Food Memories (unfinished)

Guinea Red Soup

By

Phil LaMancusa

My most mind blowing dinner was one Big Red made when I was a kid; I’d have to do the shopping for it. These were the days when we had small Mom and Pop stores selling what we now find in sections of the super markets; I would be sent out with $1.50 in quarters.

First stop: the butcher where I would get a quarter’s worth of soup bones; on to the green grocer for .25 cents of soup greens (carrot, onion, turnip, celery, parsley). Then to the Italian deli for a quarter’s worth of parmesan cheese, a pound of large shell macaroni, a can of tomatoes and a loaf of crusty Italian bread. Typical LaMancusa kitchen magic: this would feed five kids and two adults.

The ritual would be when each would grate their cheese into the fragrant, steamy soup; we would each sing this brief Italian song and grate like crazy, for when the song was over we had to pass the cheese to the next person. It’s a ditty concerning a girl; a fireman and her mother who is gonna tell her father. Amazingly all five kids, now grown and retired, remember the song and the soup.

The Game

Po Boy views

By

Phil LaMancusa

The Game

Or

Robbed

            We ducked out of work early enough to catch The Game at half time, our usual hangout, Liuzza’s by the Track. Jonas, Jada and the other smokers are outside huffing some nicotine before the game resumes; our team, the Saints, are in the playoffs, win this one and we’re going to the Superbowl. We’re favored over the Rams; there’s gonna be heartache tonight in one LA or another. I wish I didn’t know now what I didn’t know then.

            We’re in our Saints lucky garb, the same black and gold that we wore the week before, hung up immediately after the last game and worn again, as was, so the luck didn’t have a chance to wash off. Superstitious? You bet.

            Liuzza’s is about the size of an Architectural Digest living room shoot and it’s as crowded as a Big Apple subway.  The usual suspects:  Bobby and Michelle; Genorie and Piret; Joy and Tommy-up from Cajun country—with both grown daughters; Tom, Mickey, Chris Champagne and Byrd are here; Mike and Kathy, it’s a communal affair. One big Saints family. The food tables are groaning with potluck (Liuzza’s kitchen is closed on Sunday); Jeanne’s mac and cheese is already gone; a dozen or so neighborly offerings are in various states of ravage. I considered briefly if I should take the last piece of fried chicken, very briefly, and of course I do.

            Theresa is behind the bar moving in an aerobic running back ballet of service; it’s not easy keeping forty plus customers constantly and consistently served their favorite libations, but she makes it look like a dance: “on the rocks straight up Miller Lite PBR shots McCallan neat and another vodka tonic with extra limes; this round goes on my tab, thanks Babe”.

            We walk in, it’s half time, the Saints are ahead by three; it’s pretty plain even to me that this isn’t gonna be the slam dunk that (our) pundits have predicted. On both sides, the defensive teams are monsters that are allowing no quarter. Even to my moronic level of sports knowledge it appears that the game is not gonna be about spectacular passes and heroic touchdown runs; there are more turnovers, do overs, uncaught balls and outwardly botched plays than not. Neither offense can get up to speed. It’s a game that’s gonna be won three points at a time and, for the life of me, I can’t follow all of the whys and wherefores. There are flags thrown every now and again, the crowd in the bar is cheering, cursing, groaning and yelling at the three TVs that are surrounding us, the commercials aren’t entertaining and more of a pain in the ass than anything else. Everyone else in the room seems to know all about the action (or inaction) and I am totally ignorant; I’m here to watch the home team win at home and I’m not seeing it happening. We’re still ahead though and seemingly in control of whatever the situation is; although, I’m never sure what situation that is at any given moment.

            Now, I know about as much about football as the average Brillo pad; heck, every season the Saints seem to change the names of players, positions and rules, leaving me constantly stuck on stupid. However, I can see that handing the ball off and expecting the carrier to run through the defensive line is a jolly good waste of time for both teams; I’m this close to yelling “throw the damn ball, fool!”, but some few people have beaten me to it. The whole place seems to be connected by some primal umbilical cord and when something worthwhile happens (or doesn’t happen) the fans rise as one with their vocal outcries; I try pitifully to keep up my end of the noise and applaud and curse as if on cue hopefully appearing to understand what the teams are doing. One thing I can see is that the game is relying on turnovers and field goals and it feels like a frigging waste.

            What’s that? The F bomb is going off all around me--- something’s happened. It’s the fourth quarter and we can’t hold on to the ball, the other team gets it and then we get it back, Brees passes and the ball is in the air heading to Tomylee Lewis, we’re all holding our breaths and glued to the sets. When out of nowhere, with the velocity of a photon particle, this thing, this person, this defensive back from the opposing team, while the ball is still in the air, head butt body slams our guy, with the whole world (as well as the referee a mere ten feet away) watching and there is no flag! “Pass interference!!!” the crowd is yelling; Sean Payton is shouting, Drew Brees is shouting and the refs are as straight-faced as Buddha. In Liuzza’s the oxygen has momentarily left the room and in a flash returns as a tsunami of outrage carpet bombed by the “WTF!”s and “did you see that?” and “where’s the flag?” and if psychic energy could be physically manifested the entire Rams team AND all the referees would have been Raptured off this planet and into a deep dark black hole in outer space; left to perish in an agony of alligator stomach acid.

            Next, the game’s in overtime and Brees throws an interception, the other team gets the ball and a fifty-seven yard field goal gives the game to the City of Angels.

            There are no words that can express the despair, the depth of heartache, the feeling of being cheated and wronged. A woman’s voice is heard as the television sets grow dim and she speaks for us all: “Son of a Mother F**king Bit*h!” Needless to say, we will be NOT watching the Super Bowl this year.