There it was, all wrapped up as neat as a pin.
“Sure, I’ll take care of Johnny,” said Angelina. “Send him over and I’ll set him up.”
Mrs. Cappuccio grinned, and the accord was struck. Johnny would come for dinner that very evening, at seven sharp.
“You’re a good girl, Angelina. Could you do me a favor before you go, hon?”
“Sure, what?”
“Make me a sandwich and a cup a tea? And throw out that goddamn soup for me?”
Downstairs, Angelina rummaged through Mrs. Cappuccio’s refrigerator and found some pumpernickel bread, the end of a smoked pork roast, and a half a pound of Swiss cheese. She started thinking of the kinds of food she’d miss making most if she were stuck in bed most of the day, and she immediately thought deli. She cruised the refrigerator shelves and found some India relish, which she mixed together with a bit of ketchup and mayonnaise to make an improvised Thousand Island dressing. When she found a little can of sauerkraut in the cupboard, she knew she had a winner. She cooked up a Reuben sandwich in a cast-iron skillet, brewed a strong cup of tea with two sugars and a drop of milk, and brought it up to the room on a tray with some dill pickle slices on the side.
They whiled away the next hour chatting like old girlfriends, and Angelina used the opportunity to find out about the kinds of dinners Johnny liked to eat. When Angelina noticed that Mrs. Cappuccio was getting tired, she said good-bye and promised to visit her again later in the week, to see how she was getting on. She left Mrs. Cappuccio napping contentedly, gave the kitchen a once-over before she left, and locked the door securely behind her.
Angelina headed off in the direction of the bank, fingering Mr. Cupertino’s check in her pocket as she walked. She could hardly believe that it had only been yesterday that she’d agreed to cook for Mr. Cupertino, and it had hit her forcefully this morning just what a leap of faith it had been. The money he had agreed to pay her was generous, would allow for the purchase of quality ingredients, and allow her to make some excellent meals for him and still turn a profit, but as far as supporting her, that was quite another matter. Even with Frank’s small life insurance policy, she wouldn’t be able to survive on that kind of money alone for long. When she thought about it, she felt a little sick to her stomach.
It had crossed her mind as early as last night that things might be a lot better if she were cooking for more than one person. She would have had a tough time saying no to Mrs. Cappuccio regardless, and Johnny was a sweetheart, but she also realized that this latest wrinkle definitely helped her financial cause.
Then it occurred to her that, before she’d gone ahead and signed on another “client,” it might have been a good idea to have consulted with Mr. Cupertino, her first and, let’s face it, most important paying customer, to make sure that it was okay by him.
What if he balked at the idea? She made herself a mental promise not to put it off and to bring it up with him as soon as possible.
It was cool outside, but the sun was shining, so after Angelina made the deposit at the bank, she wandered over in the direction of Sacco’s Italian Deli. As she walked those familiar sidewalks, she let her mind wander and thought, Sardines in the can have more elbow room than the houses on Tasker Street.
She remembered back to her friend in eighth grade Linda Spinelli, who used to live on Tasker. She and Angelina used to butter white bread on the outside, heat up a pan and make toasted chocolate sandwiches with Hershey’s bars, then share them while they pressed their ears to the electric socket on the common kitchen wall with Linda’s neighbors and listened to them argue after dinner. Everyone in South Philly wanted to know everyone else’s business, but, for the most part, they took pride in being part of a respectable community, too. Every front stoop Angelina passed was as clean as a dinner plate. In this neighborhood, the lady of the house regarded her front steps as the first steps into her home.
The bell over the door tinkled as Angelina walked into Sacco’s. The family-owned place had great cheeses and salumi, fresh pasta and bread made every day; it had been on this corner for as long as she could remember. The old man and his wife stayed in the back, making soups and salads, pastries and gelato, and their son, who was in his sixties and who almost everybody knew as Mr. Sack (though they never said it to his face), tended the counter and made sandwiches with his two sons, Donnie and Sal. Angelina took a number and looked around at a display of olive oils on the shelf while she waited. Soon, Donnie called out her number and she placed it in a tiny wicker basket on the counter.
