Angelina's Bachelors

by Brian O'Reilly

  By the time she had made her way home and gotten the soup started, Angelina was behind. She assembled the pie and put it in the oven in time, then started in on the braciola, pounding it extra-thin to make it melt-in-your-mouth tender. She worked efficiently, as always, and by the time Mr. Cupertino had arrived she was in pretty good shape, except that she hadn’t had time to set the table.

  “Mr. Cupertino,” she said, as she rushed to let him in. “I’m glad you’re here. There’s something I have to ask you. Come in.”

  Basil marched in lockstep behind her into the kitchen as she hurried to take the pie out of the oven.

  “Here’s the thing,” she said, setting the pie down to cool. “What would you think of the idea of having some company for dinner?”

  Basil paused and looked at Angelina, then at the pie, then back at her again, as if giving the notion his most serious consideration.

  “Company as in guests?” he asked shrewdly. “Or company as in, how should I put it, expanding your customer base?”

  “As in, a couple more paying customers. Bachelors, like you. Expanding my, you know, what you said.”

  Basil looked delighted. “Terrific!”

  “Really?” said Angelina, relieved.

  “Sure. Nobody likes to eat alone. The more the merrier.”

  Angelina laughed. “Oh, thank God, because they’re coming tonight.” She began stacking dishes to set the table.

  “Who’ve you got coming?” asked

  “Well, Johnny from down the street and Jerry Mancini, a really good guy from the neighborhood. We went to grade school together.”

  “Dottie introduced me to Johnny the other day,” said Basil. “Nice kid. I’m sure we’ll all get along famously. And I’ll have somebody to talk to about your food. Speaking of which, what’re you making?”

  “Sweet Potato Bisque,” said Angelina, pointing to the stove. “Veal Piccata with Linguine, and a Cherry Pear Pie for dessert.” She paused. “You do eat veal, don’t you?”

  “Veal—be still my heart!” said Basil.

  A knock sounded on the door.

  “That’s probably Jerry… ,” said Angelina.

  “I’ll get it,” Basil said, heading out of the kitchen. “And don’t worry about me, I’m eating anything you’re cooking. I’m starving. And, as Cervantes says, ‘The best sauce in the world is hunger.’”

  “Good, because I made a ton of everything!”

  Basil let Jerry in and Angelina made the introductions on the run. She opened a bottle of Chianti and left them chatting amiably in the living room. She stirred the soup and assembled plates, glasses, and utensils on the sideboard ready to take out to the table. The braciole was finished and resting in the oven. She still had to boil the pasta and plate the food, but she was almost there.

  She called out to the living room, “Is Johnny here yet?”

  Jerry jumped up and looked out the window. “Not yet. No, wait a minute, he’s making a liar out of me.”

  Johnny’s shadow appeared at the outside door. Basil opened it and ushered him in. “Come on in there, Johnny.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Cupertino.”

  “Oh, hey, Jerry,” said Johnny.

  Johnny took off his jacket, folded it over once, and laid it over the arm of one of the living room chairs.

  “You made it just in time, young man,” said Basil.

  Jerry clapped Johnny on the back. “Dinner’s almost ready. Did you wash your hands for supper?”

  “Yeah, I washed them at my house,” Johnny replied earnestly.

  “You get behind the ears?”

  Johnny thought about it for a second longer than he should have, and Jerry grinned.

  “Shut up, Jerry,” said Johnny, smiling gamely.

  “He’s just ribbing you, kid,” said Basil.“Get ready for a treat.”

  Angelina bustled into the dining room with a beautiful antipasto platter of cold meats, cheese, olives, and peppers, which she laid on the table.

  “Hi, Johnny,” she said. “If you guys want to sit down, I’ll set the table.”

  “Angelina, everything smells unbelievable,” said Jerry.

  Basil took his now usual seat and Jerry pulled out the chair opposite him.

  Johnny was about to sit at the head of the table, but Jerry touched his arm gently and said, “Hey, John, don’t take that chair. That’s Frank’s chair. Come sit by me, pal.”

  “Oh, sorry.”

