved them. In return, they seemed to genuinely care about me, sharp flying objects aside. The cash under the table wasn’t bad either.

European families are often a tight-knit bunch. Aging is revered as generations stick together. Though modernity may challenge core values, legacy exists nonetheless. In a disposable world, their familial web wove an invisible safety net transcending time. Blood is indeed thicker than water, and Louie and Lola were the vital gluten holding their bowl of dough together.  

Lola was the proverbial doting Italian mother, looking after me along with her own, inquiring how my school day was, bending an ear to genuinely listen, and giving warm hugs when needed as she stirred sauce or prepped vegetables. Fun was an essential ingredient as well. She and Louie would often tease each other, sometimes escalating to the occasional spat, but mostly clucking at each other like a pair of unruly chickens. Married for years, they worked together like a well-oiled machine in their cucina –all squawks aside. They confessed they never went to bed angry at each other; if they argued into bedtime, one or the other would reach out, gently poke the other, and get them to laugh. A surprisingly simple relief valve for a pair of volatile Italians.

I loved watching Louie gently massage, stretch, and finally toss pizza dough in the air. Years of practice burnished this simple act into an art form. He had an uncanny feel beyond the dough for when to manipulate and when to let things rest. Louie and Lola encouraged people that very same way. They would massage truth out, stretch vocabulary, and toss naysayers to the side. And they were instrumental in my early education toward assertiveness.  I was brought up to “stay in my lane and not make waves.” Louie and Lola challenged all that. They pushed me to widen my view of the world, encouraged me to expand my interests and abilities beyond academics, deal productively with difficult customers, and to simply work like a damn dog. 

I was already a pretty industrious kid, but I honed these skills by manning nonstop phone orders, waiting and bussing tables, and endlessly folding pizza boxes, their stacks ever ready for weekend nights. The best part? I could reflect on all this while eating eggplant parmesan or the special pizza slices they would make for me. The way to my heart was indeed through my belly, and this family knew it. Patrons and employees alike benefited from this culinary and emotional feast that kept everyone coming back for more. 

Working toward a common goal was part and parcel of this kitchen’s chemistry. Louie and Lola’s two sons and one daughter-in-law added their wit and wisdom in the kitchen, cooking and helping out on the busiest days. It was the pasta e fagioli of kin, each adding a splash of sass and dash of spice to the pot. There was no such thing as too many cooks for this kitchen. Their offerings were the fruit of many hands, heads, and hearts, lovingly stirred to fruition and the pinnacle of taste. Multiple generations participated, all were respected, and a successful business nourished not only their pockets but mine too. 

While I enjoyed all of it, two times each shift stand out in my memory (aside from gastronomy). It was my job as “the kid” to fold flat forms into the pizza boxes used for take out. This was done early in my shift (late afternoons) before the phone would commence its constant ringing. I would challenge my Type A self with both speed (fluidity) of execution and volume (height) stacked. I was soon entranced by this ritual; my school day blurred as I focused on the feel of each fold, deftly coaxing stubborn cardboard into useful vessels. Hence, I earned the moniker of Fastest Box Maker – small but appreciated kudos for a kid from her employer.

However, it was the golden ends of evenings I loved most, when we would reflect on the day as we cleaned up, conversed, and sometimes noshed. A time to let our hair down, perhaps light a cigarette (Louie’s habit), and discuss life. This was MY meat of the day, when wisdom splashed into the skillet by those having clocked far more kitchen time than I. My taste buds may have even been tempted with sips of chianti or lambrusco – some of my first forays into wine beyond the occasional glass of Chablis at home with mom. 

Hard work, persistence, authentic ingredients in both personal and culinary pursuits, and never going to bed angry made a solid life and a solid marriage. Louie and Lola’s life’s recipe included generous portions of these ingredients, and it showed; the number one ingredient being LOVE. 

Time is a thief, and these dear ones have passed, their establishment long closed. Yet I will forever see, hear, and feel the clatter of pots and pizza peels, the oppressive heat of the massive oven, whining gears of the giant Hobart mixer full of dough, five-gallon buckets of proprietary sauce stirred by their son in his long white apron, the gracefully artful toss of dough in the air, ringing phones, the glorious aroma of garlic, the occasional warm hug, and yes, the swear words and (thankfully infrequent) flying objects. This glorious repast remains fresh in my memory, ready for me to sink a fork in and enjoy whenever needed. Louie and Lola’s restaurant will be forever open in my heart until the day I pass from this earth because, well … that’s amore!