“Hi, Donnie.”
“How ya’ doin’, Mrs. D’Angelo?”
They went straight into their familiar rhythm of ordering. Donnie could remember up to about fourteen items before he had to write anything down, but kept the stub of a pencil behind his ear at all times, just in case. He started cutting with the slicer as she recited her list.
“I need some cheese, give me half a pound of provolone …”
“Okay, what else?”
“… half a pound bufala mozarell’ …”
“Okay, what else?”
“Capicol’, a pound, prosciut’, half a pound …”
“Okay, what else?”
“… olives, the Calabrese, some of those cherry peppers … your mom make them?”
“Absolutely. ’Zat it?”
“And a loaf of that big bread,” she said, pointing. “That’s it, thanks, Donnie.”
“You got it.” The first packet of cheese, wrapped in white butcher paper, hit the counter as he spoke, and he went off to put together the rest of her order.
Angelina gave a little wave to Mr. Sacco, who was glaring out from behind the counter. “Hi, Mr. Sacco.”
He glared at her, but in a nice way, not the way he generally glared at everybody else. “Hey, honey, how you doin’?” he grumbled.
The bell rang on the door behind her and, to her surprise, Jerry Mancini walked in. Angelina saw him before he saw her and she smiled in spite of herself. Jerry and she went way back—back to grade school at Saint Teresa’s before they tore it down and everybody went over to Saint Joe. He was one year ahead of her, one of those guys you never dated but was always around, always funny, always made you laugh. He was a few inches taller than Angelina all through school, still was, with dark hair, brown eyes; he had a nice build but never played sports; never tucked in his shirt, never really combed his hair, but it worked for him and he got away with it because the teachers all liked him. He had an opinion of himself, for sure, at least he did back in the day. Angelina couldn’t put a day to the last time she’d seen him around. He looked good, though.
Jerry headed toward the counter. “Hey, Donnie.”
Donnie looked up long enough to barely acknowledge the greeting as he worked.
Jerry grinned. “Hey, Mr. Sack.”
If looks could kill, Mr. Sacco could have gone up for murder one. Jerry knew exactly what he was doing when he said it and was clearly basking in the older man’s disdain when he turned and spotted Angelina.
“Oh, my God, Angelina!”
“Hi, Jerry.”
He came right over and gave her a hug. “Hey, how are you doing?” The simple, genuine compassion in his voice told her that he had heard the news about Frank.
“I’m doing … okay.”
“I only heard yesterday; I couldn’t believe it. I’m so sorry. How are you holding up?”
“I’m doing okay. Sad.”
“Frank,” Jerry said, “he was one of those guys that we all looked up to, you know what I mean?”
Angelina nodded.
“And not just because he got you to marry him.”
Angelina smiled and looked down. Jerry saw that it was probably best to leave it alone for a minute, so he called over his shoulder, “Hey, Donnie, remember that number?”
“Yeah. So what about it?” Donnie plopped another packet on the counter.
“Yeah, I hit that number.”
“You got lucky,” s
aid Donnie.
Jerry left Angelina and grabbed a bag of chips off the rack. He popped them open and started munching.
Mr. Sacco growled, “Hey. Big shot. You gonna buy something, or just advertise?”
“Oh, I’m going to buy something, Mr. Sacco,” said Jerry. “But first you gotta serve Mrs. D’Angelo here.”
Angelina came alongside and started gathering her order into her shopping basket. “I ordered already. You go.”
Jerry munched and thought for a second or two. “Okay, um … can I get a pound of salami, and a loaf of bread? And a Coke?”
Mr. Sacco shook his head as if Jerry had just asked for his daughter’s phone number and started slicing lunch meat.
“Is that for breakfast, lunch, or dinner?” Angelina asked.
“All three. Depends on what time I’m eating it.”
Angelina put the last of her goods into the basket. “A grown man, and you don’t know how to cook for yourself after all these years?”
“Hey,” said Jerry. “I know how to cook, I just don’t know anything about makin’ food.”
