Angelina's Bachelors

by Brian O'Reilly

  Philadelphia had a world-class museum, a symphony orchestra, a great library, and he was within easy striking distance of New York and Washington, which meant the Met, the National Gallery, Lincoln Center, the Smithsonian. There would be time to sample and take pleasure in experiencing it all—starting now with what he had every reason to believe would most likely be the best food he had ever eaten in his life, and, even better, served on a regular schedule, twice a day, six times a week.

  As for the rest, there was no time like the present. He would start in on his reading with the Western Canon. He’d gone to the Free Library straightaway after he’d left Angelina, filled out an application for a library card, and begun his organized research and exploration into its vast literary collection. He wanted nothing too esoteric to start. He would work his way up to more challenging works such as Dante’s Inferno or The Iliad as his literary and aesthetic muscles grew stronger. Shakespeare wasn’t going anywhere. He wanted something substantial but exciting to start with, a book with real emotion, definitely poetry, but a little action, too. In the end, he decided on Cervantes. So, when he left the house the next day, at three minutes to eight for the trip across the street, he carried a Penguin Classics edition of Don Quixote in his pocket. He made his first trip in two and a half minutes and knocked on the door with a comfortable cushion of thirty seconds to spare.

  “Hi, Mr. Cupertino,” Angelina said, opening the front door. “Wow, you’re right on time. Come on in.”

  Basil entered the warmth of the parlor and was immediately encouraged by the smells wafting in from the kitchen. He followed Angelina into the dining room and saw that a place had been set for him along the side of the table, which was covered with a fresh linen tablecloth. A small flowerpot with African violets was set in the center of the table, and a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice was by his place setting.

  “Take a seat,” said Angelina. She left and returned with a carafe of hot coffee in her hand.

  “You want the TV on, or some music or something?” she asked as she went back into the kitchen.

  “No, thanks, I’ve got my book.”

  “Oh, what are you reading?”

  “Don Quixote. you know, the Man of La Mancha.”

  Angelina reappeared in the doorway, whipping with a whisk in a steel mixing bowl with practiced dexterity. “Oh, God, I love that show. Isn’t that the one with ‘The Impossible Dream’?”

  “Oh, sure,” he said.

  The egg timer dinged and Angelina disappeared. Basil sampled the coffee, which alone was worth the price of admission. Angelina had laid out a small porcelain pitcher of milk and a sugar bowl, but today Basil drank it black.

  Angelina had been up since four-thirty and felt shaky. Despite that she hadn’t been getting much rest, sleep never came to her easily when she had something serious on for the next day, and this was serious business. She’d seldom, if ever, doubted herself in the realm of food, especially in her own kitchen, but today was different. This time, she was getting paid to cook for someone she really didn’t know very well, which was far different from cooking for friends or for her family, who would compliment her whatever the circumstances; this time, she had no idea what to expect. She’d spent the whole morning pacing and drinking coffee, started cooking at seven-thirty, and by ten minutes to eight, when it was too late to turn back, she was kicking herself.

  Why in heaven’s name was she making a breakfast dish for a man she didn’t know that had spinach in it? What if he hated spinach? What if her hollandaise broke? What, she couldn’t have just started him off with bacon, scrambled eggs, and toast?

  She dipped a clean pinkie into the hollandaise in the bowl. It coated her finger like a sheath of yellow velvet. Despite her nerves, she plated swiftly and surely. She lifted the poached eggs clear from the shimmering, hot water with a safecracker’s touch, laying each one with infinite care in place on top of its foundation of English muffin and Canadian bacon. Silky drizzle of hollandaise, sprinkle of fresh parsley, grind of black pepper, framed with creamed spinach, dusted with paprika. Done.

  Basil hadn’t achieved more than a page of his book when Angelina swept in with his breakfast. Wisps of fragrant steam wafted up as the plate landed before him.

  “Oh, my Lord,” Basil said. “Is that spinach? What is this?”

  Angelina’s heart skipped a beat. “It’s eggs Benedict Florentine.”

  He bowed down and took in the aromas more deeply.

  “Don’t you like eggs Benedict?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. I’ve never had it. What’s in it?”

