her depression-era childhood with three siblings and a single, deaf immigrant mom who spoke little English. Mom’s dad, a milliner, made hats of his own design. Clients, I was told, were from Broadway and films. At the cusp of the Great Depression, Charles—Calógero, I believe—ran off to California with a young actress client. Sandy, was of a later generation, hence more profligate, and at times this trait exasperated Mom. But, Sandy never really knew the depression, nor did I, though I still try to emulate Mom’s thriftiness and her custom of holding food sacred. Several times Mom told me that her mother, my Nonna Nunziatina, actually kissed food goodbye that she had to throw away.
Though Mom always loved to eat, her frugal nature meant that she did not go out much. However, a bargain is a bargain, and it could be had at a diner-deli on 18th Avenue and sixty-something street— worth the walk from Mom’s place on 21st Avenue and 77th Street. This was the “famous half-sandwich shop” that Toni Caggiano mentioned in the previous chapter. The place had a perpetual special: half sandwich of pastrami or corned beef, cup of soup, and a drink—Mom and I always went for seltzer with a lemon slice. All this for $4.99, and of course, half of a bracing kosher dill pickle cut length-wise.
Mom took Sandy there once.
To set the scene: The sandwich was packed New York deli style—the meat could be redistributed into a whole sandwich in mid-America. It was on good rye or pumpernickel, and especially great when dripping with mensch mustard. The hearty soup was home-made: split pea, barley and beef, for example. The service was Brooklyn friendly (“whaddya havin’ sweetie?”), and the clientele was, well, Bensonhurst. A nearby lawyer ate there daily—hey, a bargain is indeed a bargain. And a lonely soul virtually lived there. They let him stay—the ’hood has a heart.
So, after lunch, Sandy “expletived” all about how hungry she still was: “What the hell is this? Are you crazy?” Mom and Sandy went into uncontrollable laughing fits: conniptions. I think they needed another $4.99 round—two for $8.99? You will see “conniptions” mentioned elsewhere in this narrative. Some may associate this with rage or anger, but I prefer happy hysteria.
Sandy’s people are from Sciacca. In Bensonhurst back in the day it was not enough to say you were Italian, not even Sicilian, Neapolitan, Romano, etcetera; you also had to indicate the paese—the village or environs. Sciacca is a Sicilian town of fishermen, and many, or most, fish stores in Brooklyn were run by gli sciacchitani (sounds like “e shock-ee-DON”). Sandy, of course, served “fish” often at home, which really meant shellfish—shrimp, clams, mussels, octopus (polpo—in dialect, “ee BOOP”), calamari (squid), etcetera. Some of Sandy’s family was in the fish business. All stores in the “bizzhi-ness” featured live eels, great aromas, and all that frutti di mare. I loved to go to fish places, especially around the holidays. Most were on 18th Avenue, but there was always a store within walking distance. In the ’hood, you bought a fish and, if you wanted, they would fillet it for you and give you the bones to make a broth—no extra charge. Watching those guys work was part of the culinary experience.
In the old “old days,” fish stores had a dried, salted codfish hanging over the portal—nailed to it actually, in all kinds of weather, all year round, until it was taken down for the holidays, rehydrated, and baked with tomatoes, onions, and potatoes—quite good. Of course, they sold more than this one “masthead” specimen. This was dried bacalá, or stoccafisso, an Italianization of “stock fish,” not to be confused with fish stock. Mom said “stocca-baccalà.” Cod comes from cold waters; partial credit goes to the Portuguese—navigators, fishermen, and merchants—for making it so popular in Italy, Spain, Brazil, and the Caribbean. I picked up some salted cod in Spain, soaked it with several water changes, and cooked it according to Mom’s recipe. The first bite sucked out half my blood volume— you really have to soak out the salt. In cold, dry climates, such as Norway's, no need for salt.