  Johnny pushed the chair reverently back into its proper place and sat beside Jerry. Angelina set their places around them, and in no time they had started in on the appetizers.

  The doorbell rang. Angelina called in from the other room, “Now who could that be? Would you mind getting that, Mr. Cupertino?”

  Basil pushed back from the table, placed his folded napkin beside his plate, and went to the door. When he opened it, he found a young man of enormous size, with his hands folded in front of him like an oversize choirboy, clean shaven, dressed in a neat but inexpensive-looking black suit and tie. He was so large that he blotted out most of the background and waited politely to be addressed before he spoke.

  “May I help you?” asked Basil.

  “Good evening, sir. My name is Philip Rosetti. Is this the home of Mrs. D’Angelo?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  Phil nodded and looked back over his shoulder at a long, black Cadillac double-parked in the street. He smiled and gave a little thumbs-up to a man barely visible through the back window, who waved genially back at him.

  The young man cleared his throat and shifted back and forth on his substantial feet. “The gentleman in the car, my uncle, Don Eddie Frangipani, requests that he would like to speak with Mrs. D’Angelo if she wouldn’t mind joining him out in the car for just a moment?”

  Basil listened, then said solemnly, “If you don’t mind waiting, I will inquire.”

  “I can wait. Thank you.”

  Basil closed the door. Philip never moved, not even an inch. By now, both Jerry and Johnny had left the table and were peering through the curtains out the front window.

  Angelina came in wiping her hands on her apron. “Who was that, Mr. Cupertino?”

  “You have a visitor,” said Basil with a trace of amusement.

  “Holy smokes. Do you know who that is?” said Jerry. “That’s Don Eddie.”

  “What are you talking about?” Angelina said, slightly annoyed. “Who’s coming to the house at dinnertime like this?”

  “You’ve never heard of Don Eddie?” asked Jerry. “How long have you been living here, Angelina?”

  “Are you kidding me? The soup is ready. Who is this guy?”

  “Well,” Jerry said, “he’s a very special guy.”

  “When you say guy,” Basil chimed in, “you don’t mean one of those guys?” He pushed his nose out flat to one side.

  Jerry took his meaning. “No, not really. He’s not one of those guys, per se, but he’s sort of an honorary guy, in the sense that those guys, they love this guy, that’s why they call him ‘the Don,’ even though he isn’t.”

  “Isn’t what?” asked Johnny.

  “One of those guys,” Jerry replied.

  Angelina’s patience was running onion-skin thin. “What in the name of God are you talking about?”

  “Listen,” said Jerry. “This guy outside, Eddie, he grew up with, you know, the Head Guy, and you know who I mean.”

  Johnny and Angelina, even Basil, all nodded knowingly.

  “All right,” said Jerry. “Apparently, Eddie saved the guy’s life one time when they were kids, or so the story goes. So, the Head Guy always looked out for Eddie. Now, Eddie never wanted to get into any trouble, you see, he always kept his nose clean; but they all love him anyway—he listens, he picks stuff up, he gives good advice, and they just like having him around. They trust him. He’s … special.”

  “So … what does he want with me?” Angelina asked with a hint of concern in her voice.

  “He wants to talk
to you,” said Basil.

  “You gotta go,” said Jerry urgently.

  “Go where?” she said.

  “He wants you to go out to the car and talk to him,” said Basil.

  “You gotta go,” Jerry said with conviction. “This is very unusual. This is an opportunity.”

  “Opportunity for what?” asked Angelina.

  “That’s it. You don’t know,” said Jerry. “That’s why you have to go.”

  Angelina looked worriedly toward the front door, then worriedly toward the kitchen where her dinner was waiting to be served.

  Jerry placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Just go. I’ll be watching from the window.”

  Johnny and Basil looked at her expectantly. Angelina rolled her eyes in utter exasperation. She tore off her apron and handed it to Jerry.

  “All right, fine! I’ll go,” she said finally. “Mr. Cupertino, could you please turn down the soup?”

  “You can count on me,” said Basil.

  Basil opened the door and Philip was still standing there motionless in the same exact spot, the door inches from his nose. He nodded once he saw Angelina approaching and preceded her down the steps.