  Angelina took a quick breath. “It’s poached eggs on an English muffin with Canadian bacon and hollandaise sauce. And I creamed a little spinach with nutmeg and Parmesan cheese. My mother taught me how to make it. She used to make it for my father every Easter Sunday. I hope you like it.”

  “It smells good. Thank you.”

  “Enjoy,” she said, and left the room.

  A little mirror hung on the dining room wall, a tchotchke with a curlicue frame she’d picked up for a song in New Hope, which Angelina suddenly realized had been placed in the perfect position for spying on Mr. Cupertino from right where she stood in the kitchen.

  Basil picked up his knife and fork and cut into the egg and bacon, down through the crispy, perfectly browned muffin. The golden yolk, not too firm or too runny, trickled sinuously into the rich hollandaise, which was delicately speckled with smoked paprika. He speared egg, ham, and bread, pushed a little of the creamed spinach that surrounded it onto the fork with his knife, and raised the artfully composed bite to his lips.

  He tasted for a full twelve seconds before he breathed out with an audible moan.

  Angelina had heard that sound before. Her daddy used to make that sound on Easter, and Frank had made it the first time he tasted that dish.

  “Magnificent!” called Basil. “Is every day going to be like this?”

  Angelina looked straight into the glare of the sun shining through the kitchen window. It was a trick she’d always used to keep from crying as a little girl. She couldn’t start crying; she’d never be able to explain to him why.

  “You want some more coffee?” she called back.

  “Yes, please.”

  Angelina checked herself in the little mirror, returned to the table, and refilled his cup. “I’m so glad you like it,” she said, her confidence almost fully restored. “And, no, if you eat like this every day, you’ll get spoiled. And fat. Tomorrow, you get steel-cut oatmeal. With a little fresh cranberry conserve.”

  “I cannot wait.” His eyes crinkled with gustatory bliss.

  Angelina left him alone with his meal and busied herself in the kitchen. Basil abandoned any pretense of reading because he found it impossible to concentrate on anything but the meal in front of him. He savored it and took his time, but in a few all-too-brief minutes, it was over and gone.

  It took Angelina two shakes to finish the washing up as Basil lingered over the last of the coffee. She declared her intention to go and do a bit of food shopping, but not before Basil, as good as his word, handed her a check for the first month’s installment of what, he now felt more certain than ever, would be a long-standing and happy arrangement. They left the house together.

  Eggs Benedict Florentine

  * * *

  Serves 4

  INGREDIENTS FOR CANADIAN BACON

  1 teaspoon canola or olive oil

  4 half-inch-thick slices Canadian bacon

  INGREDIENTS FOR CREAMED SPINACH

  ½ cup heavy cream

  ¼ teaspoon grated nutmeg

  1 pound fresh spinach, soaked in salt water to remove grit and dried in a salad spinner

  Salt, if needed, and freshly ground black pepper, to taste

  1 cup finely grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese, freshly grated from about a 2-ounce piece

  INGREDIENTS FOR POACHED EGGS

  4 eggs

  1 tablespoon vinegar

&nbs
p; 2 English muffins, fork split

  Butter, as needed, for the English muffins

  ⅛ teaspoon paprika

  INGREDIENTS FOR HOLLANDAISE

  2 large egg yolks

  1 tablespoon chilled white wine

  1/16 teaspoon salt (a pinch)

  ½ cup butter (see note in method about this amount), fully melted but no longer steaming hot

  Juice of ½ a fresh lemon

  METHOD FOR CANADIAN BACON

  Heat the oil in a skillet over medium-high heat. Lightly brown each side of the Canadian bacon. Remove it from the heat and cover it to keep it warm until needed.

  METHOD FOR CREAMED SPINACH

  Heat the cream and nutmeg over medium to medium-low heat in a heavy-bottomed saucepot, and reduce by three-fourths, about 5 minutes, monitoring to prevent burning.

  Steam the spinach until it’s tender but still bright green.

  Remove the cream from the heat and mix well with the Parmesan, then fold in the spinach. Adjust the seasoning to taste with salt, if needed, and black pepper. Cover to keep warm, and set aside.