Another ’hood seafood treat was scungilli, or conchs. They are great boiled, diced, and served in a fresh seafood salad with bitter green olives, celery, octopus tentacle sections, and the assorted dislodged sucker. I am forgetting other ingredients, and this recipe, I am afraid, is gone with Mom. Scungilli is also a term for a “gavoon,” a slow greenhorn from the other side. “Gavoon” is how the dialect form of cafone (peasant) sounded to me. Gavoon is a useful word; I even heard Dom DeLuise use it on TV. I never knew how much I appreciated bacalá, vongole (cherrystone clams), scungilli, crab, etcetera, until I made my way to the mid-American “fish sticks.” Though I hasten to add that fishing can be a cult in Missouri.
Linguistic/culinary/cultural side trip: I do not want to denigrate Missouri’s fish culture—Missouri is almost a coastal inland state; within its borders are the confluence of the Missouri and Mississippi Rivers, many springs, spring-fed clear rivers, lakes, and fishing holes. So fishing is a passion to many Missourians, and a favorite is the “crappie,” pronounced croppie—careful with your pronunciation, out-of-towners. And, I should mention our own paddle fish; a living fossil and a source of Missouri caviar.
While I commuted between Missouri and Brooklyn, older generations of Italians tended to commute between New York and the old country, though the trip back often convinced them the right choice was having gone to Mannaggia’merica (damn America) in the first place. Sandy’s uncle traveled back to Sciacca; however, he married and stayed there. When he passed, his Sicilian widow became the beneficiary of an American account of some kind. How to communicate with this woman? Mom was the designated “interlocutor.” She spoke some “high Italian” (Toscano), but was better at the dialects of Naples, Bari, and Palermo (Belmonte Mezzagno)—the latter picked up from my stepdad’s extended family. Mom had to engage in a “dialectic” to convince “La Signora Vedova” to sign the papers and forward the death certificate to Brooklyn. Imagine doing this over the phone, and dealing with the normal Sicilian undercurrents of mistrust. We Americans can’t really appreciate dealing with millennia of clashing cultures, plots, wars, invasions, shifting alliances, and omertà (code of silence). Just look at us in the Middle East; Mom might have helped. By the way, Mom succeeded, convincing A Signora to sign the paper and forward it to Brooklyn.
Sandy’s husband Tommy grew up in the Little Italy of Martin Scorsese. In those days, many residents were not catering to tourists, but were more motivated to avoid getting “whacked.” Tommy is an engineer, and he and Sandy have two successful daughters. I have said more than once that Tommy is a prince, but he’s really more like a saint, ’cause the former sounds Machiavellian. Tommy is San Tommaso to Sandy’s Santa, and is completely behind Sandy’s charity work—as in he can’t keep up, but he is sooo forbearing. Sandy’s specialty is making gift baskets to be auctioned at fund-raisers. She “puts the squeeze” on local businesses, and stocks the baskets well. And, the baskets usually occupy a whole room at the Irrera home. Tommy accepts this—as in “Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change.”
Mom, and Sandy before her, were recognized as “Women of the Year” by New York State Senator Marty Golden, representing Brooklyn’s 22nd District, which is comprised of several neighborhoods. In March of 2011, I came in from Missouri for the evening event honoring Mom and the other winners. Indeed, the other women were very deserving, but it seemed to me that they did their good deeds as part of their professional duties—school principals, guidance counselors, et al. But Mom and Sandy were “free agents.” Bless Sandy for calling Mom to Senator Golden’s attention. Mom was definitely not into self-promotion, or resumé building, as David Brooks might say.
Mom and Sandy both believed in the malocchio. The evil eye is also “maloik” in the ’hood. You get it when someone “overlooks” you, expressing grudging congratulations or a compliment, but really dying of jealousy and resentment—new house, new car, beautiful grandchild—and thinking, “Yeah, she should get a hernia for her troubles.” Hence, be very discreet about bragging; as I say elsewhere, Mom hated to brag about her kids or grandkids for this very reason. She was concerned for her kin, and not so much for herself.
There was a time when Sandy did not believe in the maloik, but her husband Tommy did, as did his mom, of course. Sandy became a believer when she endured five days of a low-grade headache—one that Tylenol, aspirin, etcetera could not help. Her mother-in-law checked her