  “Good luck,” whispered Basil as Angelina walked outside.

  Angelina followed Phil out to the car and climbed in when he courteously opened the door for her. She slid across the plush blue leather seat and found herself sitting face-to-face with the Don. He looked to Angelina to be well on the high side of eighty. His smooth white hair was so perfectly barbered, he looked as if he had just climbed out of the barber’s chair. He wore a beautiful camel-hair coat with a white gardenia in the lapel. His eyes, Angelina noticed, were an ideal shade of cloudless blue sky.

  When he spoke, his tone was soothing and confidential, “Hello, Angelina. How you doing, dear?”

  “Hi.”

  She wasn’t nearly ready to let him off the hook for interrupting dinner.

  “My name is Ed Frangipani, and I’m quite pleased to finally meet you.”

  “Hello, Mr. Frangipani,” she said, just barely shaking his outstretched hand.

  “Please, Angelina, call me Don Eddie. Everybody does.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Frangipani, I don’t mean to rush you, but I’ve got a house full of people and I’m trying to get a meal on the table. So …”

  “Ah. I heard you are a good cook.”

  “You heard that, did you?” She crossed her arms.

  “Yes, I did. I hear things. Irregardless of which, I’ve been meaning to come and see you for a while.”

  For the first time, Angelina was curious. “Come and see me, why?”

  “About your husband, Frankie.”

  “What about my husband?” she asked suspiciously. Angelina tried to keep the tension out of her voice, but there it was.

  Don Eddie shifted slightly in his seat to face her a little more squarely. “I knew him a little. I liked him very much. He was a hard worker, good union guy. I hang around, you know? Talk to the men, after work or when they’re eating lunch. They talk to me about things.”

  The comfortable warmth of the car, the intoxicating scent of gardenia, and the mellifluous sound of his voice were drawing her in.

  “What things?” she asked softly.

  “I wanted to share a story Frank told me about you one time.”

  “A story about me?”

  Those Sinatra-blue eyes looked right into hers. “You were in a little car accident one time, a couple years ago?”

  Angelina shook her head, just a little. “Not really. A bus accident. I went to the emergency room, but I didn’t get hurt, just a little shaken up. Nobody really got hurt. Why would Frank ever mention that?”

  Don Eddie smiled. “I like to hear stories about the men’s families, you know? I never got married, I’ve got no kids. We were all talking one time, about bad days, the kind of a bad day you never forget. ‘What was your worst day?’ One guy said this, another guy said that. And Frankie, he got very quiet, which I noticed. So, before I go, I got him aside, and he told me this story:

  “When he got the call that you were in an accident and went looking for you in the hospital that day, he saw a woman who looked like you; she had your kind of coat on, she was bleeding, the doctors were working on her, as she was hurt very badly. At first, he thought that it was you, that you were the one that was hurt so bad. And the thought that he was losing you, that day, that made it his worst day ever.”

  Angelina could hardly whisper, “He never told me that.”

  The Don got quiet, too. “The thing is, he shed a tear when he told me that story. And when I heard that he passed away, I felt I should come over and tell you that you had a husband who loved you so much, he shed a tear in front of an old man, telling me that story.”

  Don Eddie took her hand as the tears welled up in her eyes. He offered her a clean white handkerchief and she cried quietly for a minute on the shoulder of his impeccable coat as he patted her arm.

  She sniffled, pulled herself together, and looked at him gratefully. “Do you want to come in for dinner? I made plenty.”

  Don Eddie chuckled, and Angelina could see that when Jerry called this guy “special,” he knew what he was talking about.

  “I’m glad you asked. Me and Phil, we had a guy who cooked for us, pretty good, but he’s not going to be around for the next three to five years. And I heard you are a good cook, so we thought we might also give your operation a try. I heard good things. That is, if you go for it?”

  Angelina laughed and Don Eddie tapped on the window. Phil, who had waited patiently outside and given them their privacy, circled around and opened Angelina’s door for her. He escorted her up the steps, then did the same for the Don.