  METHOD FOR THE POACHED EGGS

  Poach the eggs before you begin the hollandaise, as hollandaise cannot sit long before it is served and will reheat the eggs it tops.

  Add 1 tablespoon vinegar to a medium saucepan of gently boiling water over medium-high heat. Add the eggs one at a time so they don’t cook into one mass.

  The eggs should be cooked until the whites are set but the centers are still soft. Ideally, the eggs will float freely and independently without sinking to the bottom. But if an egg sinks to the bottom, wait until it’s nearly set before attempting to work it loose, or the yolk will surely break. For food-safety reasons, remove the eggs from the pot with a slotted wooden or plastic spoon and place in another pot or bowl filled with water that has been heated to 150°F (hot enough to kill microorganisms without further cooking the eggs), cover, and let sit about 5 minutes, while you make the hollandaise, then drain them on a paper towel and pat them dry.

  Toast and butter the English muffins.

  METHOD FOR THE HOLLANDAISE

  Combine the egg yolks, wine, and salt in a double boiler set over simmering water (in classical cooking, a simmer is just below a boil, a temperature that should be maintained to keep the eggs from curdling), and whisk constantly for about 2 minutes, then gradually begin adding melted butter in a slow, thin stream, continuing to whisk constantly until the mixture is emulsified and the sauce begins to thicken. (Important: If you achieve a pleasantly thickened sauce before all the butter has been added, don’t feel compelled to use it all because attempting to do so may cause the sauce to break.) Whisk in the lemon juice, and remove the double boiler from the heat. Cover and keep the sauce in the double boiler (but not for long).

  PRESENTATION

  Make a circle of creamed spinach around the perimeter of each serving plate. Place a toasted and buttered English muffin in the center of each plate and top with a slice of Canadian bacon and a poached egg. Spoon some hollandaise sauce over the egg and sprinkle with paprika.

  * * *

  They had barely descended to the pavement when a five-year-old boy, Dominic, ran up to them breathlessly. He had been sent on a courier’s mission by his mother, who was in close conversation with the mailman down the street and who waved to Angelina and pointed to the little boy as he jumped to a stop in front of them with both feet.

  “Hi, Mrs. D’Angelo!”

  “Hi, Dominic. Boy, you’re getting big.”

  “I know. Is that your dad?” He indicated Basil with an accusatory forefinger.

  “No, sweetie, he’s not my dad. This is my friend Mr. Cupertino from down the street.”

  “Okay,” said Dominic, “my mom says to tell you that Mrs. Cappuccio wants you to come and see her.”

  “Right now?” asked Angelina.

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, tell her I’m coming over. But don’t run.”

  He ran off to deliver the message to his mom, and Angelina turned to Basil. “So, Mr. Cupertino, do you want anything special for your dinner?”

  “You think I ever in a million years would have come up with eggs Benedict?”

  Angelina laughed and gave him a pat on the back. “See you at seven o’clock,” she called as Basil headed for home.

  A minute later, she knocked on the Cappuccios’ door. Johnny answered and let her in. He took her coat and handbag and conscientiously hung them up in the hall closet. Johnny had always been a little shy with Angelina. He was a sweet kid and she liked to tease him, but she usually waited until after he’d had a few minutes to warm up to her actually being in the same room.

  “You working today, Johnny?” she asked.

  “Yeah. I mean, yes, I’m going in a minute. Can I get you anything?”

  “No thanks, honey. Little Dominic said your grandma wanted to see me?”

  “You can go ahead upstairs, she’s in her room,” said Johnny. “I’ll tell her you’re here.”

  He took one step toward the foot of the steps and yelled, “Grandmom! Mrs. D’Angelo’s here!”

  A distant, reedy female voice called back from the dark at the top of the stairs, “Do you think they heard you in Sicily?”

  Johnny turned to Angelina with the beginnings of a blush forming. “Sorry,” he said quietly. Then he called out at the top of his lungs, “I’m going to work!”

  His grandmother called out, “Good-bye!”—with a playful tone of and good riddance! that made Angelina smile.

  “Angelina, are you coming up to see me?”

