Fate: Five Stories- V. The Pope of Brooklyn

In times of distress destiny often tosses us a lifeline and mine came in the guise of the opening of a new Italian restaurant, “Formagio’s,” tucked beneath the shadow of the Brooklyn Bridge, which I couldn’t help noticing as I trudged home in the chill dusk after my panic attack atop the bridge.

“Formagio’s! Formagio’s!” blinked the faux-Broadway sign over the glittering brass and fern-glass entrance. High above, carnival lights sent laser beams into the night sky, drawing Lincoln limos and Caddies from all five boroughs and Jersey, to judge from the license plates and dealership logos in italic script displayed on the car trunks.

From the ramp of the bridge, I watched as bejeweled couples – trophy wives in 60s shellacked bouffants; their dark, bulky men in ill-fitting tuxedos – disembarked and pretentiously walked arm-in-arm to the entrance of Formagio’s, ushered in by doormen, whose breath steamed obsequious greetings as their hands received the crisp tip tendered behind their backs.

Here was a modern scene worthy of Balzac’s demi-monde. The glitterati, whose only claim to fame was the fortunes extorted from the unsuspecting and violated, had arrived.

For me, it appeared as a lifeline – a new restaurant, right in my neighborhood. Surely they could use some help. I’d do anything – short of cleaning toilets. Or would I?

***

I went around back to the purveyor’s entrance, slicked down my hair, shined my loafers on my pant leg, screwed up my courage, and plunged into the steamy kitchen.

Waiters in black vests and bowties barked food orders above the din at a galley of sous chefs, who tossed bloody slabs of meat and gelatinous shrimp and lobster tails onto the grill behind them, and wiped their sweaty brows with the same towels used for handling the plates of food, which they flung gyrating onto the pickup counter with the ease of jugglers.

“Hey! Yo! What you want?” growled a man of indeterminate age, with a five o’clock shadow that made his oiled cheeks look like polished marble.

He stepped from behind the galley where the waiters were placing orders, planting himself in front of me, quivering imperceptibly, as though ready to lunge. Black eyes radiated beneath shaggy brows transfixed by a long Patrician’s nose, giving him the look of a Roman procurator.

“Pardon me,” I began in my best Bostonian nasals, “I’d like to see the manager.”

Squinting, he looked me up and down, taking in my mismatched outfit of brown wool car coat over a serge blue tuxedo jacket with black satin lapels and an antique white silk shirt open at the collar. And my thin black loafers. The hint of a smile played at the corners of his mouth.

“I want a job,” I stammered. “Tobias Moore …” I held out my hand, finally letting it drop. “Bartender,” I said, my conviction flagging.

“Izat so?” He raised an eyebrow. “What’s in a sidecar?”

“Sidecar … sidecar …” I stalled, having only recently memorized the contents of the Old Mr. Boston guidebook. “Ah – Cognac, Cointreau, and ah … lime juice. Shake and strain into a sugar-rimmed cocktail glass. Garnish with a slice of orange.”

“Cognac?” Smirking, he looked around, hoping that waiters were paying attention.

“You hear that?” he laughed, drawing in one of the sycophantic waiters, who nodded while balancing a row of food-laden plates on his arm.

“He wants to pour Cognac and Cointreau in a sidecar,” he added with suppressed glee. “You know how many sidecars we gonna sell tonight?”

I shook my head.

It was his turn to shake his head. “We’ll probably sling 50-60. That’s a lot of premium liquor!” He made a gesture, typically Italian. His thumb touching index and middle fingers, shaking his hand back and forth as though putting out a match.

“Marone a mia! You gotta use the cheap stuff, Triple Sec and brandy, chooch.”

Through his laughter, he drilled me with black Sicilian eyes.

“You from Boston?”

I nodded. “Suburbs. Allston.”

“Eye-talian?”

With my dark features and wavy black hair, I’d often been mistaken for Italian. I’d grown up surrounded by Italians in Allston. I knew how they thought. Growing up, I’d fought with them, and against them. But no, I wasn’t “Eyetalian” as far as I knew. I wanted the job so…

“Donatello,” I lied. “Mamma Mia.”

He nodded sagaciously. “I’m gonna take a chance on you, Harvard.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you, Mr. …”

“Guglieamo. And don’t thank me yet. You gonna start out as a bar back, and if you work out, you fit in, I’ll move you up. You could make a lot of money here, I ain’t shittin’ ya.”

“That’s great!” I enthused.

He held up two fingers like the Pope.

“Two things. One, you mind your own friggin’ business, no matter what you see or hear; and two, if you ever steal so much as a lousy dime from me, I’ll cut off your fingers one by one. Capiche?”

I nodded, my joy at being rescued from imminent starvation or suicide overshadowing my better judgment, which was telling me that this man was serious.

“Capiche?” he repeated, pinning me with his eyes until I croaked, “Yes, yes – I capiche.”

His features softened. Something like a smile played at the corners of his mouth again. He seemed to be sensing my desperation like scent on a dog.

“You want to start tonight, Harvard?”

“Oh, yes, if that’s all right with you, Mr. Guglieamo.”

“Mr. G., call me Mr. G.” He ran his tongue across his teeth. “I’m short a dishwasher tonight.”

“I can do that.”

“Go find a set of whites in the locker room, get back out here pronto and jump behind the sink.”

He pointed his chin at the dishwasher’s cage, its stainless steel counters stacked chest-high with food-encrusted plates and pots and pans, all awaiting sterilization in the steamy bellows of the industrial dishwasher – like my pride. I hesitated.

“Mr. G?” I said, calling him back.

I stared at him, not wanting to have to ask. He cocked his head to one side, eyeballing me, as though listening to my thoughts.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, straightening, “Ask one of the chefs for something to eat – nothing fancy, mind you – a burger, some pasta – and mange while you work.”

He turned on his tasseled Gucci’s and pushed through the swinging doors, plunging into the gregarious din coming from the high-ceilinged dining room, the laughter of patrons mixed with the tinkling of crystal and the collective buzz of venal souls taking a breather from their nefarious business, to enjoy the spoils of war and bask in one another’s company.

Leaving me grateful for my benefactor’s humanity, as I wolfed down my bloody burger and pasta, and wondering, wondering – oh, God – what I had just gotten myself into.

***
(Read all parts here)

by EH Davis