Mr. Sacco slapped down the last of the salami like he was slapping a fly.
Angelina suddenly got a picture in her head, of Jerry slumped in a chair, lit only by the mournful glow of the TV, in his stocking feet, munching pathetically on a sadlooking, plain salami sandwich, sucking on a Coke, watching Wheel of Fortune, all alone.
“You need a woman to cook for you,” said Angelina, surprising herself as she headed for the register.
Now Jerry trailed close behind her. “I do?”
“Yes.”
“Really … ?”
“Yes, really.”
Jerry was suddenly beaming.
“Don’t get too excited,” Angelina chided him. “I’m taking in some cooking, that’s all. I’m just saying, you could think about coming and eating your meals at my house.”
“Angelina Cuccinata, are you inviting me over for dinner?”
“And breakfast. I serve two meals a day, but it’ll cost you. This is a paying proposition.”
Jerry was now seriously intrigued. “Every day?”
“Every day but Saturday.”
Jerry leaned against the countertop. He meant it to be coy, but Angelina could see that she had him hooked.
“What’s it gonna cost me?”
Angelina reeled him in. “I’ll tell you what. Come tonight, see if you like the food, then I’ll tell you what it’s going to cost.”
“Hear that, Mr. Sacco?” said Jerry. “Free sample, that’s a pretty good idea …”
Mr. Sacco had finished ringing up Angelina’s order and was stuffing it in a bag. He would have stuffed Jerry if he’d had a bigger bag.
“Well?” said Angelina.
“Well, if you’re actually inviting me over for dinner, after all these years, what can I say but yes?”
Jerry threw a triumphant look at Donnie, who rolled his eyes as he gave Angelina her change.
“So, I’ll see you tonight at seven?” she said, collecting her bag from the counter.
“It’s a date,” Jerry said.
“See you guys,” said Angelina.
As she headed for the door, Angelina felt an unexpected twinge of guilt, as if she’d been flirting with another man behind her husband’s back. Jerry must have sensed it because he made sure to walk her to the door and respectfully opened it for her. He touched her reassuringly on the shoulder as she passed him and said, “I’m really glad I ran into you, Angelina. And I’m really sorry about Frank.”
“Thanks, Jerry. I’ll see you later.”
She teared up a little on the other side of the door, but by the time she made it halfway down the block, she felt better. She felt as if she had just made her first independent marketing decision.
Jerry closed the door behind her. He looked at Mr. Sacco.
“Whaddya think of that, Mr. Sack?”
Mr. Sacco stuck out his palm.
“Shut up and gimme your money.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Hunger Is the Best Sauce
ANGELINA WAS A little behind.
She had spent the rest of her morning going over her cooking diary, updating recipes, looking back for good ideas that might have slipped her mind, making notes in the margins and then transcribing them on her old Correcting Selectric. Angelina would often draw pencil sketches or diagrams of dishes that she was particularly proud of and clip them into her book, too. She enjoyed drawing and had even taken a few commercial art courses at the community college. Sketching in the fine details of the ridges on a lasagna noodle or capturing the shiny surface of an eggplant on paper helped her to think about them in a different way. More than once, her drawings had inspired new approaches or recipes that she might not have thought of otherwise.
She’d decided on a recipe for that evening’s dinner that her father used to love—veal braciole with a piccata sauce. It was thinly sliced veal rolled around a little Parmigiano, parsley, and ham, then lightly browned in olive oil. Angelina had bought that nice prosciutto from Sacco’s and this seemed like the perfect way to showcase it. She wanted to add some extra zing, so in addition to a squeeze of lemon juice and capers, she was planning to enrich the sauce with dry vermouth and top it with a garnish of fresh-grated lemon zest. She’d serve the veal over linguine dressed in extra-virgin olive oil and butter with lots of cracked pepper, and a side of baby asparagus.