  “Hi, Mrs. Cappuccio, I’ll be up in a minute.”

  Johnny shrugged into his jacket and headed for the door. “Thanks for coming over, Mrs. D’Angelo. Um, I gotta’ go …”

  “You go. I’ll lock up after. Go and have a nice day.”

  Johnny dashed out the door. Angelina closed it behind him and headed up the steps. She’d been in the house plenty of times, but had never been up to Mrs. Cappuccio’s bedroom. She knew that the dear was getting up in age and had been having more and more trouble making the trip all the way down to the first floor. One of the drawbacks of South Philly row homes was the precipitous climb up and down the stairs, which wore on a soul as the years rolled by.

  Mrs. Cappuccio’s room had that unmistakable little-old-lady smell of stale perfume with a dash of camphor laced with potpourri that came together in a comforting musk, especially when the heat was turned up high all of the time. There were religious icons and pictures all over the room, of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, Our Lady of Fatima, of Mary and Joseph leaning in wonder over baby Jesus in the manger, thumbtacked to the walls and arranged on tiny shelves.

  Mrs. Cappuccio sat upright in bed. She looked old and too thin, but her hair was still nearly black, with vivid streaks of gray, and was knotted in a long, beautiful braid that showed outside her black-and-orange quilt. She smiled at Angelina with strong, white teeth and patted the covers beside her.

  “Hello, Angelina. Come sit by me.”

  Angelina walked over, perched on the edge of the mattress, and asked, “How are you doing, Mrs. Cappuccio?”

  “I’m doing okay, honey. Sorry I couldn’t get to the funeral.”

  “That’s okay. You haven’t been feeling well. It was nice that Johnny came.”

  Mrs. Cappuccio leaned back, settling herself in for a nice visit. Angelina could see that the very mention of her grandson’s name made her happy. “If your Tina was there, my Johnny’s gonna be there,” she said knowingly.

  “Yeah, I kind of think you’re right.”

  “It’s a bad time,” said Mrs. Cappuccio, “but it’s good to have a nice funeral. Everybody comes, you see them, they make you feel better. When my Bill died, the funeral was three days. The full boat.”

  “Three days. Wow.”

  “My Bill, he just thought the church was the big thing. See alla’ this junk in the room, with the crosses and the statues? That’s all him. He was a nut
for Jesus Christ and His Mother. Me, I like pictures of dogs and birds.”

  “Dogs and birds are nice,” said Angelina. “So, what did you want to talk to me about?”

  Mrs. Cappuccio snuggled in comfortably and savored having Angelina’s full attention before she spoke.

  “So, you’re cooking the meals for Dottie’s brother?”

  Angelina enjoyed seeing the look of small triumph that crossed Mrs. Cappuccio’s face, a look that said, despite her age and confinement, she still knew what was what in the neighborhood.

  Angelina replied with friendly astonishment, “How’d you know that? I just started this morning.”

  Mrs. Cappuccio continued with a casual air, as if this kind of thing happened every day, “Dottie brings me some of her chicken noodle soup, once a week, or twice. She told me about it. She thinks it’s a good idea. She don’t like to cook, except for soup.”

  “How was the chicken noodle anyway?”

  “I gotta eat it, she comes right up to the room, I can’t get away. So, anyhow, if you’re taking in some cooking, I want you to maybe take in my Gianni. He’s got a good job; it’s no problem for him to pay you.”

  Angelina did a little double take. This was the last thing she’d expected, but she saw the appeal of the idea right away, given her present circumstances. Mrs. Cappuccio was prepared for Angelina’s next question even before she asked it.

  “But how about you?”

  “Oh, don’t worry about me. I’m moving over to the Heaven Hotel. I can’t take the steps no more, so I’m going to the Sacred Heart Home. I got it all arranged.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. The mother superior over there, she used to be Margaret O’Healy. We were best friends all through school. We used to chase all the boys, but only I could catch them. That’s probably why she become a nun.” The old woman laughed merrily at a snippet of memory from her girlhood. “Now she’s ‘Sister Bartholomew of the Flaming Sword.’ Scares the hell out of everybody, but Maggie’ll make sure they take good care of me.”