  Chairs and place settings were arranged in no time, and Don Eddie and Phil got in on the last of the antipasto. The soup was served piping hot. As everyone tucked in, at first sipping gingerly to avoid mouth-burn, the room was quiet save for the gentle clinking of the soup spoons on the bowls. Angelina stopped and savored the moment, the sound and the sight of them all eating her food, as her guests savored the soup.

  Jerry, who had neatly managed to have Don Eddie seated next to him, struck up a conversation with him as if they were old friends, and the sentiment seemed to be fully returned. Even Johnny got into the act. Big Phil never said a word before his final “Thank you, Mrs. D’Angelo, and good night,” but Angelina could tell that he liked his meal. In the end, the Cherry Pear Pie was the clincher. Angelina saw them all to the door as they left, and they thanked her one by one. Jerry helped her to clear and was the last to leave. As she walked him to the door, she reached into her apron and pulled out a $100 bill.

  “Look what I found under Don Eddie’s plate when I was cleaning up.”

  Jerry whistled. “Nice.”

  “I can’t take it. It’s too much. I have to give it back to him,” she insisted.

  “No! Angelina, you can’t do that, ever. Listen, that’s how he’s going to pay you. He’s not the kind of a guy that you hand him a tab. And don’t worry, he’s not going to leave you a hundred dollars every time. Just let him do it his own way. Believe me, it’ll work out.”

  Angelina was unconvinced. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I promise. And don’t ever, ever give it back to him. Please. Promise me.”

  She laughed at how seriously Jerry was taking it. “Okay, okay. Actually, he’s a very sweet man. So, are you coming back tomorrow?”

  “Absolutely.”

  She opened the door for him. “Hey, Jerry. It’s nice to see you again. Thanks for coming over.”

  “Thanks for having me.” Jerry shoved his hands into the pockets of his brown leather jacket and sauntered down the steps. He ran a hand through his hair, then waved and walked up the street. “Good night, Angelina!”

  As she watched him go, she felt a tug inside, a pull, and it took her the whole way back to the kitchen until she finally put her finger on it.

  She w
as probably just hungry. She hadn’t eaten a single thing herself all day.

  Mint Sweet Potato Bisque

  * * *

  Serves 6 to 8

  INGREDIENTS

  1 tablespoon canola oil

  2 garlic cloves, lightly crushed and minced

  2 shallot cloves, minced

  1 quart vegetable stock

  2½ pounds sweet potatoes peeled and cut into 1-inch chunks

  ½ cup dry white rice

  1 tablespoon chili powder

  1 teaspoon cinnamon

  2 teaspoons salt

  1 teaspoon ground black pepper

  1 cup golden raisins, rinsed, drained, and chopped

  ½ cup packed fresh mint leaves, finely minced, plus 8 small mint sprigs

  ½ cup walnuts

  1 fresh lime, zest micro-grated off and juiced

  ½ cup sour cream

  METHOD

  Heat the canola oil over medium heat in a large stockpot. When it begins to shimmer, sauté the garlic and shallots until they soften, stirring frequently to prevent burning, about 1 or 2 minutes. Pour the vegetable stock and 4 cups water into the pot, bring to a boil, and add the rice, sweet potatoes, chili powder, cinnamon, and salt and pepper to taste. Return to a boil, reduce the heat to low, cover and let cook undisturbed for 20 minutes. Remove the soup pot from the heat and let stand for 5 minutes before removing the lid.

  Meanwhile preheat the oven to 350°F.

  Use a hand masher to break up the sweet potatoes, then blend right in the pot with an immersion blender. Add the raisins and return to medium heat to soften the raisins, about 5 minutes. Remove from the heat and stir in the minced mint.

  Spread the walnuts on a baking sheet and toast them in the oven for about 3 to 5 minutes, then crush them in a plastic bag using a rolling pin.

  PRESENTATION

  Ladle the soup into crocks and drizzle about 1 teaspoon of the lime juice over the surface of the soup in each. Spoon a tablespoon of sour cream into the center of each and top with a pinch of lime zest. Encircle the sour cream with a tablespoon of grated walnuts. Arrange a mint sprig in the sour cream.

  * * *