Issue #20 (2011) PDF - myweb - Long Island University

Giuseppe Infante
DINNER FOR TWO
Once she stepped out of Mariano‘s corner bodega, the aroma raging from her apartment wafted
onto the busy streets of 4 th Avenue. Vehicles of different color and design passed by the Sunday
afternoon streets, containing some folks eager to return to their homes before the football game‘s
coin toss, and some going out to George‘s World Famous for a late lunch after the twelve o‘clock
services. After mass she used to stop at the bakery for her favorite desserts, seven layer cookies or
―wainbow cookies‖ as she had called them as a child.
She could tell it was her sauce from the strong garlic and basil fusion tickling her olfactory
receptors. Angelica entered her building and the smell of the sauce became stronger as she climbed
the dilapidated, off-brown steps with the gold-plated edges that tried to give the shabby staircase a
furnished look. Her railroad apartment was on the third floor above Mariano‘s. When arriving at the
top of the stairs, she stood for a moment, gazing at the festive holiday wreath covered in candy
canes, red bows and miniature silver gift boxes on her apartment door. She then felt the life in her
chest increase a few heavy beats.
Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump!
This was nothing unordinary for the overweight woman of 72 years, 47 of which she
smoked Camel unfiltered. The thumps occurred every time she climbed a staircase—in her building,
at the R train stop on 36 th Street, Sundays at St. Mary‘s. Her once curvaceous body was now
occupied by a round potbelly acquired from uncountable bottles of Budweiser she had guzzled over
the past six years while sulking in her widow‘s depression.
As she was catching her breath before entering the apartment, her dark eyes met her darker
eyes in the foyer mirror opposing the wreath of primarily green and red. She noticed her salt and
pepper perm was thinning after each visit to the beauty parlor. Her gut was growing, this she was
sure of as she needed new shirts every few months lately—though really it was because her garments
would gather food and beer stains.
She removed the two forty-ounce Budweiser bottles from the black plastic bag; she put one
in the freezer and one in the fridge. Angelica turned towards the vintage O‘Keefe & Merritt stove
supporting the sauce pot that rested over the medium orange, though blue at the root gas flame. She
used the wooden spoon in her apron to turn the tomato sauce. With every turn she grazed the walls
of the stainless steel pot.
Tink! Tink! Tink! Tink!
Meatballs of veal/pork/beef mix and fennel-less sweet sausage floated in the tomato sauce.
She had a special recipe she had learned from her grandmother as a child: Chop and mince basil and
garlic, then let them simmer in olive oil for twenty minutes before using the mixture in the sauce.
Giraud always claimed never to have tasted a tomato sauce quite like Angelica‘s.
She removed the beer from the freezer and poured some into a goblet she loved. The goblet
was the glass Giraud had used to drink his beer from. ―Never drink from the bottle,‖ he would
always tell her.
From the cupboard she grabbed a pot slightly smaller than the one she used for the sauce.
Angelica filled it with water, set it on the stove and turned the flame on high. Linguine was her
choice of pasta for today. She began to set the table, placing out two napkins, two forks, two knives,
two wine glasses with ice water, the bread basket and the butter case. She cooked for two every
night. She ate for two every night. She missed him.
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