Veal Braciole with Piccata Sauce
* * *
Serves 6
INGREDIENTS
3 pounds sliced boneless veal
Freshly ground black pepper, to taste
¼ pound prosciutto, cut into 24 pieces, each about 2 inches square
½ cup fresh flat-leaf parsley, minced
4 ounces Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese, 1½ cups finely grated from about a 2- or 3-ounce piece, and the rest cut medium brunoise (¼-inch julienne, then crosswise) into ½-inch lengths
3 tablespoons to ½ cup canola oil, as needed
2 shallot cloves, minced (or one clove if they’re large)
½ cup dry vermouth
2 cups chicken stock
½ teaspoon organic beef base (such as Better Than Bouillon brand, sold in an 8-ounce jar)
2 tablespoons white-rice flour or all-purpose flour
1 fresh lemon, zest grated off then juiced
¼ cup capers, about half of a 3-ounce jar
1 pound cooked linguine dressed with extra-virgin olive oil, freshly ground black pepper, and minced parsley (as an accompaniment)
1 pound steamed asparagus spears (as an accompaniment)
METHOD
Spread sheets of plastic wrap over the surface of a large cutting board, tucking the edges under to secure them. Lay the veal on the plastic wrap and season it with black pepper. Cover the meat with a second layer of plastic wrap to keep the mess down, and pound it down to an even thickness of ⅛ inch with a meat mallet. Slice the veal into 4-inch-by-6-inch sections to yield about 24 pieces. Lay a piece of prosciutto on each piece of veal, sprinkling each with a teaspoon of parsley and a tablespoon of the grated cheese. Top each with a few chunks of the cheese. Roll up the slices of meat, folding in the sides as you go and secure with toothpicks. (Keep count of the toothpicks so you can be sure to retrieve them all.) The veal will probably have to be seared in batches. For each batch, heat 2 tablespoons of the oil in a large sauté pan over medium heat. When it begins to shimmer, place the veal rolls in the pan, seam-side down first, and sear for 1 minute undisturbed before flipping and searing the other side the same way. Transfer the seared rolled meat seam-side down to a baking dish and remove all the toothpicks. Cover with foil to let rest.
Preheat the oven to 300°F.
In the same sauté pan, heat 1 tablespoon of oil over medium heat and sauté the shallots until they turn translucent, stirring frequently to prevent burning, about 2 minutes. Deglaze the pan with the vermouth and let most of the alcohol evaporate. Then add the chicken st
ock and heat to a gentle boil. Whisk in the beef base to blend, then gradually whisk in the flour. Lower the heat to medium and let cook about 5 to 10 minutes to allow the flavors to integrate and the sauce to thicken. Reduce the heat to low and whisk in the lemon juice. Pour the sauce over the meat. Cover and place in the oven until the veal is infused with the sauce and very tender, about 50 minutes to 1 hour.
PRESENTATION
Place a bed of linguine in the center of each serving plate. Use two large spoons to carefully transfer 3 to 4 veal rolls to each plate, arranging them around the linguine. Spoon about 3 to 4 tablespoons of sauce over the veal and the pasta. Sprinkle one teaspoon of capers and a pinch of lemon zest on each piece of veal. Arrange several asparagus spears around the perimeter of the plate.
* * *
Angelina wanted to start them off with a soup, one that would contrast nicely with the veal. She decided on her Mint Sweet Potato Bisque, a wonderful puréed soup, slightly thickened with rice, accented with golden raisins, brightened by fresh mint. And dessert called for pie. This was the first time she was having Johnny and Jerry to the table, and in Jerry’s case it was almost a sales pitch, so everything had to be great. She jotted “pears, black cherries, whole allspice, airplane bottle of Old Overholt Rye” down on her shopping list. The pie would bring it across the finish line.
Tracking down fresh mint and black cherries proved problematic. After four stops and no luck, she ended up taking the bus all the way to the Reading Terminal Market. Compromising on dried mint and canned cherries was out of the question. It worked out well enough in the end because she found what she was looking for and even managed to duck into the Spice Terminal and score whole allspice for the pie, some Spanish saffron (because it was on sale), cardamom pods (impossible to find anywhere else), and mace blades (because she’d never tried them before).
Angelina's Bachelors Page 9
